Queen of Camelot Read online

  I began to hear voices dimly, as if from a distance. I was warm and protected deep in my darkness, and the voices washed over me in gentle swells, gently rolling me this way and that. I was tired, too tired to move, so I lay still and listened to the coming and going of the voices.

  Gradually I floated nearer the bright surface, and the voices came more clearly. There was a kind, deep voice that spoke in quiet desperation, and a higher-pitched voice that spat in angry whispers.

  “It’s not fair!” cried the angry voice. “He has no right to kill the boy!”

  “He has the right of the king,” the deep voice replied slowly, wearily. “And he will not do it if she lives. So do your job and nurse her, Glynis. Enough of this argument.”

  “You listen to me, Gwarth! This girl is a curse to your house, to your family, and to your line. She was cursed on the night of her birth by the most powerful witch in Wales, do you not remember?”

  “Hush, woman!”

  Glynis lowered her voice, but her spite intensified. “She has brought nothing but trouble to Northgallis since that day. She killed her mother the queen with her birth. We had drought in her first year of life and a killing frost in her second. She is spoiled and petted by all the king’s courtiers and servants. Even you! Yes, even you, with fine children of your own, are kinder to her than to them. She is a young witch, I tell you—”

  “Woman, I will put you away! Hold your tongue!”

  “She has woven a spell around Gwillim. He is enchanted, I tell you! He follows her everywhere! And now, a week after the hill witch’s curse—”

  “By the Bull! I am tired of hearing about that hag—”

  “She said my house would be destroyed and my line diminished! And now this! This—this brazen witch leads my son into the hills, gets herself hurt, and now the king your father will take his life in vengeance! If that isn’t diminishing my line, what is! Gwarth, he is your son, too! Can’t you stop it?”

  The deep voice came nearer; it was very kind. “Glynis. Calm yourself. Do your duty and poultice the girl. She is only a child. This was an accident, my dear. Children are heir to them. She can do you no harm unless she dies. You have seen your own children recover from worse falls than this.”

  “Yes,” Glynis continued, her fury unabated, “but they were strong children, not dainty and pampered like this one. If it were not for Gwillim, I would not try to save her! Oh, gods!” she cried, choking. “Tell me, why does everyone love her so much?”

  Gwarth was silent while Glynis sobbed noisily. “She is ugly!” she blurted. “Such fairness—such pallor—is ugly! Her bones are too small! She cannot work; she is useless! My daughters are more worthy to be princesses of Northgallis! They are strong, and—and . . . they are brown and healthy . . . I hate her! I hate her!”

  She must have sensed she had gone too far, for she began to mumble an apology and flung a cloth across my brow.

  For a long time Gwarthgydd said nothing. Then he spoke with the voice of command. “You have destroyed your house. You will diminish your line. I put you away. Take your brown daughters with you, Glynis, and go.”

  The woman screamed, and pain shot through my head. I pulled the quiet darkness around me with thanks and sank into its depths.

  When I awoke it was early evening. I was in my own bedchamber, where a wood fire burned in the grate. The king’s physician sat by my side, watching me eagerly. I was wrapped in warm furs, and my head was bound in cool cloth. When I looked about me, the outlines of things were murky, but soon my sight cleared, and the physician uttered a prayer of thanks to Mithra.

  I knew what I must do.

  “Where is my father?” I asked him. “Is the king near? Bring him to me.”

  The physician nodded and patted my hand soothingly. “King Leodegrance is but waiting for word of your awakening.” He snapped his fingers, and the page by the door hurried out. The physician poured some warm broth into a flat bowl and supported my head while I drank of it. It tasted of herbs and medicines, but it was warming and steadied my head.

  “Please help me to sit up,” I begged, but the physician insisted I lie quietly.

  “If my father is coming, I will sit up,” I commanded, using the voice I had heard Gwarthgydd use, and the physician obeyed immediately. I was dizzy and my head felt several sizes too large, but I could hold myself erect.

  “How long have I been here?”

  “Since yesterday, my lady. You were brought to me in the evening.”

  “Please tell me what happened before the king comes. I remember nothing of it.”

  He hesitated, but gave in to me. “When the king’s hunting party returned, the palace was in an uproar because you could not be found. No one remembered having seen you since midday. In fear of their lives, the gardeners and house servants took to the hills to look for you.”

  “And Gwillim,” I added, but he averted his eyes. “Yes, my lady. Ailsa fell down in a fit with brain fever. She is delirious still.” Ailsa, my nurse, was a loving but lazy soul, who had attended me from birth. It was during one of her illicit naps in the garden that I had stolen away.

  “I expect she will recover when she finds out I am all right.”

  The physician was doubtful. “It appears to be a serious case, my lady.”

  “Never mind. I will cure her. How did you find me? What of Gwillim?”

  He looked uncomfortable when I said his name, and I began to be afraid.

  “The king’s son Gwarthgydd and his men found you, coming down from the hills across the back of a white pony, led by Gwillim,” the physician said, frowning. “The lad was frantic. He thought you were dead. He told King Leodegrance he had led you away from the orchard and taken you to play with him in the hills. He said you had seen some wild ponies, and he dared you to catch one. He blamed himself for what happened. He said it was punishment for evil thoughts.”

  “Did the king believe him?”

  “We all believed him, my lady.”

  “And where is he now? Pray, quick! I hear the guards!”

  “He is—he is in the king’s dungeon, my lady. His family is disgraced.”

  “It was not his fault!” I cried hotly, but cut off my speech, for the door swung open, and my dear father strode into the room.

  “Gwen!” He took me gently into his arms, and I hugged him and kissed his rough cheek. “Praise Mithra you are alive! How do you feel? Shouldn’t you be lying down?”

  “Not yet,” I said, to forestall the physician. “I must speak with you first, dear Father. May I see you alone?”

  A wave of his hand sent the others out of the room, although the physician did not like to go.

  “Father,” I said, looking right into his eyes. “I owe my life to Gwillim. He saved me when I fell, and he brought me home. If it were not for Gwillim, I would be with Mother now. Can you send him to me, that I may thank him?”

  The reference to my mother diffused his rising anger, and he grumbled a bit. “That is not what Gwillim says. He admits that he endangered your life. He didn’t claim he saved you.”

  I managed a blush and took his big, brown, callused hand between my own small white ones. “Well, what would you expect him to say? That your daughter behaved like an Irish hooligan? That she enticed him away from his chores and ran off to the hills to enjoy the day, knowing he would be forced to escort her? That she bragged she could catch and ride a wild pony, although he begged her not to risk it? And that when she was thrown and lay senseless, he found her and managed to tame the wild pony himself and bring her home upon its back? Would you have believed such a story?”

  He glowered at me. “No, I would not. And I do not believe it now.”

  I sighed and inwardly took a deep breath. “Well, my dearest father, it is near the truth. I have behaved very badly. I ask your forgiveness. Gwillim lied to defend my honor, and I am ashamed.”

  He looked at me searchingly, but I withstood him. His uncertainty gave way at last to resignation. “Do you swear b
y the blood of the Bull this is the truth?”

  “I swear it.”

  “Well,” he said at length, “I am both grieved and relieved to hear it. I will send Gwillim to you after I have spoken to him, and when the physician says I may. You should be punished, Guinevere; but it is not in me to do it. And indeed, I believe Mithra will see to it in His own way, and in His own time.”

  “There is one other thing.” He was getting up to go, and he turned warily, scenting deception. I put on the most guileless face I could summon.

  “May I also have my nurse back? I dislike this physician near me. In my illness, I remember a light touch that comforted me. Would it be possible to send her back to me?”

  He looked confused, but could not resist my supplication. “If you mean Glynis, she is gone from the house.” As the ranking woman, after me, of the royal house, Gwarthgydd’s wife would be appointed nurse to any royal patient.

  “If she is gone because of Gwillim, can it not be put right?”

  The king stood and looked down full upon me. “Guinevere, are you asking me to send you that jealous shrew? Do you really want her with you? Are your wits about you? You needn’t— Gwillim is safe without that.”

  Safe, perhaps, but miserable and forever shamed without his mother. I trembled with the effort it cost me, but I lied. “She is a good nurse.”

  He stared at me and then shook his head. “All right. She is yours. But when you are well, my girl, you and I must talk about your future.”

  “Yes, Father,” I said meekly.

  Glynis returned the next morning. Her face was rough and blotched with the marks of blows and tears, and I guessed that Gwarth had lost his temper once again. There was no love in her face, no understanding, no gratitude; only fear. I was a witch; she was beholden to me, and she was afraid. I did not speak to her, but let her tend me and feed me with what tenderness she could muster, and we got along tolerably well.

  In the evening Gwillim was brought to my door. Glynis would have embraced him, but Gwillim kept his eyes on the floor, and she crept out without a word.

  I lay on the pillows and looked at Gwillim. He was newly washed and dressed in clean clothes, but there were red marks on his wrists where they had bound him. Bound him! What he had been through in the last two days, I could not guess. But what confounded me was his fear. He, too, was afraid of me and averted his eyes from my face.

  “Gwillim,” I whispered. “Kneel down so we can talk.” He obeyed and waited. “Gwillim, I take responsibility. I am sorry they put you in prison. It wasn’t fair.” He said nothing.

  “Gwillim, tell me what happened.” It was a command, and he obeyed.

  “I tried to come after you, but I lost the black pony. So I followed on foot. I could see where you went clearly enough, because the branches were bent and the undergrowth trampled. After a while I realized that if I followed you, I would never catch up. I figured you would circle back to the clearing. I knew you would be able to speak to him. I knew you would not come off unless—unless something scared you.” So that was it. It was his voice that had startled the pony. “When at last I saw you returning, I—I—Gwen—I mean, my lady—I shouted. For joy, but—”

  “I know about that part. Never mind. I’d have done the same. What happened after that? How on earth did you get me back on the pony?”

  The ghost of a grin swept his face and was instantly supressed.

  “I didn’t know what to do. You were bleeding, my lady. There was lots of blood around your head. I thought you were dying. I sat down beside you and cried. And then—” His hushed voice sank so low I had to strain to hear it. “—then the pony came back to you. I was sitting there, and he came right out of the forest, right up to you, and nuzzled you. He let me put my belt around his neck. He let me lay you across his back. He let me lead him down the mountain, and he walked so carefully over the stones, you never even slid.” There was awe in his voice, and in his face, and I realized with a shock of despair that Gwill had changed.

  “The soldiers came and rescued you. They let me put the pony in the paddock before they took me to the king. He is there still. He didn’t even try to get away.” Suddenly his shyness fled, and he spoke eagerly. “Don’t you see, Gwen? It’s a sign. After the evil things we thought about by the spring, we were both punished, you immediately and me later on, and then the pony’s coming all by himself. It’s a sign from the god.”

  “From which god, Gwill?”

  He looked pained. “Does it matter, my lady? It’s the proof, you see.”

  “Proof of what?” My throat ached so it was hard to speak.

  “I blasphemed,” he said humbly, “and was given a sign. I have no doubts any longer.”

  “You believe because you saw a sign, but you saw the sign only because you believed.”

  “Don’t,” he said quickly. “Please, my lady. Don’t say those awful things. You will be punished again.”

  “I am being punished now,” I retorted. “Why do you address me as ‘my lady’? I’m ‘Gwen’ to you, remember?”

  He lowered his eyes, and I was instantly sorry I’d said it. I understood, of course. It was the risk I’d had to take to save his honor, but it was a bitter pill to swallow for a proud, brave boy.

  “You are the king’s daughter,” he said slowly, addressing the coverlet. “And I am your servant. A word from your lips saved my mother and sisters from a cruel fate. For this I thank you. Even my father must be obedient to your command and take back what he had put away. The honor of our house is in your hands, my lady.”

  “Yes, w—well,” I stammered, fighting back tears. “I saw no other way. You’d better go.”

  He rose with dignity, bowed, and turned away. I turned my face to the wall and wept.

  3 GWYNEDD

  On my eighth birthday I left my home forever. My father called me to him one wretched night that winter and, with tears streaming unchecked into his beard, told me that come spring and my eighth birthday, he would send me away. It felt like death. Nothing he said could comfort me. I was not going far away, only into the next kingdom, by the Western Sea, to the house of my mother’s sister, whose husband was lord of that land. But in those days, and at that age, it was across the world.

  The reason was, he said, that it was the only place I would be safe.

  I did not understand at first. He would not tell me that he had felt the first touch of the hand of Death. I thought he meant we should have war.

  Wales had been quiet enough. Winter had closed the seas, and the Irish raiders kept to their own coasts. Of the inland fighting to the east and south against Angles and Saxons, news filtered in from time to time. But the names of the strange places and kings, of Cornwall, Strathclyde, Rheged, Lothian, of Cador, Ector, Urien, and Lot—these were foreign words, foreign lands, foreign princes. For the Kingdom of Northgallis was my country and Wales the limit of the civilized world.

  When my father fell ill that winter, he called his sons to him. To the eldest, Gwarthgydd, he bequeathed the major part of his kingdom and the king’s house at Cameliard. To the others he gave lands of their own to keep independently, provided, and he made this condition clear, that they follow and fight for the High King Uther Pendragon against his enemies.

  For the king my father believed very strongly that the safety and, indeed, the future of Wales depended on the High King’s desperate efforts to contain the Saxon invasions on eastern coasts. And he knew whereof he spoke. He had been a young man when the High King Vortigern had invited Saxons to Britain’s shores to help him quell the rebellious Picts who threatened from the north. These Picts, a fierce and primitive race of thieves and bandits, had badgered the country incessantly and for generations, since the last Roman legions had left the land. But the Saxons were worse. At least the Picts had no organization and never stayed in the land they conquered, but retreated to their own homes to sing their victory paeans. The Saxons stayed. Vortigern found that, once he had invited them in, he could not make th
em leave and was forced to reward them with land in return for their service against the Picts. He gave them small plots along the southeastern shores and thought, the shortsighted fool, that that should content them. But within five years their families and all their relations had come to join them, and the Saxon colonies grew.

  As everyone knows, their numbers increased until their lands could not hold them, and their war leaders Hengist and Horsa were a greater threat to King Vortigern than ever the Picts had been. Vortigern even married a Saxon queen, Hengist’s daughter. After that no true Celt would follow him, and he lost his power to the Saxon horde. It was Ambrosius who saved us. Aurelius Ambrosius, brother of the rightful king whom Vortigern had murdered, invaded from Less Britain with an army of twenty thousand and fought Vortigern to a bloody victory. My father fought in that battle, where the old wolf and his Saxon queen were smoked out of their hill fort and burned alive. And he fought in the battle at Caer Konan, where Hengist was beaten, when Merlin himself appeared out of thin air to predict Ambrosius’ victory. Had it not been for Ambrosius, we should all have been as degenerate as the Picts.

  The great Ambrosius and his younger brother Uther gathered the many British kings together, from Lothian and Rheged to Dyfed and Dumnonia, and bound them with oaths of loyalty to the High King of Britain. Fighting together under a strong war leader was our only hope of stemming the Saxon tide, so my father was wont to exhort his warriors on cold winter nights, when war looked distant and glorious. But this my father deeply believed, even when he was called upon to take arms and fight in Uther’s army. And he saw to it that his sons should follow his example.