Gwenhwyfar woke with a start, Morgaine’s mocking laughter in her ears. The room was empty and silent except for the heavy snores of her serving-woman in a pallet on the floor. Gwenhwyfar made the sign of the cross and lay down to sleep again. But on the very edge of sleep it seemed to her that she looked into the clear and moonlit waters of a pool, and instead of her own face, Morgaine’s pale face was reflected back at her, crowned with wicker-withes like the harvest dolls some of the peasant folk still made, and very far away. And again Gwenhwyfar had to sit up and make the sign of the cross before she could compose herself to sleep.
It seemed all too soon that she was wakened, but then she had been so insistent they should set forth at the first light. She could hear the rain pounding on the roof as she put on her gown by lamplight, but if they stayed for rain in this climate they should be here a year. She felt dull and queasy, but now she knew there was a good reason for that, and secretly patted her still-flat stomach as if to reassure herself it was real. She had no desire to eat, but dutifully swallowed some bread and cold meats . . . she had a long ride before her. And if she had no mind to riding in the rain, at least it was likely that any Saxons or marauders would stay within doors as well.
She was fastening the hood of her warmest cloak when the abbess entered. After a few formal words of thanks for the rich gifts made by Gwenhwyfar on her own behalf and on Igraine’s, the abbess came to the real business of this farewell visit.
“Who now reigns in Cornwall, lady?”
“Why—I am not sure,” said Gwenhwyfar, trying to remember. “I know the High King gave Tintagel to Igraine when he married, so that she might have a place of her own, and I suppose, after her, the lady Morgaine, daughter of Igraine by the old Duke Gorlois. I know not even who is there now as castellan.”
“Nor I,” said the abbess. “Some serving-man or knight of the lady Igraine, I suppose. That is why I came to speak with you, madam . . . the castle Tintagel is a prize, and it should be tenanted, or there will be war in this countryside too. If the lady Morgaine is married and comes here to live, all will be well, I suppose—I do not know the lady, but if she is Igraine’s daughter, I suppose she is a good woman and a good Christian.”
You suppose wrong, Gwenhwyfar thought, and again it was as if she heard the mocking laughter from her dream. But she would not speak ill of Arthur’s kinswoman to a stranger.
The abbess said, “Bear my message to Arthur the King, lady—that someone should come to dwell in Tintagel. I have heard something of a rumor that ran about the countryside when Gorlois died—that he had a bastard son and some other kinfolk, and some of them might strive to conquer this country again. While Igraine dwelt here, all folk knew it was under Arthur’s dominion, but now it would be well if the High King sent one of his best knights hither—perhaps married to the lady Morgaine.”
“I will tell Arthur,” Gwenhwyfar said, and as she set out, she pondered this. She knew little of statecraft, but she remembered that there had been chaos before Uther came to the crown and again when he died leaving no heir; she supposed something like that might befall if Cornwall was left with none to rule or keep good laws. Morgaine was Queen of Cornwall and should come hither to reign. And then she remembered what Arthur had once said that his dearest friend should wed with his sister. Since Lancelet was not wealthy and had no lands of his own, it would be the right thing that they should come to reign together in Cornwall.
And now I am to bear Arthur’s son, it would be best to send Lancelet far from court, that I might never again look on his face and think of him such thoughts as no wedded woman and no good Christian should think. And yet she could not bear to think of Lancelet wedded to Morgaine. Had there ever been so wicked a woman as she on the face of this wicked world? She rode with her face hidden in her cloak, not listening to the gossip of the knights who were her escort, but after a time she realized that they were passing by a village which had been burned. One of the knights asked her leave to stop a while, and went away to look for survivors; he came back looking grim.
“Saxons,” he said to the others, and bit the words off when he saw that the Queen was listening.
“Don’t be frightened, madam, they are gone, but we must ride as fast as we may and tell Arthur of this. If we find you a faster horse, can you keep our pace?”
Gwenhwyfar felt her breath catch in her throat. They had come up out of one of the deep valleys, and the sky arched high and open over them, filled with menace—she felt as some small thing must feel in the grass when the shadow of a hawk swoops over it. She said, and heard her voice thin and trembling like the voice of a very little girl, “I cannot ride faster now. I bear the child of the High King and I dare not endanger him.”
Again it seemed as if the knight—he was Griflet, husband of her own waiting-woman, Meleas—bit off his words, setting his jaw with a snap. He said at last, concealing his impatience, “Then, madam, it were as well we should escort you to Tintagel, or to some other great house in this area, or back again to the convent, so that we may ride at speed and reach Caerleon before the dawn of tomorrow’s day. If you are with child you certainly cannot ride through the night! Will you let one of us escort you and your woman back to Tintagel or to the convent again?”
I would like it well to be within walls again, if there are Saxons in this country . . . but I must not be such a coward. Arthur must have the news of his son. She said stubbornly, “Cannot one of you ride on toward Caerleon, and the rest of you travel at my pace? Or cannot a messenger be hired to bear the word quickly?”
Griflet looked as if he wanted to swear. “I could not trust to any hired messenger in this country now, madam, and there are few of us even for a peaceful country, barely enough to protect you. Well, it must be as it will, no doubt Arthur’s men have received the word already.” He turned away, his jaw white and set, and looked so angry that Gwenhwyfar wanted to call him back and agree to all he said; but she told herself firmly not to be so cowardly. Now when she was to bear the royal son, she must behave herself like a queen and ride on with courage.
And if I was at Tintagel and the countryside was filled with Saxons, there would I remain until the war had ended and all the country at peace again, and it might be long . . . and if Arthur did not even know I was with child, he might be content to let me dwell there forevermore. Why should he want to bring back a barren queen to his new palace at Camelot? Like enough he would listen to the counsel of that old Druid who hates me, Taliesin, who is his grandsire, and put me away for some woman who could bear him a bouncing brat every ten moons or so. . . .
But all will be well, once Arthur knows. . . .
It seemed as if the icy wind was sweeping across the high moors and into her very bones; after a time she begged them to stop again and get out the litter so that she might ride within it . . . the horse’s motion jolted her so. Griflet looked angry, and for a moment she thought he would forget his courtesy and swear at her, but he gave the orders, and she huddled gratefully inside the litter, glad of the slow pace and the closed flaps which closed out the frightening sky.
Before dusk the rain stopped for a while, and the sun came out, low and slanting over the dismal moor. “We will set up the tents here,” Griflet said. “Here on the moor at least we can see a long way. Tomorrow we should strike the old Roman road, and then we can travel faster—” and then he dropped his voice and said something to the other knights which Gwenhwyfar could not hear, but she cringed, knowing he was angry at the slow pace at which they must travel. Yet everyone knew a breeding woman was more like to miscarry if she rode a fast horse, and already twice she had miscarried a child—did they want her to lose Arthur’s son this time too?
She slept poorly within the tent, the ground hard beneath her thin body, her cloak and blankets all damp, her body aching from the unaccustomed riding.
But after a time she slept, despite the pouring rain that leaked through the tent, and was wakened by the sound of riders and a call: Griflet’s voi
ce, harsh and rough.
“Who rides there! Stand!”
“Is it you, Griflet? I know your voice,” came a cry out of the dark. “It is Gawaine, and I seek for your party—is the Queen with you?”
Gwenhwyfar threw her cloak over her nightdress and came out from the tent. “Is it you, cousin? What do you here?”
“I hoped to find you still at the convent,” said Gawaine, sliding from his horse. Behind him in the darkness were other forms—four or five of Arthur’s men, though Gwenhwyfar could not distinguish their faces. “Since you are here, madam, I suppose Queen Igraine has departed this life—”
“She died the night before last,” Gwenhwyfar said, and Gawaine sighed.
“Well, it is God’s will,” he said. “But the land is under arms, madam—since you are here and so far on your way, I suppose you must continue on to Caerleon. Had you still been at the convent I was under orders to escort you, and such of the sisters as wished to seek protection, to Tintagel castle, and bid you remain there until there was safety in the land.”
“And now you may spare the journey,” said Gwenhwyfar irritably, but Gawaine shook his head. He said, “Since my message is useless, and I suppose the sisters will wish to take shelter within their convent walls, I must ride on to Tintagel with news for all men sworn to Arthur to come at once. The Saxons are massing near the coast with more than a hundred ships—beacon signals were sent from the lighthouses. The legion is at Caerleon, and all men are gathering. When the word came to Lothian, I rode at once to join Arthur; and Arthur sent me to Tintagel to bear word thither.” He drew breath. “Not the Merlin’s self is more a messenger than I these ten days.”
“And I told the Queen,” said Griflet, “that she should remain at Tintagel, but now it is too late to return there! And with armies gathering on the roads—Gawaine, perhaps you should escort the Queen back to Tintagel.”
“No,” said Gwenhwyfar clearly. “I must return now, I am not afraid to travel where I must.” Even more, if he was facing war again, Arthur would wish for the good news she bore. Gawaine had already shaken his head impatiently.
“I cannot delay for any woman’s riding, unless it were the Lady of the Lake herself, who can ride a day’s journey with any man a-horse! And you are but a sorry rider, madam—nay, I spoke not to anger you, no one expects that you should ride like a knight, but I cannot delay—”
“And the Queen is breeding and must travel at the slowest pace of all,” Griflet told him with equal impatience. “Can some of your slowest riders be told to escort the Queen, Gawaine, and I ride on with you to Tintagel?”
Gawaine smiled. “No doubt you wish to be at the heart of things, Griflet, but you have been given this task and no one envies you,” he said. “Can you find me a cup of wine and some bread? I will travel on through the night, to be in Tintagel at sunrise. I have a message for Marcus, who is war duke of Cornwall and is to bring his knights. This may be the great battle Taliesin foretold, where we perish or we drive the Saxons once and for all from this land! But every man must come and fight at Arthur’s side.”
“Even some of the treaty troops will stand with Arthur now,” said Griflet. “Ride on if you must, Gawaine, and God ride with you.” The two knights embraced. “We will meet again when God wills, friend.”
Gawaine bowed to Gwenhwyfar. She reached out a hand to him and said, “A moment—is my kinswoman Morgause well?”
“As ever, madam.”
“And my sister-in-law Morgaine—she is safe in Morgause’s court, then?”
Gawaine looked startled. “Morgaine? No, madam, I have not seen my kinswoman Morgaine for many years. Certainly she has not visited Lothian, or so my mother said,” he replied, courteous despite his impatience. “Now I must be off.”
“God ride with you,” she said, and stood watching as the men’s hoofbeats thundered away in the night.
“It is now so near dawn,” she said, “is there any reason to try to sleep more, or should we break camp and ride on for Caerleon?”
Griflet looked pleased. “True, there will be little sleep for any, in this rain,” he said, “and if you can travel, lady, it would please me well to be on the road. God knows what we shall have to pass through before we reach Caerleon.”
But as the sun rose over the moors it was as if they rode through a land already struck silent by the war. It was the season when the farmers should be out in their fields, but although they passed several isolated hill farms, no sheep grazed, not a dog barked, nor any child came to watch them; and even along the Roman road there was not a single traveller. Gwenhwyfar, shivering, realized that the word had gone out to raise the countryside for war, and such as could do nothing had crept behind closed doors to hide from the armies of either side.
Will it endanger my child, to travel at this pace? Yet now it seemed a choice of evils—endanger herself and her child and Arthur’s by this forced travel, or delay on the road and perhaps fall into the hands of the Saxon armies. She resolved that Griflet should have no further cause to complain that she had delayed them. Yet as she rode, unwilling to take refuge within her litter lest he accuse her again of delaying him, it seemed that fear was hovering everywhere around her.
It was near to sunset, and it had been a long day, when they caught sight of the watchtower which Uther had built at Caerleon. The great crimson banner of the Pendragon floated from the heights, and Gwenhwyfar crossed herself as they passed beneath it.
Now all Christian men are to make a stand against the barbarians, is it fitting that this sign of an ancient Devil-faith should serve to rally the armies of a Christian king? Once indeed she had spoken of it to Arthur and he had answered that he had sworn to his people that he would rule over them as the Great Dragon, Christian and non-Christian alike without favor, and had laughed, stretching out his arms with the barbarian serpents tattooed all along their length. She felt loathing for those serpents, symbols that no Christian man should bear, but he had been stubborn.
“I bear them in sign of the kingmaking when I was given Uther’s place in this land. We will speak no more of this, lady.” And nothing she had said could force him to discuss it with her or to listen to what a priest might say on the subject.
“Priestcraft is one thing and kingcraft is another, my Gwenhwyfar. I would that you should share all things with me, but you have no wish to share this, and so I may not speak of it to you. And as for the priests, it is none of their affair. Leave it, I say.” His voice had been firm, not angry, but still she had bent her head and said no more. Yet now, as she rode beneath the Pendragon banner, she trembled. If our son is to rule in a Christian land, is it fitting that Druid banner should fly above his father’s castle?
They rode slowly through the encamped armies in the plain before Caerleon. Some of the knights, who knew her well, came out and set up a cheer for their queen, and she smiled and waved to them. They rode beneath the banner of Lot and through the men of Lothian, Northmen with pikes and long axes, wrapped in the crudely dyed clothes they wore; over their camp flew the banner of the Morrigán, the Great Raven of war. Gawaine’s brother Gaheris came out from that camp and bowed to her, and walked beside Griflet’s horse as they rode up toward the castle.
“Did my brother find you, Griflet? He had a message for the Queen—”
“He met us when we were already a day on the road,” Gwenhwyfar said, “and it was easier to continue here.”
“I will come with you to the castle—all of Arthur’s chosen Companions are bidden to dine with the King,” said Gaheris. “Gawaine was angry at being sent with messages, yet no one can ride so swiftly as my brother when he must. Your lady is here, Griflet, but she is readying herself and the child to go to the new castle—Arthur says all the women must go, they can be more easily defended there, and he can spare but few to defend them.”
To Camelot! Gwenhwyfar’s heart sank—she had ridden all the way from Tintagel to give Arthur news of their child, and now would he pack her up and send her to Camel
ot?
“I do not know that banner,” said Griflet, looking at a golden eagle sculptured lifelike on a pole. It seemed very ancient.
“It is the standard of North Wales,” said Gaheris. “Uriens is here, with Avalloch his son. Uriens claims his father took this standard from the Romans, more than a hundred years ago. It may even be the truth! The men from Uriens’ hills are strong fighters, though I’d not say so in their hearing.”
“And whose banner is that?” asked Griflet, but this time, though Gaheris turned to speak, it was Gwenhwyfar herself who answered.