Guinevere Evermore Read online

  The girl’s eyes widened and she looked carefully around, to be sure no one else was near. Her voice dropped.

  “I know about that; I come from Cornwall. Lancelot never had a wife. He was tricked by Morgan le Fay and her sister, Morgause, into sleeping with poor Galahad’s mother, Elaine. There’s some that say he thought she was Guinevere. Anyway, he accepted the son, but cast the mother out, sent her back to Morgause.” Now she was whispering hoarsely. “She killed herself, because of him, they say. But Lancelot didn’t care. He only loves the Queen.”

  She stopped. She looked at Percival, waiting to see what he thought of such a story.

  “It doesn’t make sense to me,” he said finally. “You must not have it right. I’ll ask Lancelot.”

  The girl grabbed him with razor-sharp nails. “Are you mad? Don’t ever breathe a word of this to anyone. I’ll be sent home to my father if you do. You must promise me.” The nails dug harder. “Swear!”

  Percival nodded as he tried to pry her fingers from his arm.

  She relaxed a little, then smiled. “If you truly promise, then you must seal it with a kiss.”

  He leaned away from her. “I never kissed anyone but Mother. Is that the custom here?”

  “It certainly is, and, if you like, I can teach you some of our other customs.”

  Percival thought. His mother had said to be dutiful to women. It occurred to him that this one was very pretty. He nodded and smiled. She smiled back.

  • • •

  For Arthur, the winter was a time to go over plans and study the problems for the next year. He tried to get men from all over Britain to come and tell him about the concerns in their lands. The north worried him. There were too many independent kings there whose tribes had never really been under Roman control. They needed careful treatment before they would agree to submit to Arthur. But who to send to them and what should they promise? He studied a list Gareth had compiled during his last journey north. But his train of thought was broken by the abrupt arrival of his seneschal, Cei, with his wife, Lydia, at his heels.

  “Arthur, you’ve got to do something about that Percival!” Cei bellowed. “He just tried to attack Lydia!”

  “What? Lydia, dear, are you all right?” Arthur looked from one to the other. Cei was red with fury but there was a look of exasperation about him. Lydia was clearly not damaged and seemed more as though she were about to burst out laughing.

  “I’m fine,” she assured him. “Although Percival may be a bit sore for a few days. My husband saved me with more energy than was really necessary. But Arthur, dear, we really have to do something with the boy. He doesn’t know the first thing about how to behave around other people.”

  “All right, tell me what happened.”

  Cei began sputtering, but Lydia intervened.

  “It was nothing, really,” she insisted. “I was trying to show Percival how to mend that tunic of his. I can’t imagine what his mother was thinking of, to send him away with such ragged clothes. He had just managed a rather crooked seam and I praised him; he seems so eager for approval. Arthur, I swear, I just gave him a sisterly hug and a pat on the back when, all at once, he was all over me. He grabbed me and started kissing my hands and arms and on up to my face. He seemed to think it was the custom here. I tried to push him off and explain that it just wasn’t done, but then my gallant husband showed up. Poor Percival, I don’t think he knows yet what hit him!”

  “Poor Percival!” Cei exploded. “Arthur, he was slobbering all over Lydia, ripped her dress and everything.”

  “It was just a tear in the sleeve,” Lydia added. “I’m sorry, darling. If it had been anyone else, I would have been more than grateful for your magnificent defense, but Percival . . . he’s no more danger than an overgrown puppy. He is as much nuisance, however. Someone really must take him in hand. Isn’t he supposed to belong to Lancelot?”

  Arthur nodded. “Do you really want Lancelot to teach Percival how to behave?”

  Cei and Lydia squirmed. They had grown to love Lancelot dearly, but there was no denying that he was still inclined toward some strange viewpoints and actions. Bringing Percival home with him, for example.

  “There must be someone who can do it?” Cei broke the awkward silence. “What about Bedivere?”

  “He’s a good man, but he hasn’t the patience,” Arthur answered. “Never understood that; he’s wonderfully tactful in negotiations but absolutely unforgiving of ignorance. What about one of the women?”

  “We’ve done more than our share already,” Lydia insisted. “It was bad enough that he suddenly decided he was in love with me. But when Risa helped him get settled in the boys’ quarters and made sure he didn’t get into any fights about precedence, do you know what he said to her? That idiot child told her she was almost as pretty as his mother. His mother! You can imagine what Risa thought about that.”

  In spite of himself, Arthur chuckled. “Especially when her eldest isn’t much younger than Percival. Well, we have any number of people here who are free for the winter. Suppose I ask for volunteers?”

  “Do you really think anyone would take him on?” Cei was more than doubtful. “We need someone with considerable patience as well as manners. I can’t think of anyone here with both.”

  “You know,” Lydia said thoughtfully. “Palomides could do it. He has exquisite manners. He’s traveled all over the old empire, and he doesn’t have any specific job to do this winter. He could civilize the boy to the point where the rest of us could take over and teach him about what we do in Britain.”

  “I don’t know.” Arthur would never admit it, but he was somewhat in awe of Palomides, who had come from Constantinople via Africa, Greece, and (it took his breath away even to think it) Rome. The fact that the man had made his way to Britain specifically to put his mind and his sword at Arthur’s service abashed him still more. He was so damned elegant. It had been a long time since anyone could make Arthur feel like a country lout, but watching Palomides at dinner made him aware that his hands and face were greasy and his clothes were rumpled. Arthur wasn’t sure he could stand it if Percival became like that, too. One could tolerate it in a foreigner, but not in a raw recruit. Still . . . “He could probably teach the boy well. Do you think he would?”

  “I’ll ask him.” Lydia was glad that the matter was settled. “He’s really very kind about doing favors. Now, don't worry any more, darling. You have enough to do around here.”

  “That’s true enough,” Cei grunted. “But if that snot-face bothers you again, he’ll be breathing out of the back of his head.”

  “Don’t be crude, dear.” Lydia kissed his cheek lightly. “If that’s taken care of, I must be going. Cole found mildew in the vegetables this morning and it will take all afternoon to empty the bins, clean them, and refill them with the sound food that is left.”

  “That won’t affect the food supply this winter, will it?” Arthur asked.

  “No, we caught it early enough. And we always have an abundance of turnips. There will be plenty left as long as your men make sure there is fresh meat all winter.”

  “That we can do. It’s the best way I’ve found to get the men out and keep them active in the cold weather.”

  “Then don’t worry. You certainly have better things to do than fret about mildew.”

  Arthur nodded and she left. Cei remained to go over reports from the east and south, where Britons were living in uneasy proximity to the Saxons. Although there was a truce of sorts between the old people and the new, it took constant and delicate diplomacy to keep it going. Messengers crisscrossed the kingdom in every weather to keep the High King informed. Even in winter, Arthur felt submerged in the paperwork. But, in a way, that was what he had been working for. People knew now that they had someone to turn to. They no longer needed to fight their battles alone or suffer unjustly from their neighbors. Even the priests were coming around. Oddly enough, it had been Guinevere who had remembered the line about rendering unto Caesar. B
ut then, she was much more well read than he was. He let his mind drift to his wife again, a ridiculous thing to do, considering they had been married nearly thirteen years. She still enchanted him with her elegance and mysterious, distant allure. She was like a spirit who had kindly consented to remain for a bit in human form, something never touched by mundane worries or needs.

  As Arthur tried to focus his thoughts on the paper before him, the door was blown open by a small gold and green whirlwind, shrieking at the top of its lungs.

  “King Arthur! Sir Cei! Save me! She’s going to catch me!” It dove under the table, scattering loose rolls as Guinevere entered the room. She was panting hard from running, and her face was red. Her hair had caught several cobwebs in it when she had crawled through a storage room seeking her prey. Now, with a whoop of delight, she pounced on the little foot sticking out from beneath the table.

  “I’ve got you fairly now, Galahad. You’re going right down to the baths. You’re going to be cleaned from head to toe whether the other boys laugh or not. And, when you’ve done that, you can consider yourself promoted to dinner at the high table with me, your father, and Arthur. But only for tonight!”

  She pulled him by the ankles out from under the table. As soon as she let go, he threw himself on her in a bear hug.

  “At the high table! I’ll even wash between my toes for that!”

  “Cheldric will be there to see that you do. I’ll race you there.”

  With a wave to her husband, the spirit wiped her face with her sleeve and ran.

  Chapter Two

  The winter afternoon was already dark. Guinevere sat in her rooms, a codex in her lap, her mind on nothing at all.

  “Guinevere?”

  Her heart constricted at his voice, and as she reached out to him through the gloom, there was a radiance in her eyes.

  “Lancelot! Why aren’t you down in the Hall with the others?”

  “Arthur suggested you might be lonely up here by yourself. ”

  “You are here because Arthur asked you?” She knew it wasn’t true, but the idea nettled her all the same.

  For answer he caught her up from her chair and kissed her so fiercely that her breath went and her heart seemed to expand so that she could feel it pounding at her throat and wrists. She pressed against him.

  “It’s been so long.” His breathing was ragged also.

  “Sometimes I can’t remember that you love me,” she whispered. “We walk and talk and laugh like old friends and then you go away for months and we only hear rumors of your passing, as if you had gone beyond this world. And I sit in my rooms here or at Camelot and wonder if you’ve been enchanted by some nymph of the forest or your Lady of the Lake, or if you’ve simply learned to live without me.”

  He pulled her down beside him to the pillows on the floor and settled her snugly against his shoulder, both his arms still circling her.

  “Each time I go,” he told her, “I pray that you will forget me, that I may discover a charm or potion that will keep me from wanting you every moment. I don’t think such prayers rise at all; I never mean them. If you forgot me, I would not want to live. And if I stopped loving you, I would die all the same, because you are more a part of me than my soul.”

  “I know that now, when I am with you,” she sighed. “But sometimes, when you are gone, it slips away from me. If only I were as free as you to leave when I wished. It would be nice to go someplace where no one ever heard of Arthur, where we could be together like this in the daylight.”

  His hold on her tightened and he closed his eyes, imagining what it would be like to come to her every night instead of standing aside as Arthur entered her room and shut the door.

  “We could not dishonor him so.” He kissed her again.

  “Honor is something you men have invented because you can’t do the right thing just for love’s sake.” She pushed away from him, but only a fraction. “I have given Arthur no children. He could put me aside but for his sense of honor and pride. And so we stay on, all politely pretending and each one of us aching for love or sorrow. Is there more dignity in meeting like this than in running away?”

  “I have no dignity left where my love for you is concerned, but I would not take Arthur’s also. Would you really want to run and hide somewhere, leaving him alone for his enemies to laugh at and his friends to pity?”

  Guinevere wanted to scream, “Yes, of course! Anywhere, if we could be together!” But she involuntarily thought of Arthur. He was as strong as ever and ruled Britain with a firm hand. Everyone knew that he could still lead his knights and soldiers into battle if he had to. But she thought of the new lines on his forehead and the streaks of gray around his temples, and the nights he lay awake, half from worries of the day and half from the pain in his teeth. He dreaded losing them, especially the front ones, which would make his speech strange and less commanding.

  She had no sense of honor; it was a word men played with when it suited them. But she had learned to love her husband, and she knew that somehow she was important to Arthur, even though she couldn’t give him the kind of love she should. Even through the happiness she felt whenever she was with Lancelot, the thought of leaving Arthur, hurt and alone, was more than she could face.

  She buried her face in Lancelot’s shoulder. “I wish I had been his sister and your wife.”

  She got up and lit the candles from the little oil lamp by the window.

  “You have been here long enough to coax me to come down. Tell Arthur that I would rather eat alone tonight, but that I will wait up for him. I will join the others tomorrow.”

  She took his hands, conscious that now their outline could be seen through the window.

  “Someday, I would like to be able to love you without wondering who is watching us.”

  When he had gone, she sat down again upon her couch and hugged a pillow to her breast, brushing her cheek against the wool. Some days it was too much to be near him and feel everyone averting their eyes so they would not witness anything. It was better to be alone; or with Galahad. She thought of Galahad; her child, as much as if she had borne him. Didn’t everyone comment on how alike they looked? Elaine could not have been his true mother, only a vessel used to carry him until he could reach her. Morgause’s sorcery had arranged it all, whatever her intentions had been. Morgause had let Lancelot think he was making love to Guinevere; therefore the child conceived was Guinevere’s. She believed that with all her heart. Her face softened as she imagined him, asleep now in his corner in the pile of fosterling boys. His face would be dirty no matter how often she had had him clean it. He had finally explained to her, very gently, that it just didn’t do for him to look so cared for when none of the other boys did.

  “Some of them are awfully homesick,” he said. “And Lydia just can’t love each one of them, not the way you love me. So I don’t want to remind them about it by being too clean.”

  Arthur had laughed when she told him about it. “He’s got round you again, love!” But Guinevere wasn’t so sure. Galahad seemed to have been born with the sensitivity that Guinevere was only beginning to know existed. He knew who was sad and who was angry and who was surly because of shyness. He knew who needed kindness and he gave it to them, not from a sense of duty or religion, the way Lancelot did, but just because he could do nothing else. Sometimes Guinevere feared that he would learn of her love for his father and hate her for his mother’s sake, but that was only her own guilt speaking. Galahad judged people by their hearts.

  Lancelot walked slowly through the torch-lit corridors of the old fortress. He needed time to arrange his expression. Despite the years he had had to make a hole in his conscience for his love for Guinevere, he still had not learned to look at Arthur with unclouded eyes. Even when they had not been to bed, the intimacy they shared alone was adultery enough.

  When he got to the hall, Durriken, the poet, was regaling the audience with the tale of Gawain’s adventures with the Green Knight. It had happened about five
years ago, and Gawain had been furious about the whole thing.

  “There I was, thinking I was nobly risking my life for the honor of Camelot, laying my neck on the block, when all the time the whole thing was just another stupid allegory!” But he had told the story and endured the laughter with a shrug. Durriken was already introducing some heroic elements into the tale, and it was just as well that Gawain could never be awake at night to hear them.

  Lancelot skirted the room quietly and reached Arthur.

  “She’d rather wait in her rooms for you,” he whispered. Arthur merely nodded, his face turned toward the poet, but Lancelot could see the release of tension in his arms. Another dart shot into his conscience. Lancelot sat down next to his friend, wishing he had never left his home under the Lake. He waited until Durriken finished and then excused himself to lie awake in his bed, wrestling with demons until dawn.

  • • •

  Percival was not in the hall that night. He was in his room, practicing manners with his tutor. Palomides had taken the request seriously and had moved the boy into his own room to take on his education. Percival was sorry for anything that tore him away from Lancelot, but Arthur had taken him aside and explained to him kindly that Palomides would make a far better teacher, having a greater knowledge of the world. Percival agreed. He had noticed the touch of awe in everyone’s attitude toward the man who had been born in Constantine’s city.

  Just now, there was awe in Palomides’ eyes as he studied the boy before him. How could anyone have reached the age of reason and still be so woefully dense about interacting with his fellow human beings? He would give a great deal to meet the mother about whom Percival was so rhapsodic.

  “All right, boy, once again,” he said wearily. “You are traveling alone in strange lands. It is growing dark. In the distance you see a great house, with many small farms around. What would you do?”