“I ought to look in the mirror sometime and see how they’re doing,” she mused. “I wonder if any of them has managed to give me some legitimate grandchildren yet?”
After a time she got up and wandered toward the Lady’s pavillion, where the mirror was kept. It was a new invention. The Lady had grown tired of getting her news of the outside from chance travelers and unreliable waterfowl. So she had set all her people the task of creating a way to peek into the land above. After several mishaps, the mirror was perfected. Its range was only south of Hadrian’s wall and it couldn’t see across the ocean, but it was novel enough for the Lady to sit and watch it by the hour. Morgan found her at it and made her request to see her sons.
“Ah, Morgan!” The Lady drew her into a nearby seat. “Yes, of course. I must say the past few months with you have been fascinating. Let’s see, tell me their names and I’ll try to focus on them.”
Agravaine was no trouble. He was still at Tintagel. He had just married a local girl, far below his station, who was a genius at organization. They were devoted to each other and Morgan’s lip curled in disgust at the domestic harmony. Gaheris was with Arthur in Armorica and could not be seen. But the waves against the rocks showed the place he had last touched in Britain. Gareth’s name only produced gray mist in the mirror and, upon asking for Gawain, they were rewarded by a blast of light that left black and gold spots dancing before their eyes.
“What does it mean?” Morgan asked as she blinked repeatedly.
“I have no idea. You have a most intriguing family, my dear,” the Lady answered. “We should ask Torres. He keeps up with the happenings in your world.”
Torres had been raised with Lancelot under the Lake and had spent some time with him in the early days at Camelot. But the rigors of outside life had not appealed to him and he had returned. For nostalgia’s sake, however, he had kept aware of the happenings at Camelot.
He came when summoned, but reluctantly.
“Things are in dreadful confusion up there, Lady,” he told them sadly. “Gawain and Gareth have been killed by my milk-brother, though not through malice.”
“My Lancelot killed her sons!” The Lady was not interested in believing it. “Lancelot, who couldn’t bear the thought of offending someone’s feelings? A murderer? Nonsense!”
“I told you it was confusing. Arthur is still in Armorica, if the geese are telling the truth, but he is hurrying back to Britain and should be here within the month. Your Modred, Morgan, has taken the country for himself and is preparing to fight Arthur for it.”
“Then he is dead too,” the Lady announced. “I’m sorry, Morgan. I hope you weren’t fond of him. That sword I gave Merlin for Arthur is enchanted. He’ll never lose a battle with it.”
Morgan was reeling from the shock. Two of them dead and Modred about to be vanquished? Yes, now that she thought of it, she discovered that she did still care deeply about her sons.
“What do you mean about the sword?” she asked.
“Oh, it was one of those trick things they made before the floods,” she answered without interest. “It made combat so much more interesting. It was the sheath, really. As long as the wielder of the sword carries the sheath, he can’t bleed. He can be cut, of course, but it will heal fairly quickly. You see the advantage it gives. A man could be stabbed right through the heart and the blood wouldn’t even notice. It would continue in its course. They were very popular in those days. I can’t believe Arthur was such a great warrior that he never discovered that.”
Torres frowned. “Everyone knew there was some magic to it, but he never said what. I don’t suppose he’d want it well known.”
“No, I suppose not.” The Lady looked at the sky, a uniform blue without clouds. “I think I’ll go see how Adeno is doing. He took down all the diamonds in my chambers and was replacing them with sapphires. Did you find out all you wanted to, Morgan?”
“Yes . . . yes, thank you.”
“Fine. It must be nice to know the people up there personally. It makes it more interesting, I would think. Lancelot is all I care about and he’s just off in some drafty castle, suffering again. That boy can be very tedious.”
She wafted away. Morgan grabbed Torres before he could go, too.
“Torres, I’ve got to get back up there, just for a night. How do I do it?”
Torres tried to release himself. “Now, Morgan. You can’t do that. You know the rules.”
“Don’t talk to me about rules, Torres. I know you go up whenever it suits you. Now, tell me how or I’ll be sure the Lady knows all about your secret jaunts.”
Torres looked around. There was no one in earshot.
“For only one night, you say. You’re sure? You’d have to come right back.”
“Why would I want to stay up there?” she argued. “I just left some business unfinished and I have to take care of it.”
“All right,” he said slowly. “Tell me when, and I’ll see that you get away.”
“Thank you, dear. It won’t be for a week or so. First I have to get a scabbard made to fit Arthur’s sword.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Arthur landed at Portsmouth and, without pause to rest, forged toward Camelot. The news of his arrival swept through Britain and new men came every day to convince themselves of his existence and to fight at his side. The reverence in their faces was unmistakable. It annoyed Arthur a great deal but Cei could do nothing to help.
“I’ve told everyone that you were never dead at all; that it was a lie of Modred’s. It doesn’t seem to matter. They think you’ve been resurrected.”
“That’s blasphemy, Cei!” Arthur cried in exasperation. “I won’t have it!”
“I don’t see what we can do about it, Arthur. They don’t want to believe anything else.”
“All right.” Arthur gave up. “What have you found out about Modred?”
They were seated in the best room that the wayside inn could offer, but it was small and poorly ventilated. The room was sweating as badly as the people in it. Cei absently chipped pieces of plaster from the wall with the toe of his boot.
“It’s worse than we thought,” he said. “This is not a sudden idea of Modred’s to take advantage of your trust. He’s been laying the ground for it for years. He has his own mercenaries—Jutes he’s promised land to. He has support from the kings in the North, too, and St. Caradoc has been preaching in his favor, for what that’s worth.”
Arthur scowled. “And how does the good saint get around his abduction of the witch, Guinevere?”
“Modred is saving her soul,” Cei replied tersely.
Arthur’s knuckles were white and his teeth clenched with anger but he made no comment.
Cei continued. “If he decides to withstand a siege at Camelot, we might be there all winter. You made that place too well, Arthur. There’s no way we can storm it.”
“Then we’ll have to force him to come out to fight,” Arthur told him.
“I don’t see how.” Cei reviewed the land in his mind. “He has all the advantage there. If he came out, the armies would be even.”
“He will, though. He’ll have to face me to kill me, and that,” Arthur suddenly knew with piercing clarity, “is what Modred wants most.”
• • •
Guinevere knew that the activity inside Camelot had increased, that there were more drills and mock battles. Every day new people arrived; more Jutes and Dal Riada and possibly other Irish from the tribes settled in the west. But she didn’t know why. She had more than enough hours to spend in wondering. Most of the time she was alone. She only left her tower to attend Mass or, after dark, to bathe. But every moment of the long, broiling weeks she spent gathering resistance and courage. She fought for dignity and endurance. Modred did not give up. Every few days he would appear again, unexpected and cruel. Sometimes she felt she was made up of nothing but terror. But her pride or her anger or something else she couldn’t name kept her from allowing him to master her. She wouldn’t comply and she wouldn’t beg, though sometimes he forced her to cry out in sudden pain.
In her struggle, everything else grew blurred and distant. She buried her grief for Arthur and her yearning for Lancelot. It was only by keeping the most minute watch on every aspect of her mind that she could hope to survive. She had no idea what month it was. She had early on lost track of time. Outside the furious sun scoured Camelot without pity. Timid clouds evaporated under its glare. The summer seemed very long.
Risa came every day with food and sanity. Father Antonius prayed and was outraged that a divine hand had not immediately struck down Modred where he stood. Then he decided that the Lord intended him to do something more active, so he started planning. But how could they escape and where could they go that Modred wouldn’t seek them? The priest thought of Sir Lancelot but dismissed him. Antonius couldn’t lead Guinevere from physical into spiritual danger. Another few days of this, and he might be driven to it, though. That monster had bruised the poor woman’s face so that she could barely open her mouth to receive communion. Father Antonius wished for the first time that he had learned to fight before he had consecrated himself to peace.
When the news finally reached them, it took Risa several minutes of exclaiming before Guinevere came out of herself far enough to understand. The first reaction she had was irrational anger. If Arthur were still alive, how could he have let this happen to her? The feeling swept over her swiftly and was gone. But it did its work, shaking her to full awareness.
“Risa,” she stated. “We have got to escape from here and find him.”
“He’s coming here, my Lady, dear! Soon, I think. Those filthy saints visiting from Gwynedd are preparing to sneak out tonight. They have no intention of being martyred for Modred.” Risa squeezed her hands. “So we need only to wait. He’ll get us out.”
Guinevere pulled away. “No. That man will use us as hostages. Arthur must be free to destroy him! We are going to get away from Camelot on our own. Father Antonius, too.”
“But how?” Risa was thrilled to see her so determined and alert but it seemed impossible. Camelot was full of armed men.
Guinevere set her lips. “I don’t know yet.” She paced her room. She had done it so much that she was able now to walk without the cane, although the limp would never quite vanish. Then her eye fell on the little ivory box containing Galahad’s baby teeth and curl. She picked it up. Everything else she could abandon. This must come with her. She remembered when Galahad had found it for her, just after he came to live at Camelot. It had been brought by a merchant from Egypt with a load of pottery. She had not even noticed it at first among all the painted cups and plates and bowls. It had been insignificant among so many. Only someone like Galahad would realize its simple beauty and pick it out from the mass.
“Risa,” she said suddenly. “I think we should go to the chapel for religious instruction. We have neglected the welfare of our souls during our trials.”
“What?”
“Hurry! While they’re still eating. The guard downstairs speaks some British, doesn’t he? Tell him it’s the eve of a holy day for us. Ask him to help me across the compound.”
“Guinevere, I don’t know what good . . .”
“We are going to become saints, Risa, if we get there in time. Go on! I’ll follow as quickly as I can. Send the guard up for me. No one should become suspicious if I’m escorted.”
She left her room carrying only the little ivory box. On the bed, twisted until the rings broke, lay her betrothal necklace from Modred.
• • •
Father Antonius knew he would have to do an onerous penance for what Guinevere was suggesting. The bishops were very strict about violence, especially against a brother religious. But he was still so angry with them all for being too weak to defend Guinevere that he thought he would enjoy himself while he was sinning. It would be a relief to knock some heads together.
“Providence must be on our side,” he announced after checking the courtyard. “That silly St. Olanidd left only two men to watch their belongings while all the others went to fortify themselves for the journey. This heat is a blessing, too, or they would never have decided to travel by night. Risa, can you get those two to come into the chapel?”
Risa smiled. “If they’re still men, I’ll bring them, even if I have to lure them with the promise of cool ale, rather than my warm . . .” Guinevere looked at her. “I mean, certainly, Father Antonius.”
When she left, Father Antonius grinned sheepishly at Guinevere. “I know this is deadly serious,” he said, “but I have this feeling of elation all the same. I must be as wicked underneath as my old teacher believed. To take delight in the prospect of damaging a fellow priest!”
Guinevere took his arm. “You don’t need to damage them seriously. Just long enough for us to get away. You can beg their forgiveness later.”
“Don’t worry, I’m not backing down, just reconsidering my vocation.”
“Please do it later, Father. They’re coming.”
Risa led the men in, laughing and talking. She might not be young any more but she had not forgotten the art of being charming. She never once looked over their shoulders as Antonius and Guinevere came up behind them and brought the stone slabs down on their heads. They crumpled like empty clothes. When they awoke, they were certain that only the wrath of God could have struck them so unexpectedly and deservedly.
In the cooling twilight, Father Antonius offered to walk a while with the departing saints. His conversation was so provocative that no one noticed the two slighter hooded figures among them, one leaning on the other’s arm.
• • •
Arthur was alone in his tent when Cei came to tell him that a hermit had arrived who wished to speak with him in private. In the depths of his misery, Arthur failed to notice the barely suppressed excitement in Cei’s voice.
The night was moonless and the tiny lantern gave little light. He knew her by her hands, the short and practical fingers that she had always hated. He was afraid to say her name, though, lest she vanish. She stood for a minute by the doorway. Then she pulled back the hood.