“Father’s men are siding with Modred!” Dyfnwal panted. “They are still in the woods, but will join him soon. Give me some men to meet them, Lord. There are many who will desert when they know they have to fight Meleagant’s heir. Even Father will think twice before attacking his only legitimate son.”
“You’ll fight your own kin?” Arthur asked.
The boy lifted his chin proudly. “You are my kin, Lord. The men I will fight are your enemies. I have no duty to them.”
“All right, take Sir Cunetrix and his men and do what you can to stop Meleagant. And thank you, lad. Good luck!”
Lancelot had formed a protective barrier while Arthur talked with Dyfnwal. Arthur moved in to help him. They were coming closer to the river. Were they pushing Modred’s men there or being led that way themselves? They had broken through the foot soldiers and were encountering the horsemen now; Arthur noticed among them his own renegade knights and hoped none of them had the conscience to face him. Then the crowd opened and Arthur saw Modred.
Curiosity or fear or a sense of drama made everyone draw away from the two men. Quiet rippled outward until every man on the field was still, staring, waiting.
Arthur felt a horse beside his. Lancelot reached out.
“Arthur, let me, or Cei.”
Arthur shook him off. “It’s not your affair. I created this . . . problem. I must take care of it.”
Unconvinced, Lancelot backed away only a few feet. Therefore, he could hear some of what passed between Arthur and Modred, although it was several days before he understood any of it.
Arthur steeled himself as he rode slowly toward his son. He suppressed an irrational thrill of pride at the strength and bearing Modred showed. A king could be proud to have such an heir beside him. There were no flaws in Modred’s body or his brains. The curse of his parents’ sin had been put on his soul. Then Arthur remembered what he had done to Guinevere and his resolve increased.
“Modred, will you surrender to our justice?” he shouted, so that all the field could hear.
Modred answered just as loudly, “Father, you gave me no justice! I claim what is mine by right!”
They were closer now. Arthur spoke only to his son. “Why? I trusted you as I would have no other!”
Modred trembled. “You trusted me as you would a tame dog. If you had named me yours, I would have become one and followed you to your death. Together we could have conquered the world. But you preferred your childish morality. Now the only way I can receive my patrimony is on your grave. What you wouldn’t give me, I will take.”
“Including my wife?” Arthur asked bitterly.
Modred’s smile was a rapier. “Guinevere? She came willingly enough. After an old man like you and a clod like Lancelot, she was thrilled to have me in her bed. Shall I tell you what we did?”
Arthur knew he was being goaded to strike, and he didn’t care. He drew Excalibur, knowing that it would protect him. He had never needed it before. His own skill had kept him from ever receiving more than a scratch. But today he was glad to know he could attack in fury. Modred was not caught off-guard. Arthur’s blow was deflected by his shield, but the force of it surprised him. The old man wasn’t as feeble as he thought. Modred settled down for a long fight.
Arthur felt the cut without much interest. He’d been cut before. They were fighting hand to hand now, having pulled each other down from their horses over an hour before. He wished he knew how late it was but the clouds gave no indication of time. He raised his guard and struck again. It was a few minutes later that he realized that he was bleeding, not seriously, but bleeding all the same. He stared at the spreading red stain in shock. Excalibur had failed to protect him, how could that be? Modred lunged again and he swerved and jabbed with his knife. This move threw him off balance. Modred saw his chance. His sword passed through Arthur’s body, between the rings of his mail and into his spleen. Blood poured out.
With his last strength, Arthur grabbed Modred, pulling him down with him. Modred’s face gloated an inch from his.
“You’re dying, old man!” he hissed. “I have it all now! You couldn’t destroy me; I’m part of you.”
“Yes, my son, you are. And that part I will cut out!” As his eyes glazed over, his last sight was the horror on Modred’s face as Arthur’s knife entered his heart.
With a wild cry of grief, Cei raced across the field as he saw Arthur fall. He tore Modred off the fallen king and ran his sword through him, oblivious to the fact that Modred was already dead. Then he bent over Arthur and gave a wail that could be heard all the way up the hill of glass to where Guinevere and Risa waited.
The sound of it passed through Arthur’s men and sent them into a frenzy as they renewed their battle. As he saw men come forward to carry the bodies off, Constantine raised his sword and led his section forward again. His commands were choked with tears but all around him understood. Modred’s men, driven only by fear for their lives, began to fall back.
Lancelot could not believe what had happened. How could he have let Arthur die? What right had he to still be alive? With total disregard for tactics or sense, Lancelot threw himself into the battle. Not far from him, Cei had remounted and was doing the same thing, calling down curses on Modred’s soul as he went.
They laid Arthur on a bed of animal skins on the bank of the river Cam.
Father Antonius bent over the King. He thought there was still a pulse, weak, but there, and hurried to administer last rites before it was too late. As he mumbled through the ritual, he saw Arthur’s lips moving, following the prayers. He leaned closer.
“Excalibur,” Arthur whispered. “Merlin said, throw it.”
“I don’t understand.” Father Antonius paused in his work.
“Excalibur,” Arthur said more faintly, “must be returned.”
The priest looked at the sword. He had no idea what to do with it.
“Yes, of course,” he promised. “I’ll see that it’s returned.”
“That won’t be necessary!” a woman’s voice said behind him. Father Antonius jumped and nearly fell into the river.
There, floating easily against the current, was a boat of polished wood with silken sails. In it were four women, all heavily veiled. The one who had spoken held out her hand to be helped ashore. Dumbly, Antonius helped her.
The Lady knelt at Arthur’s side. She ran her hands over the wounds and shook her head.
“This is your doing,” she snapped at one of the other women. She put her hand in Arthur’s and willed life to stay in him while she spoke.
“King Arthur, I can cure you, but not here. Come with me under the lake and you will be well again. You can live with us forever.”
At first there was no response. Had he heard her? Then, with great effort, Arthur shook his head.
“No,” he whispered. “Not live forever. Tired . . . so very tired. Just let me sleep.”
His breath came out with a rattling sound and Father Antonius feared he had died. He tried to move the Lady away so that he could finish his work, but she pushed him aside.
“Very well,” she said. “He shall have his wish.” She put a hand on his forehead. “Sleep, poor weary man. I will take you to a cave in my land where you may sleep until your spirit is healed. That is the least I can do for you.”
The men watching dared not make any protest. They had all heard legends of the Lady of the Lake and some hoped that she would take Arthur with her for a while and return him, alive and young again. These helped her wrap him in blankets and lay him on the boat. Before it sailed away, the Lady called to them.
“Tell Lancelot what I have done,” she ordered them. “Tell him he has only one more chance to come with me. Otherwise, he must face the mortality of men.”
• • •
As the boat slid downstream, the clouds opened to send long fingers of light onto it, making both the boat and the water sparkle so brightly that men’s eyes were dazzled and no one could tell when the craft vanished.
From the hilltop, Guinevere saw the boat shining, its sail billowed with conjured winds. She didn’t know what it meant, but the beauty of it gave her sadness and hope. It took away the cold sickness that had filled her at the unearthly wail they had heard only a few minutes before.
But it was hours before they saw the figure trudging up the hill to tell them that Modred’s men had been routed, and Constantine, son of Cador, was now King of Britain.
• • •
Guinevere didn’t want to go back to Camelot. She couldn’t stand the thought of seeing it again, after Modred had desecrated it. But Constantine sent horses and escorts for her. Their leader was Caet, the horsemaster. He had a bandage wound around his head and was truculent with her from the start.
Guinevere didn’t know it was because he was so shaken by the change in her looks.
“King Constantine needs you at Camelot, to prepare the place for his wife’s return. You’ve never hesitated to tell me my duty; this one is yours.”
“Caet, haven’t I had enough?” she asked, her green eyes melting his resolve. “I want to go home and grieve for Arthur alone. Constantine doesn’t need me to establish himself. Arthur told everyone the night before Camlann who his chosen heir was.”
Caet dropped his formal pose. “You have to go, Guinevere. Do you want people saying that you were in league with Modred? One look at you would prove them liars. And there will be those who try to take advantage of this to declare Constantine a usurper, or, at the least, to challenge his control. You represent the old order, the peace of Arthur. Come help him.”
“But there are others. Cei, for instance.”
“Cei died protecting the men who recovered Arthur’s body.” Caet was formal again, but the hurt was evident. “The messengers sent to Cameliard to bring back Letitia also carry news of those lost.”
“Oh, poor Lydia, what will she do? All those children!” Guinevere wanted to cry for them, but she found she had no tears left. So her only alternative was to capitulate. “Very well. I’ll come with you to Camelot. But as soon as everything is settled, I want to go home.”
Guinevere thought that seeing Camelot again would be too painful to bear, but the first person she saw at the lower gate was Father Antonius, his hands outstretched to welcome her. While her escort went about their business, the priest took her at once to the chapel.
“He’s been here since the battle ended. I persuaded him to wait and see you before he left.”
The wooden door creaked open and, in the half light, filtered through the narrow glass windows, Guinevere found Lancelot. Very likely he had been praying again, but weariness had overcome him and he slumped against the wall, head thrown back in sleep. Quietly, Father Antonius left them.
She stooped to kiss his forehead and his eyes opened. She sat down beside him and took his hand. He leaned his head on her shoulder with a sigh.
“I couldn’t even die for him, Guinevere. They fell all around me, and when it was over I wasn’t even hurt.”
“I’m glad of it, my love. Would you want me to lose everything?”
He straightened and looked at her closely through his fading eyes. His fingers traced the bruise on her chin.
“We made all the wrong decisions, didn’t we, Guin?”
“Not all.” She kissed him again. “Father Antonius says you want to leave soon.”
He put his arm around her and they settled together with the ease of long practice.
“There’s no place for me here, Guinevere. At Banoit, I’m a doddering relative, at Camelot, a relic. I don’t know how I could have grown older and still understand so little. Living here only reminds me of the friends I killed, of the ones I couldn’t save. I want to make a pilgrimage, to Rome, I think—Jerusalem, if I have the strength. There must be someone, somewhere, who can explain my life to me.”
“My poor dearest love.” Guinevere smiled sadly. “Perhaps somewhere there is.”
“If I go, will you be all right? I know Constantine wants you to stay here. I can’t leave if I think you might be put in danger again. I may never forgive myself for letting you go last spring.”
“Was it so little time ago? I feel so much older now.” She stopped his cries of self-reproach. “Yes, I will stay here for a while, if they think they need me. But I can’t live here the way we did before. That was a different time, and I was someone else. My father left Cameliard to me and my brother, Mark, if he ever comes out of the mountains to claim it. It’s my own place, and when you come back that’s where you may look for me.”
“Are you angry at me for going?” Lancelot asked.
“You’ll never leave me. I know that. I need time alone now, too. Right now, I can’t bear the thought of being touched again, even by you. We can’t just go back to Banoit as if nothing ever happened. Someday, perhaps, there will be a better time again. Lancelot, it won’t make sense to you, but horrible as this summer has been, I discovered something amazing. All my life, I’ve waited patiently for someone to come along and rescue me. But with Modred I knew no one could. And I stopped waiting. After all these years, I finally rescued myself! So you see, I need you now only by right of love. I always will. But I want so much to find out what else I can do, all alone.”
Lancelot didn’t understand, exactly, but he felt the exultation in her and it worried him, even while he rejoiced that she wasn’t crushed by her misfortunes.
“When I come back, though, you won’t turn me away, will you?”
She laughed and rubbed her nose against his cheek. “Silly! Loving you is something I do very badly alone.”
• • •
Guinevere refused to return to her old rooms at Camelot. They were for the King and Queen, she insisted, and took up her lodging in the rooms reserved for visiting delegations.
She was astonished at the change in people’s attitude toward her. She was no longer a wicked adultress, a pitied martyr or even a household treasure to be petted. Suddenly, she was a matriarch, a dowager queen. People asked her advice. They listened to her opinions. They stood when she entered and gave her the softest cushions. How very strange!
“This is how my mother is treated!” she exclaimed to herself. It was pleasant to be respected as someone who knew all the answers, but Guinevere felt something wrong in it. She didn’t feel like a matriarch. She didn’t know all the answers. And she definitely did not want to spend the rest of her life telling stories of the old days of Camelot. The sight of the Round Table, with Arthur’s name still glowing, but without him and Gawain and Cei and Gareth and too many others, was painful to behold. She let them spoil her for a few months, wintered with them at Caerleon. But, when all the women had returned and Letitia proved an able mistress of the house, there was no reason for her to stay.