“But what of my law!” Arthur pleaded.
“Will you invoke it, then? I will submit to it if you mount a search for Lancelot. Bring him back to be tried for the murder of Gareth. Do you think he would resist? That will prove your law is greater than the tribes, that you can punish crimes against them all, without the rivers of blood we have known. Can you do it, Arthur? Don’t look at me that way, I know what I’m asking. He’s my friend, too, and Guinevere is closer to me than a sister. Tell me no. Let me go alone to find them while you prepare your army to cross to Armorica.”
Arthur stared at the straw on the floor a long time. Nothing had been changed in the short time Guinevere had been gone. The shattered table lay where Lancelot had thrown it and the touseled blankets still shouted their testimony of guilt. He tried to strengthen his anger. But he kept remembering the day he had first shown Merlin the plans for Camelot. “A city of God and man,” he had called it. He had known how close to the surface the old tribal feelings were. That was one reason why he had been determined to build a place entirely new, not of Roman or Celt, but of his own. He had thought he could join both peoples together with his laws. He had let them try Guinevere under those laws even though it was clear that she was being used to hurt him. They had twisted his own honesty to shame him and make him a fool in the eyes of those he must lead. Gawain was right. The people would call him weak, some for allowing the trial, some for letting Lancelot and Guinevere escape. Whatever he did, someone would castigate him.
His law said he should go after them and bring her back. The laws of the tribes told Gawain he must fight his closest friend. Why should either one of them take any heed of laws that sent them against the beliefs of their hearts?
Because that is the only hope of peace that we have.
Arthur raised his head.
“Cei, send out couriers and spies to find out where they have gone. In the spring, before we sail to Armorica, I will come with you, Gawain, and see that the King’s laws are upheld. But no more talk of treason. I want that scotched immediately. Guinevere will pay the fine for adultery and then, if she will come, I will take her back
as is my right under the law
. Will that satisfy everyone?”
Cei sighed. “Probably not, but it should quiet them at any rate. By the time we return from Armorica, it will be simply another story. Frankish gold will stop the mouths of many who might criticize. Now, Arthur, will you please let Lydia send the women in to clean this room?”
• • •
King Lionel gave Lancelot a fortress that backed onto the side of a mountain. He offered servants and food in return for the teaching Lancelot could give his men in battle techniques. The living quarters were in ill repair and drafty, and Guinevere immediately caught a cold which did not aid the healing of her burns. She spent her days in bed or lying near the fire feverishly twisting her hair into knots. Finally, the day arrived when the healing-woman came to Lancelot.
She was a young woman with strong features and large, competent hands. They were clasped together, reddening as she explained to him what must be done.
“The inflammation has gone too far. I must cut into the foot to let the poison out. I may cut the muscles used in walking so that she will always have a limp. But if I don’t try, she will surely die.”
“Why do you even ask me, then?” Lancelot wondered. “Do you think a slight lameness matters against her life?”
“No.” The healer twisted uncomfortably. “It’s only, she was so perfect. I have never seen anyone before who had no physical flaws. I couldn’t destroy that without your permission.”
“Do whatever you must to keep her alive!” Lancelot shouted. “What do I care for scars?”
“Then come with me.” The healer regained her authority. “You will have to hold her while I do it.”
Guinevere screamed once and then lost consciousness but Lancelot felt the knife with all the intensity of his empathetic soul. He sobbed over the limp figure in his arms, begging the gods to give the pain to him and free her. The healing-woman, hands covered with gore, gave him a disgusted glance.
“There,” she announced as she wrapped the last bandage. “Now she will most likely recover. If you can control yourself, you may carry her to the bed. Odd, she looks so fragile, but the muscles were tough as an old hen’s. Well, can you lift her or must I call the guard? Some sort of warrior you are, to fall apart at the sight of a bloody knife.”
Guinevere came slowly to awareness. Lancelot watched her by night from a pallet on the floor. She slept most of the time, only rousing to drink or eat a thin gruel. The women came in each day with fresh linen and cleaned her. Finally, one morning, she was able to drag herself from the bed on her own. When she came back, she knelt by Lancelot and cupped her hands about his face. He woke with a start. She smiled at him and he looked at her as if she were resurrection morning.
“All these years,” she chided, “I have dreamed of waking up with you beside me, and now I find that you prefer the floor. Lancelot, come to bed.”
“But, you are so weak!” he protested.
“I will become stronger if you share your warmth. Please don’t argue. Just bar the door.”
He had never been able to refuse her anything.
The snow came early to the mountains. Guinevere watched it settle into the valley with a glorious feeling of peace. They had fashioned a crutch for her, an old man working the stick into marvellous lines of birds and beasts. The top they had padded with lamb’s wool and linen. She clapped her hands in childish delight when it was presented to her. In a short time she was able to maneuver the passages and stairs with considerable skill. The healing-woman was not surprised.
“Tougher than she looks,” she told her friends.
With the mountains too dangerous to pass, they put the outside world from their minds. At least, they never spoke of it. They ate at Lionel’s table and entertained him and Bors’ family at theirs. They played games with the children and laughed at the tricks of the resident juggler. They made love far into the night and learned that one could laugh in bed, too. As long as the snow lasted they pretended that life would go on that way forever.
One day Bors found Guinevere crying over a crocus in bloom.
Chapter Twenty
The spring wind rustled the tent flaps of Arthur’s camp. It was too early for any but the sentries to be about, but inside the commander’s tent, marked only by the ensign tied to a post in front, Arthur lay awake. The birds were being obnoxiously cheerful, and he cursed them for their happy ignorance of his state.
Nothing had a right to delight when he was saddled with so much. On top of his own grief and sorrow, goads in the forms of Meleagant and Maelgwn had been added. They had insisted on accompanying him to Banoit. Of course it was to support him. Meleagant even had some justification, since Banoit was his by conquest. Their gloating presence was enough to send him to the edge of murder, but he would not let them see it. Maelgwn had no stake in the matter at all except his eagerness to pick up the pieces afterwards and attach them to his realm. His excuse was that he could send his men as nonpartisan intermediaries. That was all Arthur needed. An hour alone with Lancelot and Guinevere could have settled everything but there was no chance of that.
Modred, Gawain, and Gaheris slept in their own tent. Arthur had hoped that Gawain could be convinced to stay behind and let the law work. But the bonds of family were too strong. Agravaine sent word that he was unable to leave Tintagel but Gawain should, of course, take his place in avenging Gareth. Even pious Gaheris agreed. The only compromise Arthur had been able to forge was that only Gawain should fight Lancelot. The issue would be decided by single combat.
How deep the family ties went was shown to Arthur again when he asked Constantine to accompany him to Banoit.
“I can’t, Sir,” Constantine had said in surprise. “Queen Guinevere is my wife’s aunt and she was fostered by my mother. You wouldn’t expect me to stand against her.”
“But she’s
my
wife!” Arthur answered in exasperation. “And everyone expects me to stand against her.”
“That’s different, Sir, you understand that. If she had sinned against her family or truly committed treason against you, then I would be the first to lay a sword at her throat. But in this, I must either stay away or defend her. You don’t need me there, anyway, and Sir Cei needs help with the provisioning of our army. Let me stay with him. Don’t be angry, Sir. My father says it was like this even when the Romans ruled. Actually, he always felt that Rome disintegrated when the great families began their internecine battles. If a man’s kin won’t stand with him, who will?”
Constantine grinned. “Of course, Father’s ancient now and has some odd quirks. He even has this strange belief about your nephew, Modred—insists that he’s the incarnation of Uther Pendragon. He can barely see, of course, but he swears that Modred even moves like Uther. Ridiculous ideas the old get.”
He took his leave, whistling cheerfully. Arthur listened to the tune fade away, feeling that someone had dropped a block of ice into the pit of his stomach.
• • •
When Meleagant’s couriers arrived Lionel went immediately to Lancelot.
“We’ll defend you to the last man,” he swore.
Lancelot shook his head. “That was what my father did and the last man died. Tell them I will fight their champion for the Queen’s honor. That way we can settle the matter without destruction.”
Lionel turned to the courier. “Tell your message to him, just as you did me,” he commanded.
The courier saluted and then recited from memory, “To Lancelot of Banoit: We call you to account for thwarting the King’s justice, for the act of adultery, and most especially for the willful murder of Sir Gareth of Cornwall. Will you submit to trial by combat to prove your innocence?”
Lancelot turned pale. “What is he talking about? Gareth? What happened to Gareth? How could they think I killed him? Guinevere, tell them they’re wrong.”
Guinevere couldn’t look at him. Lancelot grew cold.
“I couldn’t have killed Gareth,” he whispered.
“He was in the crowd, trying to help you,” she faltered as realization flooded him. “You didn’t even see him.”
“You knew?”
Tears choked her. “I saw him fall. I hoped he still lived. He didn’t blame you, I’m sure of it. There were so many people and the smoke was so thick.”
“Oh, my God!” he wailed and threw himself on the floor, pounding the stones till his fists were bloodied.
Lionel took the messenger outside. “Tell King Arthur that Lancelot will meet with his champion. I will have him ready.”
The courier looked doubtful, but it wasn’t his business to wonder, so he saluted again and returned to the camp.
Guinevere was kneeling next to Lancelot when Lionel returned.
“Help me!” she begged. “He’ll hurt himself. He wants to hurt himself.”
Together they got him to a chair and forced some wine into him.
“It wasn’t your fault, Cousin,” Lionel insisted. “Such things happen in battle. Don’t give way to despair. You must be ready tomorrow to meet their champion.”
“I don’t care. If I killed Gareth then I deserve to die. Let them take me.”
Lionel made Lancelot take another gulp from the cup.
“If you do that, they’ll take the Queen, too. It’s admitting all guilt. I have heard that King Arthur would be willing to take his wife back if you proved her innocence in combat.”
“But everyone knows we’ve spent the winter together!” Guinevere protested.
“Don’t ask me for logic. That’s what I was told. Arthur doesn’t want to punish anyone, but he has to save face. You know him. Does it sound like a trick?”
Lancelot shook his head. “Arthur has no deceit in him. Guinevere, if I fight this man and win, will you return to Camelot?”
She fumbled for her crutch and pulled herself over to the window. Across the valley she could see the white of the tents in the setting sun. In one of them Arthur waited; patient, kind Arthur, who had never asked anything of her but the love she couldn’t give. She had hurt and humiliated him in a way she would not have treated a vicious dog. But Lancelot!
“How can I leave you? Tell me! What should I do?” she pleaded.
“I can’t,” Lancelot sighed. “I can’t even decide for myself.”
Guinevere leaned against the rough wood of the window frame and tried to think. Merlin was right. She had never made a decision in her life. It had always been done for her. She had never even felt the need to deny herself anything, for no one had ever held back anything she wanted. She couldn’t decide now! It was too hard! It wasn’t fair!
“If I go, will that end the fighting?” she asked Lionel.
“They say so,” he told her. “It probably will. In a few weeks, most of the soldiers in Britain will have gone to Armorica to defend it against the Franks. Everyone, I think, would be glad to have this resolved by then.”
She set her lips and exhaled. She closed her eyes. She opened them. The situation hadn’t changed.
“All right. If Lancelot fights Arthur’s champion and wins, I will return to Camelot.”
“And if I lose?” Lancelot wanted to know.
“Then she must be turned over to the King’s justice, whatever that may be.”
“It doesn’t matter, Lancelot. If you lose, nothing matters.” Guinevere hobbled back and, standing behind him, put her arms about his neck. “We were never going to be parted again, and now we have only one night left.”
Lionel took the point and excused himself. On the ride home, he worried about Lancelot. Would he make an effort to defeat the champion? Everyone knew he was the best of the knights and the most skillful at arms. He had shown his students this winter that he had lost none of that skill. But could he win if his heart wasn’t in it? Lionel knew Meleagant would be there. Lancelot had to win, if only to salve the pride of Banoit. They had to make Lancelot see that. It wasn’t just for himself and Guinevere that he would fight, but for the honor of his kin.