“And now,” sighed Guenlian, “My Guinevere can come home.”
She sent Geraldus and Mark to fetch her. They went eagerly, hoping to hear from her what had really occurred in the forest.
Guinevere came racing to meet them as soon as they appeared in the clearing. She had heard them singing at the top of their voices long before they arrived, in counterpoint with no melody. But she was oddly reluctant to return with them.
“I am very happy here, and there is still so much work for me to do,” she told them. “Perhaps you could come back for me when the harvest is over and the honey gathered. It will be just a few weeks more, after the frost. Please!”
Mark was startled, not so much by her words, which he hardly noticed, but by her appearance. She was radiantly beautiful, as always, but her expression had changed. There was something in it now of worldly knowledge and sadness that one shouldn’t acquire living in a mountain retreat. There was something strange and slightly frightening about her, and he made up his mind that she should come home without delay.
“Guinevere,” he said sternly. “Our parents have missed you very much. Mother is lonely for your company. Matthew, John and I must go back to our units soon to train for the spring invasions. Will you not come home to wish us godspeed?”
Guinevere’s eyes filled. How could she tell them? “If I go now, I’ll never see it again. Who will let me go into the forest alone to seek him? How will he even know where to find me?” she thought.
Unbidden, a voice came to her: “We are one heart now. I will follow you until the end. Wherever you go, even into the deepest cave or the most distant shore, there also will I be.”
Guinevere blinked. Had the others heard it? No, they were all still watching her, waiting for her response.
“I will come with you,” she sighed at last. “I do not wish to cause my parents sorrow and I would be sorry to miss seeing you off. But I did want to see how Timon collects the honey.”
So Guinevere went home, after bidding farewell to Timon and Gaia. She discovered that she really was eager to see her parents and friends again, once the fear of losing her unicorn was gone. Warm baths and meat pies also had not lost their charm. She settled in as though she had never left. But something about her had changed, and the ones who loved her noticed it, although they didn’t know whether to worry about or approve of the difference.
“She is gentler than she used to be,” Leodegrance remarked. “She seems to see other people more, to be more sensitive to them.”
“But I feel she is drifting away from us,” Guenlian fretted. “There is some secret she has that she will not share. I see it in her face. Our sons were never like that.”
“Our sons never let us know they had secrets, but there must have been many.” Leodegrance smiled. “It should not surprise you, my love, that our daughter is growing up. Perhaps her dreams do not include us anymore.”
“I’m not ready for that. She is still a child. Merlin has unsettled us all with his baseless worries. My dearest only girl-child. I won’t lose you yet!”
“She won’t leave us for many years, Guenlian. Don’t weep, now. We have our daughter. She has just grown introspective from being in that quiet place. It can only do her good to wonder about things a bit instead of accepting life without question. But, if you think she has gotten too dreamy, we’ll wake her up again. There will be more fosterlings here this winter and some close to her in age. The company of her own kind will bring her to life again.”
Guenlian had to be content with this, even though she felt that something was going on that was more than adolescent vagueness.
Guinevere didn’t feel herself to be any different. She thought others had changed while she was gone. This frightened her a little. Home was the one place which must be immutable; the steady center of a spinning world. Even the tiniest alteration disquieted her.
Flora worried her most. She had aged during the summer Guinevere had been gone. Her movements were faltering and she often had to stop and sit a few moments before she could continue her work. Guinevere mentioned this to her mother with concern.
“Yes.” Guenlian was glad to know that Guinevere cared enough to be aware of the change. “She is really a very old woman, you know, although she appears so vital that we forget it. Her children were all grown long before she came to take care of mine. I believe that Caet is really her great-grandson, but she doesn’t speak of her family. I have tried to cut down on some of her duties, but she is proud and very sensitive. You can help her, if you will, by giving her as little to do as you can. If I remember Gaia, she must have taught you a great deal about taking care of yourself. She was never one to pamper her guests.”
Guinevere laughed. “Is that why you sent me to her? Yes, I can make my own bed now and need not be reminded to wash my face.”
“That is not a bad start,” Guenlian said. “I have neglected your education in that area badly. My dear mother always said that you should never tell a servant to do something you can’t do yourself. How else will you know if they are doing the job properly? How else will you be able to train new people? She lived in another time, of course, when women had only the running of their homes to concern them. At least,” she paused, “that is how I remember it. How odd! At any rate, one thing I have learned is that even if the winter is fierce, the Saxons are raiding the coast, all the pipes are broken and the entire family sick, linen must still be aired and meals prepared. Are you willing to spend the winter this year learning all the dull routine of maintaining a household? Someday you may wish to run one yourself.”
It seemed a gloomy prospect but Guinevere agreed. Winter was all rain and slush anyway, and one couldn’t read all the time. Also, it was still a good while away.
As Leodegrance had hoped, that autumn was busy and noisy with the games and intrigues of a house full of young people. Guinevere soon joined in. The unicorn moved to the edge of her mind, not taking up all her thoughts and dreams. He was still there, comforting, caring, but she discovered that she didn’t need to be obsessed with him. He was part of her now and there was no need to be constantly in touch. So she was able to awaken more to the people around her.
Matthew, John, and Mark stayed to spend the early fall at home. They had promised Arthur to winter with him and help with the plans for the spring defences. Guinevere treasured every day they remained at home. They rode and ran and told stories in the twilight. She was overjoyed to realize that they accepted her more as an equal now than ever before. They talked with her instead of around her as they had when she was a child. And Guinevere grew to love them as people, not just worship them as her great, distant warrior brothers. Mark had always been her favorite, but now she started to see why. He was quieter than Matthew or John, who seemed always to be laughing at some joke. But he smiled more than they did and there was more understanding in his eyes. He fought for his dream of a safe, unified Britain, not for any particular joy in battle. Matthew especially got caught up in the fighting itself and often forgot that there was any purpose to it beyond finding out if he could wield a sword or spear better than his opponent. He was the best soldier of the three for just that reason. His mind was occupied only by strategy; he was not distracted by ideals. And where Matthew went, John always followed devotedly.
One evening she mentioned her concern for Flora to them and her plan to take over some of her work. They agreed that the old woman needed help.
“It’s a fine idea,” John said. “But you can’t relieve her at the night work, and that is what is wearing her out now.”
“What night work?” Guinevere was puzzled. “You know Mother would never make Flora work all night.”
“Didn’t you know?” Her brothers all smiled. “You never noticed how often she’s gone at night? You never wondered at all her charms and potions or the things she gave us when we were sick? You never saw the red and gold robes she keeps in her clothes box?”
“Red and gold robes?” Guinevere remembered the time she had wakened in the night. “But why?”
“Guinevere, Flora is the local high priestess. She must officiate at all the rituals for her people.”
“Don’t be ridiculous! No one believes those old things any more. And Flora is a Christian, just as we are. What could she be a high priestess of?”
Matthew answered. “Perhaps she was baptized, though I doubt it, but she believes in the old religion and so do most of the peasants around here. They worship a dozen or so gods, but the main one is Epona, the horse goddess. Wait until the winter solstice and see if Flora is in her bed that night. She’ll be out seeing to the sacrifices and tending the sacred flame.”
“How do you know about this?” Guinevere demanded. More important, why didn’t she know?
They all three looked guiltily at each other. Finally John whispered.
“We found out years ago. But we never told Father and Mother and you mustn’t either. Flora caught us and nearly added us to the flames, but she never told them about it. We followed her.”
Guinevere’s eyes were wide. Were they teasing her again? “What did you see?”
Matthew’s voice was low and eerie. “An altar in a sacred ring of trees deep in the forest. All the people from the farms and even some from the house were circled around it, chanting in the old tongue, and Flora, Flora stood alone in the center dressed in her robes of red and gold and holding a bronze knife. They killed a calf and sprinkled its blood on the altar and on all the people. Then they burnt it in the fire, as the chanting grew louder and louder. They burnt it whole, without even saving a piece to eat.”
“We went many times,” John added. “It was much more interesting than daily prayers. Sometimes everyone danced and sang. Sometimes they all moaned and wept. It was about the most exciting thing that ever happened to us, since every time there was word of invasion we were packed off to the mountains to hide. But finally one time Flora caught us. We weren’t quick enough climbing back in our window.
“I’ve never seen anyone so angry,” Matthew shuddered. “We promised we would never follow her again. I would have promised anything.”
“Why didn’t you tell Father?”
“And be punished again for being out after dark? Besides, I think he knows about Flora. Have you ever noticed that everyone goes to bed early on Midsummer’s Eve? And think of the gifts that the people bring to her each harvest time. He never seems surprised, although it would make more sense if they were given to him or the priest.”
“They love her, too,” Mark tried to explain. “She has been a part of the family since before we were born. As long as she comes to chapel with us and doesn’t flaunt the old religion in their faces, why should anyone bother her?”
Guinevere didn’t answer. She needed time to think about this. What upset her the most was that she had never thought of such a thing, even with all the clues she had been given. It slowly entered her mind that she hadn’t been very observant. When she saw Flora next, Guinevere stared at her as if she were meeting a new person. Flora had always been a servant, nurse, lady’s maid to her. She examined the proud, lined face and noticed her straight carriage. She did give the impression of an unyielding personality. Guinevere tried to imagine those strong hands holding a knife instead of a comb. It frightened her. She didn’t think of it again.
Autumn blazed itself dry. The harvest was almost finished and soon it would be time for the men to return to their unit. Geraldus announced that he had imposed upon their family much too long and would leave with them.
“I must see my family again before the snow begins in the mountains. It’s odd how annoyed they are if I neglect to visit them each year. They are certainly happy enough to see me go. If you can tolerate me another time, you may look for me in the spring.”
As it turned out, Geraldus left a few days before the others. He rode out on old Plotinus, splashing across the near-empty creek, his singers gathered around him, all apparently singing gustily. Guenlian sighed as she watched him go. Even though she doubted his sainthood, she was fond of the boy, and it was true that she felt safer when he was with them. Perhaps it was just that he took her mind of? her worries. Well, she meant to keep busy this winter, and there was Guinevere to teach. How young and fragile she looked, the wind pressing her thin robe against her, her slim arm waving. She felt a wave of resentment against Merlin. He must be wrong! This was still her child. No one had the right to try to take her so soon.
For all her good intentions, her heart ached unbearably when the time came to say good-bye to her sons. Only Leodegrance’s strong presence at her side gave her the courage to send them off as a Roman mother should, smiling and triumphant. She hugged each with a fierce passion when they kissed her, but all she said was, “Don’t tarnish your armor or dull your swords”—a proper phrase to send a soldier off. They laughed at her and waved their bright shields above their heads as they left.
When they had gone, she retired to her room and cried all night in her husband’s arms. She only allowed herself to do this because she knew he felt as she did. The next morning she coolly gave orders for her sons’ rooms to be cleared out to make space for the new fosterlings who were expected. Leodegrance felt no need of such determined reserve. He wandered sadly through the house and out to the stables and stared at the empty stalls.
“They’ve gone again, Caet,” he stated. “I’m proud of them, each one, but I wish every time that they ride out that I were going in their place.”
“So do I, sir,” Caet whispered bitterly, “so do I.”
When he was alone, Caet picked up a stick and jabbed and slashed viciously at the straw stacks and wooden posts. Great dreams burned within him. Arthur’s visit had not impressed only the noblemen. Caet had thought that all warriors were like Leodegrance and his sons. Inbred feelings of inferiority told him that he could never be like them. But the others! Loud, slovenly, lecherous, paunchy. Caet scorned them all. He was a thousand times better than that sort. And if that were true, then he, the son of generations of slaves, could also be a fighter. He practiced constantly from then on, toughening his muscles and perfecting what he fondly hoped was swordsmanship. He weighted his stick with rocks to approximate the heavy short sword and cut a young tree to get wood long enough for a lance. When he exercised the horses, he took his weapons along to practice swift, stabbing blows that would slay his opponent without harming the horse. He knew that the Saxons brought no horses with them on their ships and that the mounted soldier was doubly horrible to them. They excelled in tactics that brought the rider down to be met on their own level. So he sent the horse racing toward low-hanging branches and outcroppings so that he was forced to duck or swerve in the saddle at the last moment but still keep his seat—without stirrups, no small achievement.