Camelot's Queen (Guinevere's Tale Book 2), page 29
But to where? Banking upward again, I scanned the horizon for some familiar landmark. After following them for what felt like hours, I saw it—a wide circle of tall thin monoliths surrounded by a white chalk ditch. Inside the large circle were two smaller ones. That had to be the ancient Sanctuary of the Stars. I expected them to head toward it and camp there, but they passed it by.
By then, I was losing my connection with the bird, slowly regaining my human consciousness. I had learned all I was going to know. I opened my eyes to find Morgan and Grainne blinking at me as if they too had just awoken from a dream.
We thanked the God and Goddess in turn but did not share our experiences. Those were for Arthur alone to know.
“Shall we tell him?” Morgan asked.
Grainne and I nodded. “Let’s go then.”
We found Arthur assembled with the Combrogi in the meeting chamber. He was standing atop the table to be better heard over the clamoring crowd. He must have just told them what the quest was to be for they were cheering and whistling, pagan and Christian alike, as we wound through the throng to his side. Lancelot helped me climb onto the table, where I came face to face with a beaming Bishop Marius.
Not one to lose the opportunity to pontificate in front of a crowd, Bishop Marius held out his arms as though welcoming the adulation of the crowd until they finally quieted. “My brothers and sisters, we have been blessed by God to not only have a Christian couple to lead our land”—he nodded at Arthur and Morgan, ignoring me completely—“but now our king has been favored by heaven to be the instrument of the greatest miracle of our age. As you embark upon this perilous journey, I beg you to consider the well-being of your souls and shrive yourself of any sins before you depart. Only in that way will any and all of you be worthy to behold such a sight as the Holy Grail. Were it in my power, I would accompany you myself. But as my duties keep me here, go forth with my blessing and that of the Father, Son,”—he made the sign of the cross over the gathered soldiers—“and Holy Ghost.”
Some of the men crossed themselves while others made the sign of Avalon and a few stared awkwardly at the ground.
“Thank you, bishop. We go with joy in our hearts knowing we have your benediction,” Arthur said to Marius with a pleased smile. He turned back to the assembly. “Some of you may have noticed I have yet to mention where we are going. That is because I do not know myself. But I have asked three of our strongest seeresses for their guidance—”
“I must strenuously object,” Marius interrupted. “It is highly improper to consult pagan oracles when you have been entrusted with a Christian mission.”
“Jealous they have knowledge you do not?” came a female voice from deep within the crowd. It was one of Sobian’s girls.
“Yes,” someone else agreed. “Let them speak.”
Morgan and Grainne looked at me hesitantly before joining us atop the table.
I cleared my throat. “Know that what we see is not writ in stone but shifts with the actions of men. The most we can do is advise you as best we know.”
“See?” Marius yelled. “Even they admit their information is fickle at best.”
I ignored him. “The Grail has indeed left Avalon. I have seen its procession. Earlier today, they passed the Sanctuary of the Stars on the great chalk plain. Head south, and you shall meet them. But beware. They are heavily armed, so if you desire the Grail for yourself or have any ill intent, better you stay behind than face their blades.”
“Indeed,” Grainne continued, “not all who undertake this journey will return. For some of you, this will be your final task—I have seen your souls march to the Otherworld. But fear not, for all who set out do so under the aegis of the Goddess.”
Morgan stepped forward. “Of you, only three shall find the vessel. One will prove unworthy and return before glimpsing its glory. But when it is brought to Camelot, all those honored by the great King Arthur shall behold it. So have I seen, and so shall it be.”
The crowd was silent, stunned as though the threefold Goddess had appeared before them and spoken words of prophecy. Even Marius was speechless, contemplating the implications of our words.
Arthur was the first to find his voice. “Choose your groups and your destinations. Stay out of Saxon lands for we do not wish to start a war on this mission of peace. Eat, drink, and say your farewells for we leave at dawn.”
Once the four of us climbed off the table, everyone began talking at once, making it nearly impossible to hear any one person, but Morgan’s voice still found me. “Arthur, be careful. Not just for my sake but for your son’s.”
“Mordred is nearly a man. He will be fine.”
Morgan rubbed her belly. “Not Mordred. Your new son.” Her smile was more luminous than I’d ever seen it.
“You are with child?”
“I am. You will have another heir by midwinter. Hurry home.” She kissed Arthur softly.
Arthur hugged her tightly. “This is the best possible news you could have sent me off with. I will return with the Grail for our son—or daughter.”
“Benedictio Dei,” Marius blessed them with a joyful grin. He apparently approved of this second marriage even more now that it had been graced with new life.
Arthur caught sight of me, and his expression changed. He was unable to hide the flash of pity that came before his joy transformed into sobriety. Anger, hurt, and jealousy warred within me. After all this time, he still felt pity for me. I had finally accepted I would never bear him another child, but now Morgan was going to publicly prove once and for all that it was I who was barren, not Arthur.
“This changes everything,” Arthur said.
I took a deep breath, willing myself to be calm and collected before answering. “Indeed it does. A baby will turn the whole castle upside down.” I forced a smile.
Arthur’s face clouded over. “No, I mean you cannot accompany me on the quest. Morgan will need a midwife. You must stay here and look after her.”
“No.” I would not let Morgan take away yet another opportunity. “Grainne is just as qualified as I am. That is no cause for concern.” Every muscle in my body tensed as I fought for control over myself, my voice growing more strained.
Arthur took my hand and patted it. I was sure he meant the gesture to be comforting, but in my current mood, it was patronizing.
“I know Grainne is your friend, but after how badly your childbirth ended, I cannot trust her with the life of Morgan and my child. Plus, someone must see to Camelot while I am away. You are my queen—only you”—he looked me deep in the eyes to ensure I understood his double meaning—“have the authority to pass judgment in my absence. You are the only one I trust with this power.”
I nodded, understanding what he was trying to convey. Morgan may have been his royal wife and mother to his child—soon to be children—but I was queen. That was something Morgan could never take away from me.
“Camelot will be safe in my keeping. This do I swear to you. Return to me hale and whole, husband.” I kissed him then looked at Morgan, who was reveling in the well wishes of those who had heard her announcement. “For you have more to live for than ever before.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Summer 514
Arthur wrote to Morgan and me as often as he could, keeping us abreast of their progress and obstacles in finding the Grail. By the time they reached the Sanctuary of the Stars, the Grail maidens had long since moved on, and they were having trouble tracking their movements.
Arthur wrote, “Despite the setbacks we encounter, I have great faith that the Holy Ghost will direct us to the Grail in the end. As each moment of our lives has led us to this point, each step we take brings us closer to our destined prize. Its acquisition will assure Camelot’s safety and prosperity as well as fix our legacy in the annals of time. Have no fear for me, for my passion for this great quest does not wane with time but rather grows as I see signs of God’s divine hand all around us. I beg you to keep me, the Combrogi, and this divine mission in your prayers. I send my love to both of you and to my son.”
When I read the letter aloud to Morgan and Mordred, he grumbled, “As his son, I should be by his side, not here with the women.”
But as much as he complained, Mordred was making good use of his time stuck in Camelot. He’d proclaimed himself Lord of Camelot in his father’s absence and my champion while Lancelot was away. He more than proved himself worthy of the jobs, displaying a subtle cunning he could have learned only from Lot and—despite his age and general attitude of superiority—a wisdom no doubt born of Ana’s influence.
Elaine was as taken with his progress as though he were her own son, which I supposed was only natural given that Galahad was off with Arthur and his men. Now that the boys were too old for her art lessons, she clung to me like spider silk, and her constant vacillations in mood grated on my nerves. Between Morgan’s gloating over her advancing pregnancy and Elaine’s ever-shifting joy at her son’s good fortune and despair that he would never return, I was surrounded by madwomen. I was liable to lock Elaine in the dungeon if I couldn’t find something useful for her to do.
One sticky summer afternoon when the clouds hung low in the sky, teasing us with the prospect of a storm, the Irish emissary and I were discussing the finer points of a new treaty with King Illan mac D�nlainge of Leinster. I was trying to convince him that a proposal of marriage between Mordred and his lord’s daughter was only one option to securing peace in our lands when one of Arthur’s scouts was announced.
“Forgive me,” I said to the emissary, who, to my great annoyance, appeared relieved to be given leave of my argument. “Send him in.”
The scout was still breathing hard when he sank to one knee before me. “My lady, I come in advance of a party in need of your help. Lancelot and several others were most grievously wounded in Rheged battling a man who called himself the Grail Sentinel. I beg you make ready for their party.”
My hand flew to my mouth. For a moment, I could not speak. Fear coursed through me, panic riding in its wake. Lancelot, the man who had saved me countless times, the one whom I considered invincible, was wounded, and badly enough to be transported here. What of Arthur? Had they been together? My knees shook. But then, just as quickly, my experience on the fields of battle and my training as a priestess overrode my emotions.
“The king? How many injured? What is the extent of their wounds?” I found myself asking when all I wanted to do was collapse and cry.
“The king is well, I assure you. He is off in another land, following a lead in pursuit of the holy relic. Eight wounded in all. Most are in need of stitches and bone-setting, but I fear Lancelot suffered the worst. He took a blade in the side, and we cannot fully staunch the bleeding.”
“How much time before they arrive?”
The scout thought for a moment. “A day at most.”
“Thank you for giving us time to prepare.” I asked for Mordred to be sent to me. Once he arrived, I said, “See that our guest is well attended. Also, please find your mother. I have need of her assistance.” I nearly choked on the last sentence.
Mordred’s face lit up at his new responsibility. “Yes, my lady.” He turned to the scout. “Come, sir. Follow me.”
I found Elaine in the chapel, on her knees. “Elaine, raise your prayers to God as you work. We must prepare the barracks to receive a number of wounded.”
By nightfall, we had converted the barracks into an infirmary, just in time for the soldiers to arrive. Morgan set up a station for mixing herbs and dressing wounds while Elaine ensured supplies were at the ready and water was boiling in the cauldron over the fire. Grainne and I prepared a room in the castle, which was warmer and drier, for those requiring our constant attention.
The carts pulled into the gates of Camelot in the small hours of night, desperate shouts and whinnying of horses breaking the silence of the slumbering castle. Mordred stumbled from the entrance hall and began seeing to the horses without being asked, relieving the men to carry the wounded into the barracks.
The cart bearing Lancelot was in the middle of the pack. Before I even saw his face, I knew he was near to dying. His clothes and the sacks beneath him were pools of black, and even from a distance, the stench of infection made bile rise in my throat. Next to him in the cart were the spoils of his hard-won victory—the armor and head of the knight he had killed.
I wrinkled my nose at the rotting head and told the nearest guard, “Spike that up with the others and take his mail to the armory to see what we can learn from its construction. You two”—I gestured to Gareth and Owain, his guards on the journey here—“get him into the castle. Morgan will show you where to go.”
I watched them go, conflicted about whether to attend to him immediately or assess the others first.
“Go, be with him,” Grainne said as if reading my thoughts, as if she knew exactly what we were to each other. She squeezed my arm. “You and Morgan are his best hope. I have Elaine to help with the others. Go.” She shoved me gently toward the doors.
Morgan was already removing Lancelot’s clothing when I arrived. I grabbed a rag and soaked in it hot water, then I applied it to an area around his wound where his clothing adhered to his skin.
“It’s a wonder he has not died of blood loss,” Morgan said.
Lancelot looked to have been beaten within an inch of his life. His eyes were swollen, painted with purple and black bruises. His lower lip was split and puffy, a long gash running from the left side up an inflamed cheekbone. As my eyes traveled lower, his injuries only worsened. His skin was pale and clammy, a sure sign of inflection if the stench from the wound between his ribs wasn’t indication enough. One shoulder stuck out at an odd angle, and he appeared to have taken several crushing blows to the chest. But those would have to wait.
The cloth around his wound finally gave way, and we were able to see the full extent of the damage. The skin around it had already begun to fester, the sickly yellow-green bile the source of the stench. The men had done their best to pack the wound with moss and spider silk, and it was likely the reason why he was still alive now, but it was also the source of the infection.
“We’re going to have to cut this skin away,” Morgan said. “We need to cleanse the wound first though. Give him some poppy juice to ensure he feels nothing and does not wake.”
While she doused his wound with vinegar, I forced Lancelot’s mouth open and poured in a carefully measured dose of ruby syrup. Too little and he could stir, crazed with hallucinations. Too much and he might die.
“Be strong, my champion. For me. For the Goddess who raised you and the one who chose you as her own,” I whispered in his ear.
We set about the gruesome task of cleaning and debriding the wound. I was thankful for my years of training in Avalon, and even what I had seen at Caledon Wood and Badon, for without it, I surely would not have made it through the surgery. Once we could see the wound clearly, we found the source of the bleeding.
“It looks like he received the bite of an axe. We will have to close it off with heat,” Morgan said. “Take that poker out of the fire and bring it to me.”
I looked at her uncertainly. I’d never heard of such a method except in conjunction with amputation, which was external, not internal.
“Do you wish him to live or no?” She snapped her fingers at me. “The Greeks did this with much success. I learned it from the healer of Uther’s army, a Saracen woman. Have no fear.”
She placed the glowing tip of the poker into Lancelot’s wound. His flesh sizzled, giving off a smell not unlike meat over a spit. Morgan rinsed the wound once again—this time with boiled, cooled sea water—and inspected it.
“That should stop it.” She handed the poker back to me and motioned for a second one, which she placed on the external wound. With a puff of smoke and another sickening whiff of burning flesh, it closed. “If he was likely not to move this area, I would dress the wound as is, but given he will likely tear it open again, I think it best to reinforce it with stitches. Would you like to do the honors?”
I knelt at Lancelot’s side and carefully sewed his wound. “Where did you learn all of this? It goes well beyond our training in Avalon.”
“One does not spend years as a camp woman without learning a thing or two.” Her smile was wry. “Or did you believe I spent all of my time whoring? Of course you did. A battleground where the injured are from multiple lands is the best school a healer could ever ask for, if not the toughest.”
After I finished sewing and bandaging Lancelot’s wound, we set his broken bones and cleansed his remaining wounds.
Muttering as she worked, Morgan gave vent to her innermost feelings about her profession. “I’ve told Arthur a thousand times to bring a priestess with him on every mission for we could save lives if they were tended earlier, but he does not listen.”
Finally, we lifted the calfskin shades to let in fresh air and cleaned up the space so it resembled more a sick room than a surgery tent. I placed sweet-smelling herbs in vases and on hot coals and cool cloths on Lancelot’s forehead and neck to bring his fever down.
“Do you remember how to make a healing beer?” Morgan asked me.
“Yes.”
“When he is conscious and can tolerate water from the sacred springs, give him a thick beer of honey, mugwart, oats, and nettles. He will not like the taste, but he has lost a lot of blood, and it will do wonders to help him regain his strength. Then, and only then, allow him to try some bread. We don’t need him suffering stomach ills on top of everything else.”
I nodded, relieved to see her go. I began the process of brewing the ale, and once it could be left unattended, I sank to the floor next to Lancelot’s unconscious form and prayed. My mind could scarcely form words, but I trusted that my patrons, Rhiannon and Lugh, as well as the Morrigan, patroness of those wounded in battle, and Brigid, the great healer, would know the cries of my heart without words.
