Guinevere Evermore (20 page)

She gave him her most innocent glance. “Don’t you like this road?”

“As well as any other, I suppose. But you don’t fool me. This is the road they went down when they left and someday, you think, you’ll find them coming home again.”

He said it in a kindly voice, but it brought tears to her throat all the same.

“Are you laughing at me for my foolishness?”

“No, dear Auntie. I’m weeping with you for your steadfast hope.”

“There must be news of them someday; they can’t have . . . oh, Gawain! Look! Look!”

They had reached the top of a hill. Below the road twisted as it followed the river Cam. Gawain shielded his eyes and tried to see what made Guinevere sit as if frozen, her arm locked outstretched. There was no one on the road but an old man, probably a priest on his way from Llanylltud Fawr. Odd horse for such a man to be riding, probably given him by some grateful lord whose sins he had absolved. Funny, he thought he’d seen that horse before, and the way the rider sat him . . .

“Gawain! Can’t you see him? Please, tell me he’s really there!”

“I see a man in hermit’s robes riding a white horse. Is that . . .”

But he didn’t get a chance to finish. She had dug her heels hard into the horse’s flank and was galloping down the hill, screeching at the top of her lungs.

“Lancelot! Lancelot!”

Gawain started after her.

“Guinevere!” he called. “Don’t be a fool. That couldn’t be Lancelot!”

The man had stopped and was watching Guinevere’s descent. Her hair had come undone and was billowing behind her. Her arms were bare and she had kicked off her riding boots as soon as they had gotten out of sight of Camelot. He made no move, even to pull off his hood, as she rode up to him. But as she came alongside and made to slide down, he reached out and lifted her so that she hung from his neck, her feet hanging in the air.

“You came back, you came back!” she sobbed as he kissed her. “Don’t ever, ever leave me again, Lancelot. No matter what!”

“Never!” he promised, as she looped one leg up and across Clades’ back so that they faced each other. She put her arms about him inside the robes and the hood fell back. For a long minute she simply held him, feeling the beat of his heart against her ear, as individual to her as his voice. Then she looked up.

“Oh, my darling! Your hair!”

He ran his hand through it. “I know. It went gray at Llanylltud Fawr and white . . . later. I have not grown wiser, my dearest, only old. Can you still love me?”

“For all my life and more,” she told him. Her lips pressed against his throat and chin and mouth. “As long as my soul wanders the universe, it will search for yours.”

Gawain had been minutely studying the leatherwork on his bridle. Finally Lancelot noticed him. The arm that wasn’t holding Guinevere went out to him.

“Gawain? Are we still friends?” he asked.

“Just because you left me at the castle while you went on?” Gawain clasped Lancelot’s hand with a grin. “Wait until you hear how that story’s grown!

“Anyway,” he added in an altered tone, “I think your journey was a harder one than mine.”

“Yes, but it was my own doing that made it so. And I was rewarded far beyond what I deserved. Guinevere, my love, why don’t you get back on your own horse before we get to the watch tower?”

Guinevere held him more tightly. She had forgotten everything in the joy of meeting: Camelot, Arthur, all the slippery glances and sly tongues. His hand rested on her hair. She raised her face from his chest and kissed him again while Gawain searched the sky for signs of rain. Then she slid down and hoisted herself back upon her horse. She fumbled for a scarf to cover the disarray of her braids. Gawain slipped her boots back on and tied them.

Arthur was in the courtyard, pointing out the finer sights to the Armorican visitors, when they arrived. He waved them over.

“And who is this?” he started to ask. Then he stopped. “Lancelot?”

Lancelot dismounted and bowed to his King. Arthur’s face lighted in an incredulous grin.

“Lancelot!” He grabbed his friend in a great bear hug. “You’ve come back. I can’t believe it. We thought you’d left us for God.”

“I found I make a poor saint, Arthur. Will you take me back?”

“Take you back? Of course! I’d have never let you leave. I can see you have a tale to tell.” The two men’s eyes me and Arthur nodded understanding.

“Gawain, will you take Sir Lancelot to his quarters and help him settle his things. When you are ready, come to our rooms. Guinevere and I will want to hear your news there. Won’t we, Guin?”

She started. “Yes, of course. If you gentlemen will excuse me, I must make myself presentable for dinner.”

Somehow she managed to walk casually to her door and mount the stairs. It wasn’t until she had washed her face and changed her clothes that it came to her what Lancelot might want to tell them privately.

“Galahad.”

She started to shake so hard that she had to sit down, gripping the chair arms until her own could be still.

“He knows and now I have to know, too. Oh, my child, my beautiful Galahad!”

She bowed her head, shutting her eyes to hide her terror. Her fingernails cut crescent slivers into the dark wood.

Chapter Fifteen

He told them late that night. It had been essential to good manners that they remain with their guests throughout the evening’s entertainment. Guinevere had eaten and drunk and smiled when they seemed to be saying something they thought amusing. She must have been enchanting, for King Hoel’s emissaries were not inclined to retire until quite late. The stars were wheeling toward morning when Lancelot finally told his story, the feeble glow of the coals in the brazier casting the only light. They sat on the couch in the anteroom, Guinevere in the middle, as Lancelot faltered through his tale, his voice still filled with awe from what he had been allowed to witness. Arthur could feel Guinevere’s stillness as she listened. It was as if she were drawing all the life in her body to one small space, but to hide from her grief or contain it, he didn’t know. He wanted to put his arm around her but was afraid she would shatter at his touch.

Lancelot's voice flowed in the dark.

“I stayed with Percival until I could see well enough to travel. I don’t think the world will ever be clear to me again. There is a mist around things now, unless they are very close. I’m afraid I won’t be any good at the hunt anymore.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Arthur murmured.

Lancelot took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Guinevere. I said I’d bring him back, but I couldn’t. He found the Grail, you see. He doesn’t belong here anymore. He’s gone on.”

“I know.” Her voice struggled to break from a whisper. “I knew the day he left. He never belonged in the world. He was a gift, just like . . . like my . . .”

“What, dear?” Arthur stopped her quavering hand.

“I don’t know . . . Nothing. It doesn’t matter.”

“He was happy to go,” Lancelot went on. “Palomides is with him. I’ve never seen anyone so joyful.”

“I know. I wouldn’t have let him go, otherwise. Both of them were meant for this. Galahad was always more than this imperfect earth could bear. But God is being terribly selfish to take him for Himself. Couldn’t He see how much I wanted my child? Didn’t He ever wonder how I would survive without him? I loved him more than anyone in the world. God must be very wicked to take a child from his mother like that. Whatever use could he be in heaven?”

She bent sharply and suddenly, huddled over her knees, her face covered in the red silk. It darkened like fresh blood as it filled with her tears. Her body convulsed as she tried to draw breath over her sobs. Lancelot looked at Arthur.

“I dreaded this. I don’t know what to do. I shouldn’t have come back.”

“There was nothing else you could do, Lancelot. Would you rather she never knew?”

Arthur put a hand on his friend’s arm. “You’re very tired and it’s nearly dawn. Go to bed. I’ll give her some warm mead and make her sleep. There’s nothing more we can do.”

Lancelot wiped his fingers over his eyes in a movement that was becoming habitual. He threw his head back and sighed deeply.

“I know. Yes. I need to rest. Good night, Arthur.”

“Good night, Lancelot. Welcome home.”

• • •

As soon as he saw Lancelot, Modred knew that his opportunity had finally come. First, he sent a raven to Morgause with the news.

“And if you stop even once on the way,” he threatened it, “I’ll have your young in pastry for dinner.”

The bird squawked understanding and flapped off at once.

“Now to see that Arthur’s men go with him tomorrow and mine stay behind.” He frowned as he plotted. “And the bishops are meeting at Cirencester next week. Yes! It can work! She’s the key. Whatever Arthur does, he’ll lose. And I will be ready.”

He was brimming with hilarity at dinner that night and Arthur, wracked by sorrow and worry for Guinevere, was silently grateful to him for covering up his own inattention. He thought again how sorry he was that he couldn’t acknowledge the boy openly. Modred was a son a man could be proud of.

Guinevere spent the night curled into a ball in the farthest corner of the bed. She had not changed her dress or combed out her hair. She didn’t move and by that Arthur knew she wasn’t asleep. But she wasn’t aware, either. He didn’t know where she had gone or how to get her back. And he had to put those blasted Armoricans on the road to London as if nothing were wrong. Perhaps he should leave Gawain and Cei behind.

“Don’t worry about her,” Risa counseled. “I saw her mother the same way when the Saxons killed Matthew and John. It’s their way of waiting until they can bear the pain. Lydia and I will take care of her. There’s nothing you can do.”

“Well, Lancelot will stay, at any rate. King Hoel’s men don’t know him and he can’t see well enough to hunt.” He looked at his wife, only the curve of her back visible through the blanket. “I was a fool to let anyone go out after that damn Grail! All it’s given us is despair. You heard about Galahad?”

“Yes. Gaheris and Father Antonius are debating now whether we should mourn for him or set up a shrine and rejoice.”

“Rejoice? Are they mad?”

“I have no idea, my Lord,” Risa said testily. “They say he is in heaven now beyond doubt, and no one should grieve for that.”

“Don’t tell Guinevere that,” Arthur warned.

“Hardly. But at least she knows!” Risa forced back the lump in her throat.

Arthur remembered. “I should have asked you. There’s been no word of your boy, then?”

“The last we heard, Bedivere and Domin had crossed the wall and were heading into Piet lands. I don’t know why. That was last fall.”

“Damn,” Arthur commented. Risa nodded. Then she shook herself.

“You should be down in the courtyard now. I can hear the horses and the voices of the men. Don’t worry,” she repeated. “Someone will stay with her until you return.”

“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he promised. “No more than four days, no matter what.”

Guinevere didn’t stir as the riders clattered beneath her window. She didn’t hear the shouted greetings and good-byes or the horns as the gates were opened and closed. She remained coiled into herself, seeing nothing, her mind empty of memory and pain.

It was late the next morning before she roused. Risa and Lydia were talking together. They weren’t discussing her but some new herb to add to their almond milk which was guaranteed to erase wrinkles from the skin.

“You can feel it almost at once,” Lydia was saying. “It sort of chills and pulls your face smooth. Of course, it doesn’t last very long, but you look years younger while it does.”

“Do you have to say some sort of spell over it while you crush the herbs?” Risa asked.

“No, silly! This isn’t magic. It’s just the property of the herb. It comes from some old medicine book of the Greeks.”

“Fascinating! Well, I think we should try it.”

Guinevere’s body loosened. She unwrapped herself on the bed. Risa jumped up and bent over her.

“There, that’s better, my Lady, dear. Just have a sip of this now. You’ll be feeling better soon.”

The drink had been kept hot on the coals and it stung bitterly as it went down.

Guinevere made a face at it.

“Are you sure you didn’t say a spell over
this
concoction, Risa? It tastes very strange.”

“Only a little one, dear. Nothing your own nursemaid wouldn’t have used.”

Guinevere was sure of that. Charms and spells had been lullabies to her nursemaid. Still, she took another sip. There was something in it that eased the jagged pain inside and let her breathe again. She gave Risa a grateful smile.

“Galahad won’t be coming back, you know,” she said.

“They told us.” Lydia came to the bedside, too.

“It hurts very deeply. Lots of people I loved have died, but it never hurt this much. I think I need to lie here and cry for a long, long time. Would you mind going now?”

Lydia and Risa looked at each other. She sounded reasonable. That was a bad sign, but what could they do? They kissed her and brushed her hair out of her face and left.

“I’ll have some soup sent up to you,” Lydia said firmly before she closed the door. “And I want you to finish it all.”

Guinevere eased herself out of bed. She changed into a nightshift and splashed rosewater on her face. Then she picked up a small ivory box from her dressing table. She took it with her back to her bed where she sat with her knees up to her chest under the covers. Slowly, she opened it. In it were three baby teeth, molars, and a soft curl of golden blond hair. It was the same shade as her own, but short and springy. She ran her fingers along it then gently closed the box. She held it in both hands, pressed to her breast. Then, she cried.

Lancelot was sitting crosslegged in the chapel, his head bowed more in sleep than prayer, when Gareth came to him.

“I’m glad you came back, Sir Lancelot,” he said formally. “I suppose that means that you succeeded at Llanylltud Fawr. So now we can go on like before. Arthur says that the clans in the North need someone to show them who’s in charge. We could set out that way next week and be back before the snow, I’ll wager. Everything will be fine, now that you’re cured of the Queen.”