Chapter 49 #2
“Further disaster, you mean,” she said drily, and her grim humour caught me off guard. I tilted my head in acknowledgement, and the tension in the room loosened. “This is not a meeting that either of us wanted, Lady Morgan, but you came to me. The least you can do is explain.”
“Sir Mordred awaits you at Camelot,” I said. “It was he who brought me the news of Arthur’s supposed death, and who spreads the falsehood around the kingdom. His intention is to be the High King of All Britain. To solidify his claim, he plans to marry you immediately.”
“What?” she exclaimed. “How could he imagine such a thing? It is not even an appropriate thought.”
“I quite agree,” I replied. “I told him you were far too old to be a bride.”
She rolled her eyes at my insult, then shook her head in disgust. “He is my nephew, my…close relation by marriage. Even if Arthur were not alive, it would be an abomination to God.”
“From how he spoke,” I said delicately, “I believe he is thinking less of God and only of a crown.”
Guinevere huffed and put her hands on her hips.
“Even more reason for me to go. Once I am at Camelot, I will sit on my throne and ensure everyone knows that Arthur is alive, and that he will deal harshly with that upstart cur of a boy. I cannot be married off while my husband still lives. I remain High Queen of this country and do not fear Sir Mordred.”
“I commend your bravery, truly I do,” I said.
“It will help you in the days to come. But you still cannot ride to Camelot. Mordred has lied about Arthur being dead, while working tirelessly to control information and curry favour with the barons, gaining access to legions of fighting men. All of this to strengthen his hold over the entire kingdom. You are the most important piece of that game, and he will not let you slip through his fingers.”
“He wouldn’t dare,” she began, but I held up a halting hand.
“Listen to me,” I insisted. “Do you think I’d be here if I didn’t believe you were in grave danger?
Refusal, illegality, the power you believe you hold—none of it matters in the wars of men.
What Mordred is willing to do to you, Guinevere…
You and I have our conflicts, but one woman to another, I cannot watch you ride off to violation and torment. ”
The harsh honesty of it found its way through, and I felt the chill across her skin as my own. Guinevere broke away from our battle of wills, pacing back towards the window.
“What would you have me do?” she said in a low voice. “If I don’t go where I am called, I can only assume Sir Mordred will come for me. I have loyal knights here, but you say he has armies at his command. What choice do I have but to go where I am summoned, resist for as long as I can, and hope?”
I was unprepared for her question; I had come here to warn her, not bring answers.
I didn’t know how to solve Guinevere’s problems, nor did I understand her concession to defeat.
Throughout my own wild, troubled life, I had never known how to stop fighting, or defying, or trying to be free.
Even if it meant escaping, again and again.
“No,” I said vehemently. “There is always a choice.”
I went to her and took hold of her silken elbows. “Take your most loyal knights and ride to your strongest fortress. If Mordred wants to besiege your person, force him to do so outside high, unbreachable walls. Make him weaker, buy yourself time and hold fast.”
Guinevere’s breath caught, and she stared at me in astonishment. She drew her arms back, but instead of pulling free, she gripped onto my wrists.
“Hold fast,” she said. “That is what Arthur said to me when he left. I thought he meant it as a warning not to stray any further from goodness, but… ”
I shook my head. “He told me the same. At first I thought it was for caution’s sake, but he was urging us to be strong, keep our heads, until he returns to fix this.”
“But he also said that everything he and I had built—the kingdom, our marriage—could be no more,” she replied. “That the prophecies of his death spoke it thus, and there was no other way. Why would he come back for me?”
“Because he told me he would need my help, and you are what he had to leave behind,” I said. “That is the reason I’m here. Fate or not, you must keep fighting, Guinevere. He will come, but afford him the chance. Arthur will never forgive himself if he cannot save you.”
She studied me for a long moment, the uncertainty on her face shifting into a fierce, imperious determination. “The Tower of London,” she said. “I will ride there and close the gates. Let Mordred throw himself against those unyielding walls.”
With a brief squeeze of my wrists, the Queen released me and flew into action, summoning her blond knight to relay the urgent new arrangements, and sending a woman for her plainest travelling cloak.
Impressed as I was by her efficiency, if I was involved with these new plans, then I owed it to Arthur to see this all the way through.
“It is still wise to think of what happens beyond,” I said. “You know the prophecy of Arthur’s death—what was your intention if it came true?”
She faltered, her expression defensive. I expected to hear Lancelot’s name, a twilight love story lived in guilt and bliss in Benoic, so it was a shock when she said, “The cloister. Where I will go regardless, after this. I long for the company of women, hours spent in contemplation and prayer. I have much to consider before God.”
“And atone for?” I said, because I could not help myself.
Her response was a look that could have cut flesh, and we were comfortably back to how we should be. Her travelling cloak arrived, and I watched as she swung the rich green fabric about her shoulders.
“You forget, Arthur is not without sin,” she said, fastening gold lion-head clasps with quick hands. “He has his own sources of shame, even if I barely knew him back then.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, but she was already waving it away.
“Never mind. If you do not know, then it’s not my place to air that which has been kept secret. I must keep faith with my husband, and the deep love and regard we have always carried for one another.”
She strode out of the room, defying further questions, so I followed her through the main hall and onto the front courtyard, where her retinue were assembling in a tumult of tossing horse heads and organizational shouts.
A pile of red-and-white dragon banners lay across hastily stuffed luggage, waiting for their standard bearers.
“Do not carry those,” I said. “If you are seen—”
“Then those who see me will know their High Queen is alive and present,” Guinevere cut in. “That the kingdom still stands.”
I shook my head. “You cannot.”
No more argument came, but her face clouded, sadness catching up to her at last. What was she High Queen of, in any case? If she reached the Tower of London and Arthur came, what would be left for either of them? Before that, even, she had to survive.
I sighed. “Be still, Your Highness.”
She looked at me curiously, but obeyed. Drawing a deep breath, I reached within for the river of my serenity, and plucked silver threads from the air around her.
Here, where men armed themselves and thought of battle, the elemental forces were deeply suppressed, every charm aching in my blood as I drew it forth.
Still, I persisted, knitting a fairy veil across Queen Guinevere, Arthur’s wife, not my first enemy but one of my longest.
“These are protective charms,” I told her. “They will keep you safe from misfortune for several days.”
Her eyebrows lifted, but she said nothing, watching me work with a muted acceptance. Suddenly, in a quiet but clear voice, she said, “I do not regret either of them. Lancelot nor Arthur. And they do not regret me.”
Such a declaration was unexpected, but it made a strange sense she wanted to express it to someone.
“That is not my business,” I said, and pulled taut the final shining thread.
“This magic should guard you long enough to get to London. Otherwise, I can promise you clear skies to get there, and bad weather along the Camelot roads. If Mordred tries to come for you, wind and rain will slow him down.”
I gestured to her palfrey and she nodded, mounting swiftly without the hand of any knight. I turned away, to where my own horse stood.
“Morgan,” she said, and I looked back. Her eyes were glassy, though she held firmly on to her poise. “I am grateful to you. I don’t know how to say—”
I waved it away. “I do not need or want your gratitude. I did this for Arthur.”
My dismissal came as a relief to us both. Guinevere gave the ghost of a smile and I nodded in acceptance, pointing towards the road.
“Go now,” I told her. “I have done all I can. The rest is in your hands.”