Guinevere Evermore

Praise for
Guinevere Evermore

“Sharan Newman’s blend of affectionately funny insight, scholarly authority, and subtle evocation of human emotion is rare and wondrous.”

—Elizabeth Ann Scarborough

“I devoured the book the same day I received it.”

—Anne McCaffrey

Sharan Newman reprints from Bella Rosa Books

The Guinevere Trilogy

GUINEVERE

THE CHESSBOARD QUEEN

GUINEVERE EVERMORE

Catherine LeVendeur Mysteries

STRONG AS DEATH

CURSED IN THE BLOOD

TO WEAR THE WHITE CLOAK

THE DIFFICULT SAINT

GUINEVERE EVERMORE

ISBN 978-1-62268-065-8

Also available from Bella Rosa Books in Trade paperback:

ISBN 978-1-62268-064-1

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014935715

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For more information contact Bella Rosa Books, P.O. Box 4251 CRS, Rock Hill, SC 29732. Or online at 
www.bellarosabooks.com

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1985 by Sharan Newman

The short story
The Palace By Moonlight
was first published in
Invitation to Camelot
, edited by Godwin Parke. © 1988 by Sharan Newman.

Previously Published in the U.S.A. by St. Martin’s Press.

First hardback edition: 1985, ISBN 0312353227.

Tor Books mass market edition: 1998, ISBN 0312866419.

Cover illustration by Craig Faris - 
www.craigfaris.com
.

BellaRosaBooks and logo are trademarks of Bella Rosa Books

To Dr. John Yunck

whose inspiring and inspired classes both sent me on my search for Guinevere and gave me the tools with which to find her. With love and gratitude.

Chapter One

Lancelot of the Lake, son of Ban of Banoit, and most illustrious knight of the Round Table, squatted by the campfire, polishing his armor with casual grace. He had been aware for a while that someone was watching him from the woods; someone who could hide as cleverly as a wild animal. But Lancelot knew it was human, or close to it, and he waited for whoever it was to make his move. He hoped it would be soon, as he was tired and there was still a long journey to Camelot tomorrow. He was sorry now that Gareth had left that afternoon, to spend some days at Tintagel with his mother, Morgan le Fay. It would have been easier if one man could have slept and the other watched.

He laid the armor on a blanket and picked up his sword, running the cloth up and down the steel blade with a kind of caress. He kept his right hand on the hilt as he spoke.

“You have been sitting there for nearly three hours. Wouldn’t you rather come out and share the fire?”

There was a rustling in the bushes for a moment, and then a boy crawled out. He stayed on his hands and knees until he reached the circle of light from the campfire. Then he lifted his hands, arms stretched, palms up in the Christian attitude of prayer.

“Please forgive me, my Lord,” he bleated. “I was overcome by your glory. I saw you and the other angel pass by this afternoon, and I followed you. Never in my life have I seen anything so radiant!”

Lancelot set down his sword. He shifted uncomfortably. He had been called many embarrassing things in his life, but “angel” had to be the worst.

“Look, boy,” he replied with some sharpness. “I am a man, just like yourself.”
May I be forgiven for that!
“My friend and I are not angels, we are knights.”

“I never heard of knights. My mother never mentioned them. Are they a kind of priest? Mother doesn’t want me to be a priest, but she thinks they are good men.”

“Where have you lived, child, that you have never heard of King Arthur or his knights?” Lancelot was affronted by such ignorance. By now everyone knew of Arthur. “He rules almost all of Britain and we are his lieutenants. We see that his laws are enforced and that evildoers are punished.”

“And what do you do with that long metal stick?” The boy pointed to the sword.

Lancelot could not cope with such stupidity. He turned his back on the boy, wrapped his armor against the night air, rolled up in his cloak, and went to sleep. When he awoke, the boy was gone. He felt a little guilty for his impatience.

“He was probably some poor farmer’s son, never more than a mile from his own pigsty. I should have been kinder to him.”

He had loaded his horse, Clades, when he became aware that the boy was back. His face was dirtier than before and his nose was running, as if he had been trying not to cry. He carried a leather bag over his right shoulder and from his left hung a scabbard and sword. The work on the metal was delicate as lace.

“I’m ready,” he announced. “I told Mother about meeting you and that I wanted to be a knight too. At first she cried and said she would never let me leave her. But I said I had to go and that was that, and so she gave me this thing. She said it was my father’s and love of it killed him. She told me to find a wise man to learn from and to be dutiful, obedient, and honorable to women. Then she cried some more and hung on me and made me promise to come home if I didn’t become a knight. So here I am.”

Lancelot felt his sympathy for the boy disappear.

“You left you mother in tears to come after me? Who said you could become a knight? You don’t have any idea of what a knight is. You can’t just appear and say that you’re joining us and be accepted. It’s an honor that must be earned.”

The boy’s jaw set. “I want to be a knight. I’ll do anything you say.”

“Very well.” Lancelot mounted his horse. “You may come with me, if you can keep up. I see you brought nothing to ride on. How fast can you run?”

The boy smiled. “I can outrun the deer!” he boasted.

“Then we’ll see if you can outrun Clades.”

He set off down the road at a gallop. With barely a hesitation, the boy started after him.

An hour later, Lancelot looked back. Even though he had kept Clades to a trot, that idiot child was still following. He was falling behind now. Sometimes, when the road bent, it was a full five minutes before he came in sight again. But he hadn’t lied. He could run. Even with the sword slapping his side at every step, he kept up the pace. He would have some colorful bruises tomorrow.

With a sigh, Lancelot reined in and waited. When the boy drew even with him, he leaned over.

“Clades cannot carry two and our gear, but I will take your baggage on behind me. You needn’t fear. If you should change your mind and decide to return to your home, I will return it to you gladly.”

He tied the bag and the sword on with his own equipment and set off again. The boy took a deep breath and started running.

• • •

It was high summer at Camelot. The air was warm and a soft wind teased its way among the buildings and over the practice field where the clash of sword and shield was accompanied by cries of laughter and good-natured joking. Laundry hung drying between the Great Hall and the women’s quarters. The flapping of the linen and the clank of the metal blended with a hundred chattering voices as the inhabitants of Camelot went about their work.

The smell of roasting meat wafted across the courtyard and filtered down to the practice field, where the men began wiping their blades and removing the padded mail they wore. Soon, they joined the rest of Camelot at the midday meal.

The dining hall was crowded and the doors and windows had all been thrown open to let in the light and let out the odors. The food had been set on the tables, but no one took any. They stood waiting. King Arthur tapped his knife handle against the back of his chair as he chatted with his seneschal, Cei.

Queen Guinevere rushed in, a little breathless. “I’m so sorry I’m late.” She smiled at everyone in the certainty that she would be forgiven without explanation and hurried to her seat.

As soon as she sat down there was a great clatter as everyone reached simultaneously for the meat and bread and pitchers of ale. Arthur’s favorite hunting dog, Cabal, curled himself around the table legs, his eyes following every flick of the knife, prepared to catch his share of the meat before it hit the floor.

It was not a particularly elegant group. Most of the people were going back to work after eating. Their clothes were not their finest and their faces and hands not all that clean. The unmarried knights all sat in one corner, laughing at ribald jokes and poking each other for emphasis. Fosterlings hovered around them, serving the meat, refilling the pitchers and dreaming of the day when they would be knighted, too. The ladies sat in their own section, some balancing babies in their laps as they daintily carved their meat into tiny pieces and soaked bits of the bread in gravy to stuff into the children’s mouths at frequent intervals.

There was a sudden commotion at the doorway. Everyone turned to look. Arthur craned his neck to see what it was.

“Good Lord!” He stood up in his chair, knocking over the water pitcher. “Lancelot! What are you doing riding your horse in here, and who is that with you?”

The room had suddenly become more crowded as Sir Lancelot, silver armor shining and white plumes waving, pulled his panting horse up in front of the dais. Hanging onto his ankle, nearly in a state of collapse, was a young man. He was wrapped in a rough woolen tunic and his shoes were coming apart. As he stood gasping for air, he raised his shaggy head and looked around. He breathed more deeply and a slow grin of delight appeared. Lancelot dismounted. He climbed up to the table, bowed to the King and Queen, looked back at his companion, and shrugged.

“Arthur, this is Percival. He followed me home. May I keep him?”

• • •

Percival couldn’t believe the place he had come to. His mother had not given him any clues about the outside world. She had hated any mention of what might be beyond their gates. Now there was so much to learn that the days weren’t long enough for him to ask all he wanted to. At first, he spent his time trailing behind Lancelot.

“Why is the road up here so twisty?” he asked.

“To keep out invaders,” Lancelot told him. "Not that we have any trouble now. Arthur has put the Saxons in their place and the Irish raiders, too.”

“Then why must we practice fighting?”

“In case they forget or some new foe attacks us.”

“I want to help. When can I learn to use my father’s sword?”

“When you stop tripping over it.”

Percival thought it was time to change the subject. “Who is the little boy who is always with the Queen? He looks like her; is he her son?”

“No, he is my son, Galahad. Guinevere has taken him to foster. ”

“Your son? I thought you weren’t married. Are you married? Where is his mother?”

“I’m not married. His mother is dead. I think you’ve asked enough questions for now.”

The look on Lancelot’s face told Percival that he had. “Poor Sir Lancelot,” he thought. “He must miss his dead wife very much.”

He wandered around, bemused by the wonder of it all, his eyes everywhere but where he was going. There was a chapel decorated with paintings in bright new colors. Brilliant pennants flew from all the towers, and roses and ivy climbed the walls. Even more awesome and unnerving was the small building behind the Great Hall. In it were great stone basins, sunk into the earth and filled with hot and cold water. He was expected to remove all his clothes and wash there, even if other men were present. It took both coaxing and threats to get him in there the first time, and he never was able to feel at ease among the splashing bodies. He usually huddled in a darkish corner away from the others so that he wouldn’t be noticed.