Gwenhwyfar’s lips tightened—must he spoil the delight of this hour by speaking of his infernal Gods? The man was, after all, a misshapen toad; without his music he would never be allowed to sit at any respectable board—somewhere she had heard that he was no more than a peasant’s foundling brat. She would not offend him when he had come to give them pleasure, but she looked away; let Elaine chatter with him if she would. She stood up and went to the door. “It is as hot in here as the breath of Hell,” she said irritably and flung it open.
Across the sky, darkening now, flamed spears of light, darting out of the north. Her cry brought Elaine and the serving-woman, and even Kevin, folding his harp tenderly into its covering, dragged himself heavily to the door.
“Oh, what is it, what does it portend?” she cried.
Kevin said quietly, “The Northmen say it is the flashing of spears in the country of the giants; when it is seen on earth, it portends a great battle. And sure enough, that is what we face now—a battle where Arthur’s legion, madam, may determine, with the help of all the Gods, whether we live as civilized men or go into the darkness forever. You should have gone to Camelot, lady Gwenhwyfar. It is not right that the High King should be concerned now with women and babes.”
She turned on him and flared, “What would you know of women or babes—or of battles, Druid?”
“Why, this would not be my first battle, my queen,” he said equably. “My Lady was from a king who gifted me for playing his war harps to his victory. Would you think I should have gone to safety with the maidens and the skirted eunuchs of the Christian priests? Not I, madam. Not even Taliesin, old as he is, will run from battle.” Silence, and above them the northern lights flamed and flared. “By your leave, my queen, I must go to my lord Arthur and speak with him and the Lord Merlin of what these lights portend for the battle which comes upon us.”
Gwenhwyfar felt it like a sharp knife run through her belly. Even this malformed heathen might be with Arthur now, yet she, his wife, must lurk here out of sight, although she bore the hope of his kingdom! She had thought, if ever she bore Arthur’s son, then he must give her place and show her great respect, not treat her still as that useless woman he had been forced to take as part of a dowry of horses! Yet here she was, packed off into a corner again because he could not be rid of her, and even her gallant banner thrust back at her unwanted.
Kevin said with swift concern, “Are you ill, my queen? Lady Elaine, assist her!” He held out a hand to Gwenhwyfar, but it was misshapen, a twisted wrist, and she saw the serpent coiling around it, tattooed there in blue . . . she recoiled sharply and struck out at him, hardly knowing what she did, so that Kevin, who was none too steady on his feet, lost his balance and fell heavily to the stone floor.
“Keep away from me,” she cried out, gasping. “Don’t touch me, with your evil serpents—pagan, hell-bound, lay not your foul serpents on my babe—”
“Gwenhwyfar!” Elaine hurried to her, but instead of supporting Gwenhwyfar she bent solicitously over Kevin and gave him her hand to rise. “Lord Druid, do not curse her—she is ill and she does not know what she does—”
“Oh, do I not?” Gwenhwyfar shrieked. “Do you think I do not know how you all look at me—like a fool, as if I were deaf and dumb and blind? And you would calm me with kind words while you go behind the back of the priests to claim Arthur for pagan wickedness and heathendom, you who would give us over to the hands of the evil sorcerers. . . . Go from here, lest my babe be born deformed because I have looked on your vile face. . . .”
Kevin shut his eyes and the twisted hands clamped, but he turned quietly away and began laboriously hoisting his harp over his shoulder. He fumbled for his stick; Elaine handed it to him, and Gwenhwyfar heard her whisper, “Forgive her, Lord Druid, she is ill and knows not—”
Kevin’s musical voice was harsh. “I know that well, lady. Think you I have never heard such sweet words from women before this? I am sorry, I wished only to give you pleasure,” he said, and Gwenhwyfar, her head hidden in her hands, heard the dragging hitch of his stick and his stumbling feet as he hauled himself painfully from the room. But even when he had gone she went on huddling with her arms over her head—ah, he had cursed her with those vile serpents, she could feel them stabbing and biting into her body, the spears of the flaring lights overhead were impaling her, the lights flaring in her brain. . . . She screamed and hid her face with her hands and fell, writhing, as the spears went through her . . . she came to herself a little as she heard Elaine cry out.
“Gwenhwyfar! Cousin, look at me, speak to me! Ah, may the holy Virgin help us. . . . Send for the midwife! Look, the blood—”
“Kevin,” Gwenhwyfar screamed, “Kevin has cursed my child—” and she drew herself up frantically, pain lashing through her, beating with her fists against the stone wall. “Ah, God help me, send for the priest, the priest, perhaps he can take away this curse—” and, ignoring the gushing of water and blood that now she could feel drenching her thighs, she dragged herself to the banner she had woven, signing herself with the cross again and again in a frenzy, before it all vanished in darkness and nightmare.
It was days later that she understood she had been dangerously ill, that she had come near to bleeding to death when she miscarried the four-months child which was too small and weak to breathe.
Arthur. Now for certain he must hate me, I could not even bring his son to birth. . . . Kevin, it was Kevin who cursed me with his serpents. . . . She wandered in evil dreams of serpents and spears, and once when Arthur came to her side and tried to hold her head, she started away in terror from the serpents which seemed to writhe on his wrists.
Even when she was out of danger, she did not recover her strength, but lay in a dreary apathy, unmoving, tears sliding down her face. She had not even the strength to wipe them away. No, it was folly to think Kevin had cursed her, that must have been a madness of her delirium . . . this was not the first child she had miscarried, and if there was any fault it was her own, for staying here where she could not have fresh air and fresh food and exercise and the company of her ladies.
Her house priest came to her, and he too agreed that it was madness to think that Kevin had cursed her. . . . God would not use the hands of a pagan priest to chastise her. “You must not be so quick to assign blame to others,” he said severely. “If there is fault, it must be your own. Is there any unconfessed sin on your conscience, lady Gwenhwyfar?”
Unconfessed? No. For long ago she had confessed her love for Lancelet and been absolved, and she had striven to keep her thoughts only on her lawful lord. No, it could not be that . . . and yet she had failed.
“I could not persuade—I was not strong enough to persuade Arthur to lay aside his pagan serpents and the Pendragon banner,” she said weakly. “Would God punish my child for that?”
“Only you know what lies on your conscience, lady. And speak not of punishment for the child . . . he is in the bosom of Christ . . . but it is you and Arthur being punished, if there is punishment, which,” he added primly, “I must not presume to say.”
“What can I do to atone? What can I do that God may send Arthur a son for Britain?”
“Have you truly done all you may to assure that Britain shall have a Christian king? Or do you hold back the words you know you must speak, because you wish to please your husband?” the priest asked austerely. And when he had gone away, she lay looking at the banner. Every night now, she knew, the northern lights burned in the sky, in portent of the great battle that was to come; yet once, a Roman emperor had seen the sign of the cross in the sky, and the fate of all Britain had been changed. Could she but bring such a sign to Arthur . . .
“Come, help me get up,” she said to her woman. “I must finish the banner for Arthur to carry into battle.”
Arthur came that night to her chambers, just as she set the last stitches to it, and the women were lighting the lamps.
“How is it with you now, my dear one? I am glad to see you up
again, and well enough to work,” he said, and kissed her. “Dearest, you must not grieve so . . . no woman could bring a healthy child to birth under this strain, with the battle impending at any moment—I should have sent you to Camelot, indeed. We are young still, my Gwenhwyfar, God may yet send us many children.” But she saw the vulnerable look on his face, and knew he shared her sorrow.
She clasped his hand and drew him down beside her on the bench where she sat before the banner. “Is it not fair?” she said, and thought she sounded like a child begging for praise.
“It is very beautiful. I thought I had never seen so fine work as this"—and he laid his hand on the crimson-worked scabbard of Excalibur that never left his side—"but this is finer still.”
“And I have woven prayers for you and your Companions into every stitch,” she said, in entreaty. “Arthur, listen to me—do you think, could it not be, God has punished us because he feels we are not fit to give this kingdom another king, you and I, unless we will vow ourselves to serve him faithfully, not in pagan ways but in the new way under Christ? All the forces of pagan evil are allied against us, and we must fight it with the cross.”
He laid his hand over hers and said, “Come, dear love, this is folly. You know I serve God as best I may. . . .”
“But you still raise that pagan banner of serpents over your men,” she cried, and he shook his head in distress.
“Dear love, I cannot break faith with the Lady of Avalon who set me on my throne—”
“It was God, and no other, who set you on your throne,” she said earnestly. “Ah, Arthur, if you love me, do this, if you wish for God to send us another child! Do you not see how he has punished us by taking our son to himself?”
“You must not speak so,” he said firmly. “To think God would do so is superstitious folly. I came to tell you at last the Saxons are massing, and we shall move to give them battle at Mount Badon! I would now that you were well enough to ride to Camelot, but it cannot be—not yet—”
“Ah, I know it well, I am only an encumbrance to you,” she cried out bitterly. “I was never more to you—it is a pity I did not die with my babe.”
“No, no, you must not speak so,” he said tenderly. “I have every confidence that with my good sword Excalibur and all my Companions, we shall triumph. And you must pray for us night and day, my Gwenhwyfar.” He rose and added, “We will not march till daybreak. I will try to come and take leave of you this night before we march, and your father too, and Gawaine and perhaps Lancelet—he sent you greetings, Gwenhwyfar, he was very troubled when he heard you were so ill. Can you speak to them if they come?”
She bent her head and said bitterly, “I will do my king and my lord’s will. Yes, let them come, though I wonder you trouble to ask my prayers—I cannot even persuade you to put away that pagan banner and raise the cross of Christ. . . . And no doubt God knows your heart, since God will not let you ride forth into battle believing that any son of yours shall rule this land, because you have not yet resolved to make this a Christian land. . . .”
He stopped and let her hand go, and she could feel him looking down at her. At last he bent and put his hand under his chin and raised her face to look at his. He said quietly, “My dear lady, my own dear love, in God’s name, believe you that?”
She nodded, unable to speak, wiping her nose like a child on the sleeve of her gown.
“I tell you, dear lady, before God, I believe it not, that God works in such ways, nor that it matters so much what banner we carry. But if it matters thus to you—” He paused and swallowed. “Gwenhwyfar, I cannot bear to see you in such distress. If I bear this banner of Christ and the Virgin into battle over my troops, will you cease to mourn, and pray to God for me with your best heart?”
She looked up at him, transformed, her heart lifting with a wild joy. Would he indeed do this for her? “Oh, Arthur, I have prayed, I have prayed—”
“Then,” said Arthur, with a sigh, “I swear it to you, Gwenhwyfar—I shall carry only your banner of Christ and the Virgin into battle, and no other sign shall be raised above my legion. So be it, amen.” He kissed her, but Gwenhwyfar thought he looked very sad. She clasped his hands and kissed them, and for the first time, it seemed that the serpents on his wrists were nothing, mere faded pictures, and that she had indeed been mad to think they could have power to harm her or her child.
He called to his squire, who stood at the door of the room, to come and take the banner carefully and to raise it above their camp. “For we march at dawn tomorrow,” he said, “and all must see my lady’s banner with the Holy Virgin and the cross flying above the legion of Arthur.”
The squire looked startled. “Sir—my lord—what of the Pendragon banner?”
Arthur said, “Take it to the steward, and bid him lay it somewhere away. We march under the standard of God.”
The squire did as Arthur said, and Arthur smiled at Gwenhwyfar, but there was little gladness in the smile. “I will come to see you at sunset, with your father and some of our kin. We will dine here, and I will have my stewards bring food for us all. Elaine shall not be troubled with providing for so many. Until then, my dear wife,” and he went away.
In the end the small dinner was held in one of the little halls, for Gwenhwyfar’s chamber would not hold so many in comfort. Gwenhwyfar and Elaine put on the best gowns which had remained here at Caerleon and did their hair with ribbons; it was exciting to have some kind of festival after the grim confinement of the last weeks. The feast—though indeed it was not much better than army rations—was spread on trestle tables. Most of Arthur’s older councillors had been sent to Camelot, including Bishop Patricius, but Taliesin the Merlin had been bidden to dine, and King Lot, and King Uriens of Wales, and Duke Marcus of Cornwall, and Lancelet’s older half-brother, Lionel of Less Britain, Ban’s oldest son and heir. Lancelet was there too, and he found a moment to come to Gwenhwyfar’s side and kiss her hand, looking into her eyes with hopeless tenderness.
“Are you recovered, my lady? I was troubled for you.” Under cover of the shadows, he kissed her, only a feather-brushing of soft lips against her temple.
King Leodegranz came too, scowling and fussing, to kiss her brow. “I am sorry for your illness, my dear, and sorry you lost your child, but Arthur should have bundled you off to Camelot in a litter—that is how I would have handled Alienor, if she had gainsaid me,” he scolded. “And now, see, you have gained nothing by staying!”
“You must not rebuke her,” said Taliesin gently, “she has suffered enough, my lord. If Arthur does not reproach her, it is not for her father to do so.”
Elaine tactfully changed the subject. “Who is yonder Duke Marcus?”
“He is a cousin of Gorlois of Cornwall, who died before Uther took the throne,” said Lancelet, “and he has asked Arthur that if we win the day at Mount Badon, he shall have Cornwall by marrying our kinswoman Morgaine.”
“That old man?” said Gwenhwyfar, shocked.
“I think it would be as well to give Morgaine to an older man—she has not the kind of beauty to attract a younger one,” said Lancelet. “But she is clever and learned, and as it happens, Duke Marcus wants her not for himself but for his son Drustan, who is one of Cornwall’s best knights. Arthur has made him one of his Companions now, on the eve of this battle. Though it’s likely, if Morgaine returns not to court, that Drustan will wed with the daughter of the old Breton king Hoell—” He chuckled. “Court gossip of the making of marriages—is there nothing else to speak of?”
“Well,” said Elaine boldly, “when will you tell us of your marriage, sir Lancelet?”
He inclined his head gallantly and said, “On the day when your father offers you to me, lady Elaine, I will not refuse him. But it is likely your father will have you wed a wealthier man than I, and since my lady here is already wedded"—he bowed to Gwenhwyfar but she saw the sadness in his eyes—"I am in no haste to marry.”
Elaine colored and cast down her eyes. Arthur said, “I bad
e Pellinore to join us, but he would stay in the field with his men, seeing to the order of march. Some of the wagons are moving out already. Look—” He pointed to the window. “The northern spears blaze over us again!”
Lancelet asked, “Is Kevin the Harper not to be with us?”
“I bade him come if he would,” said Taliesin, “but he said he would rather not offend the Queen with his presence. Have you quarrelled, Gwenhwyfar?”
She cast down her eyes and said, “I spoke harshly to him while I was ill and in great pain. If you see him, Lord Druid, will you say I would gladly beg his pardon?” With Arthur at her side and her banner flying above Arthur’s camp, she felt love and charity for everyone, even for the bard.
“I think he knows you spoke in the bitterness of your own ordeal,” said Taliesin gently, and Gwenhwyfar wondered what the younger Druid had told him.
Abruptly the door was thrust open and Lot and Gawaine strode into the room.