She clucked and commiserated over her until the soldiers came. Then she gave Guinevere a hug and traced an old symbol on her brow. “Excuse the liberty, but your own aren’t here to do it for you,” she said and left, weeping into a corner of her shawl.
One of the guards tied her hands behind her back. The rope was drawn around her wrists and looped into her palm. She grabbed it as she had been told. Caet stepped back into file.
They put her in a cart, symbol of the lowest criminal, and she shrank back from the shame of it. Then she remembered how, years before, Lancelot had endured the same ignominy for her sake alone and she held her chin higher. She had laughed at him then, for going so far beyond what was necessary to rescue her from Meleagant. It had all been a game, but no one had told him. Perhaps somewhere now, someone was laughing at her. She prayed that Lancelot was safe now, and far away. The cartwheel hit an old boot in the road and jolted her against the side. Her unbound hair caught in a split in the wooden railing and she couldn’t get it untangled. Another guard jumped up and pulled it out. The procession stopped until she was standing again. Did she dare try to slow them down with something else? Guinevere wondered how long it would be until dawn. Could Gawain manage to wake in time?
Faces swirled out of the fog and vanished again. Voices echoed against the stones as the cart lurched into the forum. The thin robe was damp through and plastered against her body. Guinevere was acutely aware that she was as near naked as never mattered, and the knowledge reminded her of some of the other remarks the guard’s wife had made about the motives of St. Caradoc and Meleagant. She swallowed hard to keep from being sick.
They lifted her onto a crude wicker chair set on a wooden platform. Piles of brush and logs were stacked beneath and around it. Guinevere smelled lamp oil and her hope that the fire would refuse to light died. The crowd pressed forward. How could four men, one not even wakeable, get her safely away from this mob?
Caradoc stood in the Basilica portico out of the wet. When the cart had been removed, he came forward, his eyes fixed on Guinevere’s body. He had planned on making a long sermon, excoriating this woman piece by piece, but Meleagant had reminded him of the necessity for the flames to be searing her by the first gleam of the sun, so he hurriedly climbed the makeshift ladder to the platform and faced his victim. His breath came faster.
“Do you repent of your wicked and lascivious scheme to pervert our High King Arthur and, through him, all Britain?” he bellowed, bending over her chair and thrusting his face against hers.
Guinevere pulled back. “The wickedness is in your heart, not mine,” she whispered. “God knows it, whatever you do.”
He stiffened and his lips grew taut. “We shall see if He knows it well enough to save you.”
As soon as he reached the ground, he grabbed a torch from the nearest guard and thrust it into the pyre. Flames leapt up and spread, sending sparks across the forum as well as onto the platform, where they landed and sizzled on Guinevere’s wet robe and hair. Frantically, she worked to untangle the slippery and swollen rope around her wrists. Smoke surrounded her. It billowed so that the people below her were obscured. Her eyes were running and she couldn’t breathe. Somewhere beyond she could hear shouting and the sound of a horse, hooves beating on the stone of the piazza. Where was Caet? Where was Cei?
A man in priest’s robes climbed onto the pyre. Just as she had on the road, Guinevere recognized him at once. His hood fell onto his shoulders, uncovering his white hair, now dusted with ash. Without speaking, he grabbed her and thrust her into and through the scorching smoke and flame. Guinevere screamed as a flaming brand landed on her foot. They kept going. She felt herself pushed onto Clades by Caet. Lancelot landed behind her and they forced their way through the crowd. It had been no more than half a minute since he rode in.
Some made way to let them pass, but a contingent of soldiers beat their way toward them, swords and knives out. Guinevere leaned far over Clades neck to give Lancelot all the room he needed to fight them off, but it didn’t seem possible that he could escape them all.
From the other side of the forum, Gareth realized the danger.
“He needs me!” was his first thought and he shoved aside everyone in his way to reach his idol. He brought down two of the attackers as he neared Lancelot’s side.
Lancelot could see only the flash of the swords as they came at him. The growing blaze made them glitter like the stars he would never see again. He knew which direction he had to go and hacked his way toward it as best he could. Someone called his name and another blade swung at him. He jabbed back and felt his sword connect with a human body. He gave a twist and it came out again as he turned around to face the next enemy.
Guinevere saw the sword enter Gareth and the look of surprised anguish on his face as he fell.
“Gareth! Oh no! Dear Lord, not for me!” she cried.
He saw her in the moment before she was swept away, before the crowd passed by him. He gave one last adoring gaze at Lancelot and then back to Guinevere. He shook his head. His lips moved.
“Don’t tell him!” he mouthed. Then Clades forced a path for them out of the forum and they galloped down the road, out the southwest gate, past the amphitheater to freedom.
Behind them, the sun was rising.
In the dust and smoke and spilled wine, Cei and Caet found Gareth.
“He’s still alive!” Caet cried. “Help me get him back. Here, take this. Let me get my tunic off to stop the bleeding.”
They covered the hole but the blood continued to pour out. They managed to drag Gareth as far as the grass outside the forum. He was making a noise now, high-pitched like glass on metal.
Gawain hurried up from one direction and Modred from the other. Despite all differences, the blood-bond was in them, and they knew when their brother fell. Gawain knelt at Gareth’s side as Caet told him what he had seen.
“Lancelot!” Gawain wailed. “How could he do it? Gareth is his own man!”
Gareth’s keening ceased and only long ragged breathing came from him. He reached out to his brothers.
“Don’t . . . blame . . . him,” the dying man begged. “It’s me . . . Just too damn . . . inconspicuous.”
Pounding toward the forest and safety, Guinevere prayed that she had been mistaken or that Gareth might have survived. Lancelot clung to her with one arm and she leaned against him, lost tears filling her eyes.
Oh, my dearest, she thought. Will you still want me when you discover the price you just paid?
Chapter Nineteen
Many weary and fearful days later, Lancelot brought Guinevere through the mountain passes to the tiny land of Banoit. She was wearing a worn robe over the white shift, her face hidden far into the cowl. She had no shoes and no other clothes. The burn on her foot was refusing to heal although they had wrapped it in wet cloth with a piece of wheat bread over it to draw out the infection. So one leg froze and the other burned as they climbed farther from Arthur’s realm.
“It should have been I who was hurt so,” Lancelot moaned as he changed the cloths and noted the spread of the redness. “It was I who loved you first.”
“And it was I who called you to me.” Guinevere winced and then sighed as the cool bandage touched her foot. “My love, you can’t suffer for everyone. My guilt is as great as yours, greater, because I do not repent. I regret the pain we’ve caused, the hurt we’ve left behind. That’s all. I can never be sorry for loving you.”
They had taken refuge one night in an abandoned villa. It had been fortified in some recent time, but that had not been enough to protect the owners. They had fled the invaders only to be taken by Irish slavers. The peasants in the area had taken stones and wood but no one wanted to live among the ruins. The hypocausts had gone out and the pipes were clogged with silt and weeds. The place frightened Guinevere. She would have preferred a drafty shepherd’s hut to this obvious reminder of vanished Rome. There were ghosts waiting just out of her vision. Their faces were those of her ancestors. She moved closer against Lancelot. He thought he understood. In the dim light, he noticed the crumbling plaster, the mildewed frescoes, the fallen tiles. The place looked like his conscience.
“If that pilgrim was right, tomorrow we should reach the castle of my cousin Bors,” he told her. “It’s the only place I can think of where we might be safe. But it won’t be what you’re used to.”
Guinevere smiled as she gazed into the dusk. “One summer I lived in the mountains with a hermit couple. We had a stone hut and raised chickens and bees. Gaia made me help cook and wash and weed. It was beautiful and quiet. I was happier then than I have ever been since. I think it was the last time I was ever completely happy; except when I’ve been with you. Lancelot, is it so dreadfully wrong to be glad that we’re together at last?”
He was still for a long time.
“I don’t know any more,” he answered at last. “It can’t be right that our happiness should come from such disaster but I can’t feel sorry that we have no choice but to flee together.”
“And you promised, Lancelot. You promised you would never leave me again.”
• • •
They arrived at the castle looking like mendicants, and the guard did not want to admit them. Lancelot humbly accepted the rebuke and turned to go but Guinevere threw back her hood and looked at the man. The gate was opened.
Bors greeted them with delight and took them at once to his brother, Lionel, who was king.
“He will be so excited that Ban’s son has returned at last!” Bors told them.
Lancelot was worried, though.
“How can he be pleased?” he asked. “We have nothing but my horse and sword and the clothes we wear. We may have pursuers close behind us. I could be bringing ruin to his door.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Bors assured him. “We are a family, a tribe. Our own are more important than any outside realm. Lionel will defend you even if you have come to challenge him for the kingship.”
“But I don’t want it!” Lancelot protested. “I only want refuge for myself and the Queen.”
“Then there will be no problem at all.” Bors led them into his brother’s hall.
Lionel rose to greet them. Guinevere saw the resemblance in their faces and the way they stood. The man before them could have been Lancelot’s younger brother. As they approached, he noticed Guinevere’s limp. Immediately he came forward and offered her a chair. He seemed not to see the dirt or the roughness of her clothing. Perhaps it was because she did not consider them important. Beneath any disguise or indignity, she was still a queen.
“You are very kind.” She smiled wanly. “I am tired and the traveling has made it difficult to treat my hurt properly. I would be grateful if you have a healing-woman who might look at it for me.”
She looked up at Lancelot.
“I will leave you to explain to your relatives why we have come and what we need. I will do whatever you decide.”
Lionel called out a name that Guinevere didn’t catch. A woman hurried forward.
“Lean on me, dear,” she said, in the sort of kind, accepting voice Guinevere was used to. “We’ll have that looked after and I’ll see what I can find you to wear.”
Guinevere sighed with relief. Perhaps the universe had not gone totally insane after all.
• • •
Cei and Gawain brought Gareth’s body to Camelot.
“He would want to be buried here, I think,” Gawain told Arthur. “Father Antonius says we can put him by the chapel. Will that be all right with you?”
“Yes.” Arthur could barely be heard. “How could this have happened? Not to Gareth. He worshipped Lancelot.”
“It was so confused and the fog and smoke were so thick.” Cei faltered. “We tried to help but we didn’t know he was coming. Everything went wrong. I’m sorry, Arthur. I blame myself. ”
“Modred says we must avenge our brother,” Gawain began.
“But it was an accident!” Cei interrupted. “You know that! You heard Gareth. He didn’t blame Lancelot!”
Gawain waved him aside. “I know that! I don’t blame him, either. But Gareth is dead by Lancelot’s hand. Family honor demands that Lancelot pay for Gareth’s life. It’s my duty to challenge him. I’m sorry, Uncle. After what you’ve been through, you’ll think I’m purposely trying to hurt you. But it must be this way. It always has been. All the laws of Rome can’t cover the rules we’ve lived by for centuries. Family honor comes first. My poor mother spent most of her life trying to teach us that. I didn’t realize until now how important it was.”
“But how can you fight Lancelot?” Arthur pleaded. “He’s your best friend.”
“I can’t let it matter,” Gawain sighed. “I can’t change the code we live by. And what of your own laws, Arthur? Lancelot defied them when he rescued Guinevere. Your laws demand that you destroy them both. Will you do that? Or are you as weak as the northern lords say?”
“Gawain!” Arthur rose, his face twisted into a form Gawain had never seen on anyone human. Cei stepped between them.
“Arthur! Please! Look at him! He’s not telling you what he wants to do. He saying what the rest of Britain will say.”
Arthur fell back. He picked up the small ivory box that Guinevere had left when they took her away. He ran his fingers across the ridges of carving.
“I don’t give a damn anymore about what they say. What did they ever care for me? Well, they’ll soon have the war they want and see how weak I am. I made a treaty with King Hoel of Armorica and he’s asked me to fulfill it. The Franks are moving against him; they grow stronger every year. He wants me to join him next spring, as soon as the crossing is safe. I’ll bring every fighting man I can spare. Not knights, just soldiers; men who can fight and loot and win. Meleagant will like that, and Maelgwn and Fergus. The bishops can declare a holy war. Everyone should be happy at last. Won’t that satisfy them? Do I have to send you to kill our best friend, too?”
“You don’t need to send me, Uncle.” Gawain stressed the title. “I must go. Someone from the family must avenge Gareth and I’m the only one who has a chance of doing it. I don’t want to. I wish I could leave them in peace wherever they’ve gone, but I can’t. If I don’t challenge Lancelot then everyone will know that the Lords of Cornwall do not protect their own. Then Agravaine could be killed or Gaheris or even you, Arthur. You are of our family, too. Would you want your death to go unavenged?”