The Chessboard Queen (41 page)
Much later they lay together, close and warm, murmuring inarticulate sounds. Guinevere rested her head on his chest, lazily tracing the lines of his ribs with her fingers. She felt such contentment that not even the knowledge that it was almost dawn could disturb her. Suddenly Lancelot started laughing. With a shock, Guinevere realized she had never known him to laugh like that, with such effortless freedom.
“Guinevere!” he kissed her and laughed again. “I must have gone insane, after all. By all rights, I should be wallowing now in guilt and self-damnation. I should be hating myself for giving way to animal lust.”
“I am not an animal,” she teased.
“Oh, yes, you are,” he said with triumph, “and so am I. And, God, am I glad of it. Tomorrow I may come to terms with myself, the fight may start once more. Tomorrow I will remember that I have a purpose, that I am the model for all the other knights. But now, this minute, I am only Lancelot and you are all the Heaven or earth I will ever need.”
“Isn’t it odd?” Guinevere mused. “I always felt somehow apart from everyone who loved me. However good they were to me, there was always something missing. They could never touch me. I will never feel that again. You are as much a part of me now as my soul. It is so good to know I will never be totally parted from you again.”
He ran his hand through her hair and down her back and silently promised her that she never would.
• • •
Lancelot was in his bed by the time Gawain awoke, but he wasn’t fooled. He knew that Lancelot was not asleep and probably hadn’t been all night. He went over and shook him.
“So, you were going to do nothing? Arthur will be back this afternoon. If Guinevere’s face glows anything like yours, he won’t be able to ignore it any longer. I won’t let you humiliate him in his own house.”
“It’s that obvious? I’m sorry, Gawain, but not for loving Guinevere. Nothing that could happen would make me sorry for that. But I will not shame Arthur. He gave us last night knowingly. Don’t worry. I will not stay to hurt him further.”
Gawain was skeptical. “She will let you go?”
Lancelot smiled. “Never. She will ride with me wherever I go. But I will find a way to leave Caerleon long enough for us to learn to hide what we share. Will you promise to stand by and help her?”
Gawain nodded. “Lancelot, don’t think I’m judging you. I don’t blame either of you for this. It’s only that I’m afraid of where it might lead.”
“I know, Gawain,” Lancelot reassured him. “But you can rest your fears awhile. Right now it only seems to be leading me away from here. I will tell Guinevere as soon as she awakes. Give me some time. It will not be easy.”
He waited until he heard her dressing and then knocked. She kissed him as if they had been separated a year. Gently he sat her down.
“You know that I can’t stay here now,” he told her bluntly.
“No, I don’t!” She stood again, facing him. “Why not?”
“Because I love you too much.”
“But you have always loved me. You never hid it. If you could stay all that time when I wouldn’t even speak to you, why, by all the saints, must you go now, when I finally admit that I love you?”
Her face was nearly pressed to his. With a force greater than any he had used in battle, he wrenched his eyes away.
“What of Arthur?” he asked brokenly. “Do you not love him?”
Guinevere pulled back, puzzled. “Arthur? Of course I love him. He is my husband and my King. It is my duty to love him. But, Lancelot, it is my destiny to love you.”
She did not try to touch him again, but her words seared him. “When I am with Arthur, I try to be good to him, to take care of him. It is not hard, for he is kind to me. But I feel nothing more. But when I stand beside you, I feel your heart beating out of time with mine and I long to change the rhythm of my body to make it one with yours. When you look at me, the whole earth might fall away and I would still be suspended in your eyes. You cannot go, for we have been joined in more than flesh. You would have to crack your soul asunder to tear me from you!”
“Guinevere!” he cried. “That is why I must go! Please, do not torture us any more than we can bear!”
He caught her hands roughly and pressed them to his face. She felt his tears slide between her fingers. She put her arms around him and he kissed her so fiercely that she was not sure if the salt on her lips were tears or blood.
“I must go. We would destroy ourselves, Arthur, and everything he loves. You must help me to take myself away from here!”
“I want you!” she pleaded. “I have always had what I wanted, however foolish. Why must I live without the first person who has ever had any meaning for me?”
He looked at her with those eyes that were so strangely familiar. She knew his pain to be as great as hers and the martyrdom she felt in him defeated her.
“Tell Arthur you are going, then,” she said dully. “No!” She kept him away with a gesture. “If you touch me again, I will never let you go.”
He went to gather his belongings. Slowly Guinevere went back to the bed. She smoothed her hand over the hollow he had left and then crawled into it, trying to hold his warmth a little longer.
That evening Lancelot told Arthur that he had decided to leave at once on a pilgrimage to Tours to pray at the shrine of St. Martin. Guinevere was able to smile and wish him a good journey. Arthur was harder to placate.
“But, Lancelot, I had counted on your wintering with us! We have so much to plan and do. You are not still worrying about Galahad, are you? I made arrangements with Morgause that he is to be sent to us on his fifth birthday. Guinevere, make him listen to reason!”
“I’m afraid that Lancelot will not listen to me if he will not obey you,” Guinevere said. Her efforts to keep her voice steady made her sound cool and aloof. “But he knows that I join you in asking him to stay.”
“My King . . . my friend,” Lancelot began. “I would give anything to be able to remain with you, but I cannot rest here inactive. I am no good at winter games or fireside tales. And I have a great yearning to seek the answers to the mysteries of my life. Perhaps St. Martin can guide me.”
Arthur agreed with a further show of regret, but he was surprised to feel a wave of relief. It would be a year or more before Lancelot returned. He would have time. They were giving him another chance.
“Go, then, may you find what you desire.” He took Guinevere’s hand. “We will always be ready to welcome you. It is a long journey. Try to send us word from time to time.”
“Someone should go with you,” Guinevere said. “Caet! He has crossed the channel before. Take him with you. Please! Then I won’t worry so.”
Arthur hunted mentally through his retainers. The name was familiar. “Caet? Wasn’t that the boy at your father’s house?”
Caet had been sitting in a corner, finishing his stew, when he heard his name mentioned. He knew it would happen one day. Guinevere could not be trusted to remember what should be kept secret. He got up, set down his bowl, and went to the King.
“You must go with him, Caet,” Guinevere insisted before he had a chance to speak. “You are the only one I can trust.”
“Caet?” Arthur studied him sharply. “It is. Briacu, why didn’t you tell me who you were at once? He was with us, Guinevere, years ago, when I saw the vision of the Holy Mother in the forest. You saw her, too, didn’t you? I don’t understand. Why would you hide yourself from me?”
Caet had no answer. But he felt as if he had been stripped of his protection. He did not want to stay at Caerleon while Arthur sorted out his new self from the old. It crossed his mind that Guinevere might have intended it that way. She was still waiting for his answer.
“I am sorry to have deceived you, Arthur. I have no explanation that would make sense. If Sir Lancelot will allow me, I will be happy to go with him. I have never been to Tours, but the way is well marked. Perhaps St. Martin will also show me guidance.”
“Thank you, Caet.” Guinevere wanted to say more, but he would not let her.
“If you want to leave at once, Sir Lancelot, the snow has been cleared as far as Monlyth and I can be ready in half an hour.”
“I am already packed. I will get the horses while you prepare, and meet you at the gate.”
Guinevere steeled herself for their departure. She watched from the window as Arthur clasped both men’s hands and wished them a safe journey. She would not say good-bye. He would be back, Caet would not let him be hurt. And if she grew tired of waiting, there was one night she could cling to. It was enough for now to know they had shared it.
As they prepared for bed that night, Arthur watched Guinevere pensively. He drew random shapes with his finger on the table, unable to bring himself to go to her.
Guinevere stopped braiding her hair to look at him, really look. She saw a tall, strong, handsome man who wielded immense power and yet was always gentle and loving to her. With a stab of guilt she also saw clearly, for the first time, a man bitterly tired and lonely who was too good to take what she would not offer first.
“Oh, Arthur,” she wept to herself. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I didn’t even know. I cannot share with you the joy Lancelot gives me, but I can at least try to give you comfort and, perhaps, a little understanding.”
She left her hair undone and went to him.
About the Author
Sharan Newman is a medieval historian and author. She took her Master’s degree in Medieval Literature at Michigan State University did doctoral work at the University of California at Santa Barbara in Medieval Studies, specializing in twelfth-century France. She is a member of the Medieval Academy, the Authors Guild and Mystery Writers of America.
Her seventeen published works of fiction include three novels of historical fantasy about Guinevere, and the acclaimed Catherine Le Vendeur historical mysteries. Her novel,
Death Comes as Epiphany
won the Macavity Award for Best First Novel in 1994. She has won several other awards for her historical mysteries. She also wrote “The Real History” series exploring the facts and myths about the Da Vinci Code, the Crusades and the End of the World. Her works have been translated into eleven languages.
Her latest books are
Death Before Compline
, a short story collection, and
Defending the City of God
, a biography of Queen Melisende who ruled Jerusalem in the mid 12th Century.
She lives in Ashland, Oregon.
For more information, visit
www.sharannewman.com
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