Guinevere Page 2

  Flora spread her shawl in the shade of a large oak tree and sat down to rest. She looked very tired and Guinevere noticed the silver glinting in her hair with a pang of remorse. Perhaps the long walk had really wearied her.

  “Now, my dear,” the nurse told her. “You may walk a little into the woods if you like or stay with the serving girls and other ladies. But if you go, be sure to stay to the path and don’t walk more than a hundred steps in. The sun doesn’t reach very far into that forest and it’s easy to lose your direction. I will rest a while, since I was robbed of my sleep last night. Now take your basket and your cape and bring me back something beautiful and rare.”

  Delighted, Guinevere gave her an apologetic kiss and skipped into the woods. Flora leaned her head wearily against the tree. She was getting old, she thought: too old to be leading a double life.

  The forest started so suddenly that within a few steps it surrounded Guinevere. From the brilliant sun-drenched field she found herself in a cool, green opaque light. The path was soft with centuries of pine needles and spring rain. Here grew the tiny, shy flowers that Guinevere loved best, lily of the valley and star flowers. Others were delicate shades of red and lavender with clear yellow veins in their fragile petals. She had no name for these, which made them all the more remarkable and mysterious. She knelt so that her face was next to them and brushed one with her cheek.

  “I cannot pick you,” she told it softly. “I tried once, to take you home to mother, but you crumpled and died in my hand. Stay here, where you are fresh and beautiful. I will find something else for Flora.”

  And gently she left the little flower, safe among the ferns. Deep among the leaves, dark blue eyes shone approval.

  Guinevere wandered here and there through the trees. She didn’t even pretend to stay to the path, for she was sure she could find it again. She went far more than a hundred steps because she had long since forgotten to count them. She was intensely happy. She was alone, a wonderful event in itself, and there was something rare and beautiful to be found. The sunlight scattered itself about her in such giddy patterns that she hardly noticed its slow downward slant. It was late afternoon and she was far into the forest when a sound in the bushes startled her into awareness.

  “Flora will be furious!” was her first thought. She piled together the herbs and flowers she had picked, along with a few smooth stones and other curious things she had found. They were dumped randomly into her basket. A wild perfume arose as the stones crushed the plants. She stared about her as if she expected the path to appear at her feet. It was then that she realized how far she had wandered.

  “I’ve lost myself, how stupid!” Guinevere was not overly concerned, for in her whole life she had never had a difficulty that someone hadn’t quickly helped her out of. Being lost in a forest with night approaching wasn’t any worse than climbing too high in the walnut tree or having a horse run away with one. Someone had climbed up and carried her down and someone had raced after her and calmed the horse. Someone would soon come to find her. She wrapped her cape about her shoulders and composed herself to wait.

  After about fifteen minutes it occurred to her that she might just as well walk a bit toward home and help those hunting for her. After an hour of walking she began to wonder if she hadn’t missed them somewhere. A little later she noticed that the shadows under the trees were getting longer and darker.

  “If they don’t come soon,” she reasoned, “it will be dark and they will have a lot of trouble finding me.”

  She began to feel a whisper of concern then, as shreds of tales about forests at night came back to her. As a small child, she had been warned that ghosts and monsters walked the woods after dark, hunting for children to carry away to the underworld to be slaves. Guenlian had informed her daughter that they were Christians and civilized Romans and didn’t believe in such nonsense. In matters of that sort, Guinevere always trusted her mother over Flora. However, the dimming light made strange shapes among the trees and undergrowth. From the corner of her eye, Guinevere saw huge, scaly hands reaching out for her. When she turned to face them, they vanished into the shadows. She wasn’t panicky yet, but nervous. She found what looked like a narrow path and stumbled onto it. Tree roots rose from it, and stones that were eager to trip her or bruise her feet. The twilight above her head was deepening to night and a few pale stars glittered.

  She was beginning to give way to fear, stumbling, her dress ripped from encounters with branches, her hair dusted with bark and cobwebs. She sank down, tears starting. Suddenly a light shone before her. It was somewhere behind the bushes; a silver gleam. It couldn’t be a lantern or torch, but perhaps the reflection of one off a shield. Guinevere plunged toward it, paying no attention to the stones and grasping branches. As she came to where she had seen it shining, the light moved on. Gasping with exertion, she tried to call out.

  “Here I am! Wait! I’m just behind you! Please, stop! Wait for me!”

  It was still moving away, becoming only a dim glow in the dark. She ran faster.

  “Soldiers of Leodegrance! It is I, Guinevere!”

  Still the light moved away from her.

  On and on it went, always just too far away to be clearly seen. She was not aware of time or the forest about her, only the ache in her side and the dryness in her throat and the silver shining before her.

  Suddenly, the light vanished. Guinevere gave a deep sobbing cry and dove through the thick stand of berry bushes where she had seen it last. Scratched and bleeding, she tumbled onto the main path, not far from where she had entered the forest that afternoon.

  As she lay there, panting and coughing, her body numb with exhaustion and relief, she noticed something shining on a branch above her. Curious, she pulled herself partway up and crawled over to it. It was a long, thin strand of something silver. Guinevere couldn’t tell whether it was reflecting the moonlight or if it gave off a light of its own. She reached up and gently pulled it down. It wasn’t thread or wire.

  “It’s too thick for hair and too fine to be anything else,” she thought.

  Then, in spite of her pain and weariness, Guinevere smiled.

  “Something rare and and lovely,” she almost laughed. “Now I shall have a gift for Flora.”

  She started to put it into her basket and then realized that she had dropped it long ago. So she sat in the middle of the path, resting, passing the thin, silky light between her fingers.

  A few minutes later she saw the good, honest gold and red of real torches and heard the worried voices of her father and the guards. With a joyful cry, she ran to them.

  As soon as she saw her father’s face, she knew she had done something terribly wrong. It was gray with worry. His normally firm chin was trembling as he gathered her up. He only trusted himself to whisper her name. He held her close before him on the horse, his free arm wrapped about her so tightly that it hurt.

  At home, nothing was said beyond the exclamations of Flora as she saw the scratched and bruised arms and feet. Guinevere was given a warm herbal bath, and ointment was rubbed on the wounds. It was not until she was safe in bed that her parents came in.

  “We don’t want to hear any explanations, daughter,” Guenlian told her sternly. “You wandered away thoughtlessly, and any fear or pain you might have had was well deserved. You caused your father and the guards to spend several extra hours of hard work hunting for you, when they were already tired from their journey today. Flora should not have let you enter the woods alone, but you are old enough now to know what you should and should not do and to observe the limits set for you. Flora will not always be near to tell you what is right or wrong. Obviously we have not taught you well enough where else to seek guidance. For the next two weeks, instead of riding with your father or playing in the fields, you may spend your afternoons in the chapel, praying for wisdom and maturity and studying the works of the Holy Fathers. Perhaps there you can find counsel.”

  Guinevere nodded mutely. She had never seen her mot
her so angry. Leodegrance said nothing, but the look on his face was enough. Her eyes pleaded forgiveness. Guenlian sat on the edge of the bed and held her closely. Leodegrance rested his hand on her head.

  “Never frighten us like that again,” he whispered.

  They covered her tightly and blew out the light.

  Later, in their own room, Guenlian reflected. “It doesn’t seem right to make religion a punishment. Couldn’t we have thought of something else?”

  Leodegrance frowned, then kissed his wife gently before he spoke. “I think we have made her feel the enormity of her disobedience. She may be rebellious for a few days, but it is necessary that she be put into a position where she must think about herself and her place in the world.”

  He sighed. “The contemplative life is not a bad one for her to pursue for a few days. Would that we lived in times when we all might retreat for a while into philosophy.”

  Guenlian had finished her nightly ritual of washing and creaming her face. She wiped the cream off with a linen towel. It was made of pounded almonds, oil, and herbs and the scent of it lingered through the night. She slipped in bed next to her husband and brushed her hand across his face.

  “Our life was our choice, my love. We could have run to the mountains or gone to Armorica and lived in relative tranquillity. I am proud of you and of our children. Who knows, someday we, too, may have time for philosophy.”

  For answer, Leodegrance kissed her again and blew out the light.

  • • •

  Flora was angry with Guinevere, too. She had been reproved by her employers, gently but decidedly, for letting the child stray from her sight. That and her own guilt made her grumble under her breath as she came in to check on Guinevere before she retired to her own room.

  Guinevere was still awake. She had been thinking.

  “Flora,” she asked timidly, “may I have a cup of water?”

  Flora frowned and snorted but brought the ewer and cup.

  “I don’t know why I do anything for you, naughty child,” she muttered. “Bringing all this worry and trouble to me and to your dear parents who love you more than you deserve. Why did you go roaming like that, when I told you not to?”

  “I’m sorry, Flora,” Guinevere sighed. “But I’ve been scolded and I’m going to be punished, so can’t we be friends again?” She stopped, remembering the gift she had found and leaped out of bed to find it, spilling the water.

  “Oh no,” she said, “I’m sorry for that then, too. But I just remembered. I found something for you, just as you asked me—something beautiful and rare.”

  She had pinned it to the folds of her dress with one of her hairpins. The dress was still lying on the bench outside her door. Carefully, she unfastened it and came back holding the mysterious silver strand.

  At the sight of it, Flora’s whole manner changed. Her back straightened, her head tilted proudly, her carriage was all at once far different from that of an old serving woman. She stared in wonder and then lifted her hands, palms up to receive her gift.

  Guinevere held it out to her. “I found it for you,” she repeated. “I don’t know what it is, do you?”

  She asked because of the look on Flora’s face. As she laid it across the old woman’s hands, Flora gazed at the strand reverently. Her expression was one of awe and, perhaps, fear. Guinevere stared at her, puzzled. She hadn’t expected such a reaction.

  “Do you like it? Do you want it?” she asked. “Have I done something else that was wrong?”

  Tears now flowed down Flora’s face, but her voice remained steady.

  “Of all the things you could have brought me, this is the one I longed for most. But if you have done the right thing, I cannot tell. Only the god—”

  She broke off. With a fierce gesture, she drew Guinevere to her and held her, much as Leodegrance had on the way home. Then, just as quickly, she released her.

  “This is a great treasure for me, my dove, greater than you can imagine. But it is also a great burden. You did not do right or wrong but the only thing you could have done. It is part of the Design.”

  With this strange remark, Flora set Guinevere back in bed, and, taking her lamp, left the room.

  Guinevere lay there, trying to make sense out of the events of the day, most of all Flora’s part in them. But her thoughts wouldn’t follow a logical pattern. As she tried to piece it together, the silver light would burst in, now bright, now dim, until it blurred everything into mist and she fell asleep.

  Chapter Two

  Summer drifted in. The days were hazy, hot, and dry. The spring rains had ended too soon and the cold well within the compound was so low that water for bathing and washing had to be laboriously carted up the hill from the stream running out of the forest. The hot springs, hidden deep within the tor, were of such a high mineral content that they ruined clothes washed in them and made hair stiff and malodorous. The baths they were used for were only for health, not cleanliness. Servants were encouraged to reverse the process and take themselves down to the stream to wash, which they did with bawdy good humor. The gardeners lovingly sprinkled Guenlian’s flowers to keep some color in the house. The rest of the ground on the tor was brown and barren. There was no grass, only pale, sharp stalks that cut even through sandals if one stepped on them the wrong way. These days seemed designed for inactivity, but the inhabitants of the compound went about as if there were always too much to do.

  “Hurry, hurry, we must be ready.” The swishing robes and slapping sandals quickened the pace. “Faster, faster, the time is almost gone.”

  The farmers and field-workers were out from earliest light until the last rays flooded the land with a bloodred glow. Weeding, hoeing, carrying buckets and buckets of water to feed their peas and beans, oats and barley. The people in the house bustled from one chore to another; mending, washing, tending the animals. But always, as they hurried, everyone would be looking somewhere else; over their shoulders, across the fields; casting a glance at the dark woods, so close, and the hazy mountains too far for flight. Then they would quickly return to their work.

  Rumors swooped across the fields and into the house, fluttering from one low voice to another: We are winning at last. We are losing again. The Irish have made another raid on the Cornish coast. Duke Cador has repulsed the invader in the north. But the Saxons are still coming, pushing in from the ocean like a great tide. They have taken York; they are moving ever north and west, closer and closer. There was a battle at Caledon. Victory or defeat? Who knows? There are tales that we lost a thousand men, that Arthur surrounded the Saxons and starved them into surrender. Who knows? And what of Arthur, this strange boy-king? Who is he? What is he doing? Are the stories about him true? Who knows? What have you heard? What will happen to us? Are we safe, should we flee? Who knows?

  Into this tense world one day ambled a calm young man on an old, tired horse. It had once been the mount of a soldier and still showed signs of its breeding, but its day had been past for many years and the plodding walk at which it carried its master was the best it could now manage.

  Guinevere was not affected by the nervousness with which everyone else conducted their lives, but she found that with all the bustle, she was often in the way. So she had taken to sitting up with the guard in his watchtower by the gate. There was a good view of the road from there, and one felt closer to the trees and sky. Therefore, she was the first to see the visitor. She let out a whoop of delight that brought even Guenlian running from the house.

  “What is it, child?” she gasped. “Your brothers? Oh, it’s only St. Geraldus. Oh well, he’s a dear lad. It will be good to have him with us again.”

  But she sighed as she went to tell Flora to have a room made up for their guest. Her sons had been away nearly a year now. They would have been a much more welcome sight.

  “Come in, my boy.” Leodegrance had heard the commotion and came to greet him. “Tell us the news. Where have you traveled lately? Is it true that the Saxons were beaten at
Caledon?

  You should know. Come in, come in! Quick, water for our guest!”

  “Husband,” Guenlian reproved as she joined them. “We should ask the good saint for his blessing on us and our home before we ply him with questions.”

  “Yes, of course,” Leodegrance marveled at his wife’s self-restraint. She was as eager as he for word of the battle.

  Guenlian offered a cup of water to the man, who drained it at once. He wiped his mouth sheepishly and then raised his hand in some embarrassment, to bless the household.

  “You will want to refresh yourself from your journey before we talk.” Guenlian smiled as she took the cup back. “Caet, see to the good saint’s horse. Anna, tell Filius to bring a bath and clean robes to St. Geraldus in his room.”

  “We have had to close the bathhouse during this drought,” she explained. “Now, come right with me and I’ll show you where you will stay.”

  She bundled him off so efficiently to wash and dress that Geraldus had no chance to say more than “Thank you” and “Certainly.”

  Leodegrance grinned. He was very glad he had married a woman who could think faster than he. He noticed the disappointed faces of the servants and fosterlings. They were all eager for the latest news, too. Better to speak with Geraldus privately, in case he had something disheartening to say. Then the whole household could hear a carefully worded version of it after dinner.

  Everyone brightened up considerably at Geraldus’ arrival. Though most of them were only nominally Christian, which was a prerequisite for their freedom, they all felt sure that no harm could come to a house where angels lived. It was common knowledge that angels accompanied St. Geraldus wherever he went, serenading him with heavenly music that only he could hear. Also, he was a cheerful, friendly sort, who ate and drank with everyone else and bathed as often as any Roman. He was also not above singing a few very secular songs after meals, entertaining the hall with tales of battles, magic, and thwarted love. He was certainly different from the usual monkish beggar who came to the gate.