Camelot's Queen (Guinevere's Tale Book 2), page 30
Sometime in the midst of my prayers, I must have fallen asleep for I walked in the land between worlds with Lancelot, battling a giant dressed in black, the man whose cruel eyes had stared at me from Lancelot’s side in the cart. I saw how hard Lancelot had fought and how he received every wound we’d tended, but what I did not know was why.
The knight had just sliced into Lancelot’s side with a fierce-looking axe on a long pole when I awoke with a start to a soft rapping on the door. I grunted something that was supposed to resemble “enter,” and Elaine peeked around the door. I sat up, motioning for her to come in.
She handed me a cup of wine, which I gratefully drained. “I thought you could use some relief. I have already slept a little. Morgan is abed, and Grainne is watching over those in the barracks. Get some sleep. I will stand vigil.” Elaine’s eyes misted over, and her face became wistful.
Her expression reminded me of her youthful crush on Lancelot and her fancy that he would become her husband. Oh, how our lives had taken paths we could never have foreseen.
I stood and kissed her cheek. “He is in the hands of his gods. We have done all we can.”
Elaine smiled sadly and fingered the enameled ring on her left hand. “Indeed. I will pray for him.”
I returned her joyless smile. “That is all we can do. If he wakes, please come find me. Oh!” I suddenly remembered the beginnings of the beer. I covered it tightly. “Be sure no one disturbs this.”
Elaine nodded, sitting on a stool at Lancelot’s side.
As I slipped out, Elaine took Lancelot’s hand and kissed it. Silent tears rolled down her cheeks. Was it possible? Could Elaine still harbor feelings for Lancelot? Surely he could not be her mysterious husband—or could he? I shook my head. No, he certainly would not have engaged in an affair with me were that the case. Yet the memory of Elaine’s grief lingered in my mind, as did the seed of doubt.
One week passed, then two. Lancelot did not improve. I began to fear he would never wake. My days were spent in constant vigil at his side, trading off with Morgan or Elaine only to sleep or perform necessary duties. By the time the full moon came around, we were all at our wits’ end.
Morgan wanted to give him wolfsbane to try to draw his spirit back, but I was hesitant.
She wheeled on me when I expressed my concern. “So it was all right for Isolde to use the same drug on you when you were far less injured, but you take issue with me using it to save a dying man?”
I couldn’t answer her because she was right in calling out my hypocrisy. But I couldn’t let go of the story Merlin had told me about her poisoning Rowena so long ago in Avalon.
“How do you know you won’t kill him?” I asked.
She glared at me. “You know I do not know. I am only doing as we were both trained. And as I have far more experience in these dire situations than you, I do not think you are in a place to judge.”
I decided to lay my fears on the table. “What about Rowena? You made a mistake once, and she nearly died.”
“You”—she pointed at me—“were not there. How dare you judge me based on what you did not see for yourself?” She shook her head. “Is that it? Are you afraid I will poison him on purpose? To what end? I have nothing to gain if Lancelot dies. He is Arthur’s dearest friend. I would do nothing to hurt him. Why do you always insist on finding me guilty before even asking my side? I may not like you, but I am not out to destroy everyone I meet.”
She was right. “What did happen that day?” I asked in a small voice.
Morgan gave a sarcastic laugh. “Twenty years on and now you wish to know.” She turned away from me as she prepared the elixir. “I will tell you this—it was not I who added the offending herb to my brew but another who wished to take my place as second. I will not name her, as I have never found proof, but if I ever do, I will kill her with my bare hands in public for all to see. That is the real reason why I left Avalon. I could not remain there knowing there was one willing to kill to take my place.”
She gave Lancelot the wolfsbane, and we continued our cycle of vigil, tending wounds, and sleep.
A few days later, as I was trudging back from a particularly difficult pleading day, during which I’d lost my patience with the petitioners more than once, Owain and I crossed paths.
“You look like death visited you then changed her mind,” he joked.
I glared at him but said nothing.
“Are you hungry?” He was already steering me toward the kitchens.
“Famished,” I answered as I sank down on a bench.
He set a cut of meat in front of me on a thick trencher of bread along with a mug of heady ale.
We chewed in silence before I finally asked him, “What happened to Lancelot?”
Owain looked up. “I was wondering when someone was going to ask. Nasty situation that. We were heading into a valley near the border of Rheged and Powys when we encountered him.” Owain gestured out the window to where the knight’s head now decayed on a pike. “Did you know the villagers are calling him the Black Knight since his entire armor was dark? Anyway, he called himself the Grail Sentinel and declared that anyone who sought it must defeat him first. None of us know if he had any official position or was simply a local loon capitalizing on the quest, but we had to face him in case he was really the final guardian.” Owain took a long draught from his cup. “Whoever he was, he was well trained. He insisted on challenging each of us to single combat. You’ve seen what he did to Lancelot. The others in the infirmary are the ones who managed to escape. Some were not so lucky.”
I stared into my cup. “I wish I had known how all would suffer.” I looked at him. “I had the chance to stop this, to talk Arthur out of this madness, and I did not.”
Owain scrutinized me. “Who said this would be easy? A quest commanded by a god or goddess never is. Think about the old tales. These situations are sent to test our strength and our faith. If we pass, the rewards will be great.”
“If” was the word ringing in my head as I finished my meal. I was just about to thank Owain for his company and insight when Elaine found us. Her eyes were red-rimmed, and tear stains marred her face. My heart stopped. Surely she was here to tell us Lancelot was dead. I placed shaking hands on her shoulders, looking deep into her eyes.
“Lancelot is awake,” she whispered.
“Oh, thank the gods.” I hugged Elaine.
I started to release her, but she stopped me by holding up two small vials. She must have taken them from the store in Lancelot’s room.
“May I borrow these?” she asked. “If I am correct, they are chamomile and comfrey. I would like to use them on my nervous stomach and sore knees.”
I squinted at them, making sure she had properly identified them. “Yes, but be certain not to ingest the comfrey. It is poisonous.”
Leaving Elaine, I rushed to the sick room. I was so relieved to see Lancelot conscious that I fell to my knees at his side.
“How do you feel?” I asked, grasping his hands. It took all my willpower not to kiss him lest someone walk in at the wrong moment.
“I’m in pain. A lot of it. And I’m having trouble recalling how I came to be in Camelot. I remember the knight and his armor, but that is all. I don’t remember drawing my sword or being attacked.” Lancelot looked down at his mending body. “But obviously I was.” Looking at me, he added. “Thank you for saving me, Guinevere.”
I put a hand on his shoulder. “You remember who you are, where you are, and who I am, so you will be well. It will just take time.” I handed him a cup of healing beer.
He started to shrug then winced. “If you believe so, it must be true.” His tone was slightly flirtatious, so I knew he would be just fine.
“I will stay here with you as long as you like. But when you feel up to getting out of bed, let me know. Morgan has given me detailed instructions on how to continue your treatment.”
He puffed out a small laugh, all his broken ribs would allow. “Follow it or face the consequences, yes?”
“Something like that.” I chuckled. “Finish your beer.”
Again the moon waxed and waned, and we had no word from Arthur nor any of the other questing knights. Lancelot was improving, eating a steady diet of liver and whatever greens we could find to help him regain his strength. Each day, we walked with him around the grounds, going a little farther each time.
By spring, Mordred’s seventeenth year was drawing near, the time he would be considered a man according to his father’s tribe. But Arthur had not yet returned, so Lot stood in at Mordred’s manhood ritual. Morgan, as his mother, was not allowed to witness the ritual for it symbolized Mordred breaking free of his need of her and coming into his own. However, as priestesses, Grainne and I watched over him as he meditated deep in the woods the night before he was set loose to kill or be killed by whatever beast the Hag decreed.
In silence, we approached him, Grainne dressed all in white with flowers entwined in her hair, acting as the Virgin Goddess who armed him for the hunt. She gave him a spear and a sling with a single stone. I was the Mother Goddess. My red dress reflected the blood with which I now painted him, blood kept from the stag Arthur had killed in Avalon, reconstituted for this very purpose. His absent mother represented the Crone and the wisdom he had gained at her skirts. Together, we handed him off to Lot and the other men, who would council him until nightfall, when his hunt would commence.
The following day, we haunted the forest, trying to sneak a look at the young warrior and making noise to throw off his senses. It was great fun for adults but, I was sure, not amusing to Mordred, who could not return to this camp until he had proof of his kill.
Lancelot and I walked and talked as we usually did but were so engrossed in our conversation we failed to notice when we became separated from the others.
Thunder rumbled in the distance. It was the first thing that drew our attention away from each other.
“A storm is coming,” I said stupidly as heavy drops of rain began to fall.
We raced back toward the castle, but the rain was coming down so hard we both knew we would not make it before the storm broke in earnest. With a deafening crack, lightning struck a tree not one hundred paces in front of us. I screamed and practically jumped into Lancelot’s arms.
Once my heart had slowed to its normal rhythm, I looked around to get my bearings. Even through the rainy haze, I knew where we were. I grabbed Lancelot’s arm and tugged.
“Come on,” I yelled over the rolling thunder. “I know where we can take shelter.”
I led him to a small hut deep in the woods. It was made of bent saplings, just as Diarmad’s had been, but this made his house look like a castle. I pushed on a clump of branches, and they gave way, allowing us entry into the tiny dwelling.
The hut was a single room, barely wider than Lancelot was tall. The floor was bare earth, and a circle of rocks served as a fire pit. Overhead, a few ancient clumps of herbs hung from the roof, long past their prime.
Lancelot immediately went to the only furniture in the room—a small chest. He pulled out a moth-eaten blanket and threw it at me playfully. I caught it and dried my hair while he kindled a small fire.
“It’s a hunter’s cabin, meant to be a retreat while they wait for game or need a place to spend the night,” I said by way of apology for the mean surroundings, dumping my wet cloak in one corner. “Not nearly as nice as the one we found in the mountains.”
Outside, lightning lit up the sky, and thunder shook the ground.
“It is fine, I assure you,” Lancelot said. “I’ve bedded down in worse places.”
I peered through the branches. “I hope Mordred won his hunt already. I cannot imagine fighting a wild animal in weather like this.”
Lancelot stood behind me. “He is fine. The animals have better senses than we do. They would have disappeared into their dens, burrows, and caves long before the storm rolled in.”
I felt simpleminded in the wake of such a logical explanation. “You know this from experience, I suspect?” I turned, not realizing until it was too late that I was now trapped in the cage of his arms.
Lancelot’s face was only inches from mine. “I have spent quite a bit of time in the wild.” He backed up, turning away. “Some of it with you,” he added with a small laugh.
I sat next to the fire and traced random patterns in the dirt to distract myself from his nearness, his smell, and the heat beginning to course through my veins. He wasn’t ready yet, I told myself. He still needed time to heal.
Lancelot sat down opposite me, the small orange flames between us. For a while, we simply listened to the storm. Eventually he pulled off his wet shirt and discarded it next to my soaked cloak.
He said my name between booms of thunder. “Can I tell you something?”
I had to move closer to hear him. “Anything.”
“Sometimes—” He swallowed and tried again. “Sometimes I feel like I will be forever haunted by a memory I do not have. Of the Black Knight who almost stole my life.”
I gazed at him, unused to a man being so open about his feelings. Perhaps it was his Breton ancestry that made him be so candid with me. I gave him a small half smile. “I understand, in a way. I too was haunted—but by what I did remember. If Avalon taught me one thing, it is that until you admit what you’ve experienced, you cannot move on.”
Lancelot stoked the fire and added more wood until it was a respectable size. “But how can I if I cannot remember it?”
“I can help you.”
“How?”
“We have a ritual of remembrance in Avalon. I went through it myself before I returned to Camelot. All you have to do is trust me.” I stood.
He took my hands. “I have pledged my life to you. Say the word, and it is done.”
I plucked a handful of herbs from the clusters above. Sage and wild lettuce. They were dusty and bone dry, but they would do. I rearranged the stones so that, when placed on top of them, the herbs would smoke but not be consumed by the flames until they had given off their full fragrance.
“Do you have a water skin?”
Lancelot unhooked it from his belt. We each took a drink, then I poured a generous amount on the fire. I inhaled deeply. It was hickory wood. This was a good start.
I cast the herbs into the steam and fire. “Move over.”
He moved against one wall so I could sit in front of him, water skin in my lap.
“Now breathe deeply.”
We both inhaled.
“Close your eyes. Listen the rhythm of the rain.” Once his breathing slowed, I took his hand and placed it on my chest. His breath caught, but I ignored it. “Now concentrate on matching your heartbeat to mine.”
I poured another handful of water over the stones, and they hissed, sending hot white smoke into the air.
“Open your eyes and look into the steam. Tell me what you see.”
His heartbeat increased along with his breathing. “The Black Knight is coming at me, swinging his terrible axe. I am defending myself but only just. He slams into me, knocking me to the ground. But that is not enough for him. He bangs my head into the ground, punching me about the face and chest while I am immobile. But I rally, pushing him off, struggling to my feet. I slash out with my sword, getting in a few good blows before he is on me again. I force him back, knocking off his helmet, and he stares at me with those crazed black eyes.” Lancelot’s voice caught.
His body trembled against my back. I poured more water onto the rocks.
“Then what? What happens next?” I prompted.
“He wraps his hands around my neck, trying to suffocate me. I’m choking, but then I get a grip on his hair and yank his head back. Turning my head, I bite his fingers, forcing him to release me. We come at each other again, breathing heavily. He swings his axe, catching me in the side. I am down, done for. But my companions are not. They rush the knight and finally bring him down as I fade in and out of consciousness. They help me up and put a sword in my hand, holding down the dying knight.
“‘Take your honor for this victory is yours,’ they say to me. Suddenly, I am full of strength. I know what I must do. I raise the blade and bring it down through the flesh and corded muscle of his neck, through the bone and nerves, until it rolls to the side in a river of blood and he is no more.”
“Good, now there is one more thing you must do so this new knowledge does not haunt you.” I patiently recounted the steps of closing one’s mind to a memory, the very same steps Viviane had taught me so many years before when I first arrived in Avalon.
Silence descended on us, comforting as a blanket. We sat in it until a peal of thunder startled us out of our reverie. I glanced over my shoulder at Lancelot. His skin was covered in sweat, face pale as chalk, eyes still haunted. I started to get up, but he held me fast.
“Thank you.” His voice was husky, as though he’d just awoken from a deep sleep. “You truly are a goddess.”
I ducked my head, embarrassed, and plucked at my tunic, which was clinging to my skin in the heat from the rainwater, fire, and steam. “I am not. I am a priestess, and it is my sworn duty to use what I know to give relief to those who are suffering whenever I can.”
Lancelot brushed a piece of hair from my cheek. “There is something else, something I haven’t told you.” He shifted so I could face him. “After the battle, when I was unconscious, I saw the place where the Grail is kept. I was allowed to venture inside but only so far. When I tried to move forward, it was as though an invisible barrier held me back. But I could see beyond. There, on a pedestal, was the Grail. But it was veiled. Nearby was a beautiful woman with eyes like leaves after the rain and ink-black hair. She had your face.”
I gasped.
Lancelot put a finger to my lips. “I heard her voice, or rather your voice, in my head. ‘Son of the Lake, your soul is torn. You cannot serve the Grail and the queen, for she is Sovereignty, singularly demanding of your attention. You must make a choice.’”
