Queen of none, p.10
Queen of None, page 10
“Blessed be the union of my new brother, Lanceloch du Lac, and his wife, the Lady du Lac.”
Another name, another life, another move, in the Great Game.
Gweyn found me at the banquet table and embraced me until it hurt. “I cannot believe this weather, sister,” she said, pulling away to dab at her eyes. “I would have bathed you in sunshine and lilies. I would have piled you with flowers and arrayed your dress in carpets of ribbon.”
“I know,” I said, truly touched by her desire to bring light into my life. No one I’d ever met tried so hard to make me happy. “You should not weep for the weather; it cannot be helped.”
“And that song.” Gweyn shuddered, her curls dancing at her cheeks. “I will have to have words with Arthur. Letting that old menace sing about—”
“It was just a song,” I said, squeezing her hand. She squeezed mine back, her fingers even colder than mine. “Gweyn, you should rest. You have the child to think of.”
“Oh, if I stop decorating and indulging in delight, I will weep so much the whole castle would flood,” she said, smiling through her tears. “Now, go! Dance, eat. You have a beautiful husband and a long night ahead.”
I watched her go, wishing I could comfort her, before being drawn back into the merriment.
* * *
After drinking more than I should to drown out the memory of Merlin’s wretched song, the crowd ushered my new husband and I back to my apartment, the quarters we were now expected to inhabit together. The entire path to the apartment was littered with rose petals and lily blossoms, though many were still damp from the rain. In spite of the cheer, and the furs around my shoulders, the procession was a chilly one, and as the crowd dissipated behind us, I shivered.
At last we were alone, the last revelers’ voices drifting down the dark halls and away.
“Take my hand,” Lanceloch said, his cheeks flushed and his eyes alight with joy. We stood at the great wooden threshold, side by side. We were of a height, and when I turned to look at him, we were almost nose-to-nose. “My bride.”
The hearth roared inside, and the room boasted tables laden with honeyed fruits, intricate breads, and flagons of ruby red wine. Lanceloch closed the door behind us and stood a moment, just looking at me.
Slowly, I removed my cloak. My stomach sank and flipped by turns, as inconstant as the sea. I felt terribly inadequate for him, yet I could not tamp the desire rising in me. His body longed to be touched and was so wonderfully carved it begged assurance of its solidity.
He was so young; too young. I felt repulsive, a practical crone in comparison. I made no motion to go toward him, no indication that I was ready for the inevitable. In truth, I was as cold and as frightened as I had been on my first wedding day, though I was far from virgin now.
“Your hair cannot be comfortable like so twisted and tied and twirled,” he said, coming close. He reached up to touch the pins in my hair and I caught his hand.
“It doesn’t have to be tonight,” I said, softly. He was so beautiful, but I did not want to break him. I only wanted to marvel at him, like a bronze statue in the sun. “We have time.”
He gazed upon me with a look of astonishment. “I want to touch your hair,” he said at last. “That is all. For right now. It is very beautiful. I watched the firelight dance down each long strand tonight at dinner, like fairy floss.”
Knowing better than to deny my new husband, and feeling not a little flattered, I helped him uncoil each long twist until I stood before him like a maiden, hair falling to my waist in golden rivulets.
“A marvel,” he said, taking one lock in his hand and softly pulling it over his palm. “Like spun gold.”
“Thank you, my lord,” I said, unsure what to do with such compliments.
“No, ‘my lord,’ please, Anna. Not here. Not in our home.”
I blushed. Gods help me, but I blushed at his invitation of intimacy. “If you do not wish to bed me, there is no harm in waiting. However long you want.”
“It’s not that—I have just spent so long preparing my body for battle and no time preparing it for love.” It was not the response I was expecting, but nor did I anticipate the rising passion in his gaze. He gazed at my collar bones, where a thick chain of gold fell, a blue topaz set in the middle like a strange, ancient eye.
“You do not have to love me with your heart for it to be pleasurable,” I said softly. He ran a finger over the skin at my neck and I gasped of breath at the sudden touch, His eyes were possessed of the same childlike fascination as when he’d stroked my hair. “Although, in all truth, Lanceloch, I am not as experienced as some women my age.”
“Your husband—was he a great lover?” Again, in that half-distracted tone.
I grabbed his fingers in mine. “Dear gods, Lanceloch, no.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, frowning. “You said you were young, but your marriage was long. I suppose I hoped eventually he understood the treasure of you.”
I swallowed hard. “For Lot, the act of love was done only to claim me or to frighten me or to get me with child. His first wife failed him in that matter; he kept a mistress for other affections, and she doted upon him.”
“A mistress? You mean—he—” Lanceloch was wide-eyed, the idea of adultery so far from his mind. That pure heart.
“Yes, a mistress. Her name was Maira, and she shared his quarters. I stayed in my own apartment, where I reared our boys, and managed the household.”
“Shameful,” he said. He moved even nearer to me, observing my face a moment before brushing a finger across my bottom lip, slow and searching. I would not be capable of conversation much longer. Passion unspooled within me. “Surely he knew such behavior broke your heart.”
“It did not,” I said. “I did not love my husband. I did not mind someone else warming his bed while I still feared he would darken my threshold.”
Anger flashed across his features and he sighed deeply. “I’m sorry you did not know love. But perhaps it is a naïve thought. I find many of my thoughts are.”
“I despised him in the end,” I said, my voice unexpectedly husky with emotion. “I did not weep when he died, Lanceloch. He was a cruel man, in more ways than I can yet explain.”
“I will not be a cruel husband,” he said, taking my hand in his, and bringing my fingers to his lips, kissing them. His lips were warm, slightly chapped. His moist skin lingered a moment before pulling back, and he looked into my face, his amber eyes dark and strange in the firelight.
“You can be whomever you are with me, Lanceloch. I do not want you to pretend you love me or need me; this union was not done outside our own intentions. I know a political alliance when I see one, and Arthur and Merlin have their reasons,” I said, fighting the desire and the wine within me. Heavens, the way he looked at me. “We are an alliance—and we can be friends, but we need not be lovers.”
He considered it for a moment, the silence drawing out between us. I suppose it was foolish of me to hope he might feel attracted to me, but the sting of the realization was less painful than I had anticipated. What flicker of lust he kindled before began to diminish.
“You wouldn’t be angry with me if I wanted to wait?” he asked, looking down at the place where my gown fastened to the kirtle. He ran his hands over the beadwork, the dragon dancing with the lion. “It is not I do not want to. It is only, with my vow I worry—”
“That your prowess will diminish if you lose yourself to passion and sensuality?”
He flushed in the firelight, the skin at his neck patchy and red. I wondered vaguely if he favored men, but then it occurred to me that he simply may not have understood the act of love at all. For all his passionate speech, and wonder at my body, he was very detached from desire, as if such thoughts were rare. This was strange in anyone, let alone a man of such physical ability as Lanceloch. Knights at Carelon were known often more for their dabbling with women than their work with swords of steel.
“So—we could wait?” he asked.
“Of course,” I said, surprised though at the hollow feeling the words left in me. I did the best to continue smiling, trying to comfort myself in the fact he was so young and out of touch, but tears still pricked my eyes. I used the moment to reach again for my cloak, to turn away, and to feign a chill. “There is more than one bedchamber here, Lanceloch. I would be the last to intrude on your vow.”
The act of love would be best kept for a later date, when we were both of a better mindset.
If ever at all.
* * *
Summer deepened, and outside my window the green grass withered and turned brown in the unrelenting sunlight. I heard some of Gweyn’s beloved lilies died in spite of the best efforts of a handful of herbalists brought in to aid in the maintenance. I adjusted, slowly, to life as Lady du Lac. After the festivities of our nuptials, however, so little changed.
I rarely saw Lanceloch save in the evenings, and even then, often he came to our apartment well after I was asleep. Arthur kept him very busy. My young husband was at times worried, distressed, and agitated, but I did not ask after him other than in passing. Perhaps is sounds cruel, but I knew what Arthur was after, and Lanceloch would never share with me what went on behind those closed doors. After our first night together, when he stroked my hair and gave me hope, our relations had thinned to perfunctory communication and sitting beside one another at the endless banquets of Carelon.
It was a black summer for me. I received a handful of letters from Gareth, pleading with me to take him home. I replied that, though I would if it were in my power, I was as helpless as he in the matter. Only Arthur could change the situation. Gaheris, according to Gareth, was flourishing, having fallen in love with one of Luw’s daughters. I prayed her name was not Elaine. But poor, sensitive Gareth was suffering there alone without his brother to comfort him. It would get better, I assured him.
To compound matters, Gawain still did not speak to me. I wrote him—writing letters to my own son in the same castle! —but he either threw them away, burned them, or refused them outright. When King Pellas returned to his own lands with his daughter Elaine, Gawain’s mood was even more morose; he was accused of inciting violence among the knights, and Arthur made him spend a humiliating evening in the dungeon.
Bedevere, too, refused company, and Gweyn was often too sick or tired. I worried after her but was not often permitted nearby. Rumors were that Gweyn often fell into oracular dazes, and the priestess of Avillion attended her every move.
I was curious, and a bit excited, when I heard Gwyen’s sister Hwyfar was arriving shortly to court, from Avillion. I thought I might find the woman who was jilted by my brother to be worthy of pursuing an alliance.
But before I could think much on Hwyfar, I received a rather remarkable shock at the hands of my sister Morgen who I hadn’t seen in months. I knew one thing: she was not at Carelon, for I asked after her through Anette and Jain and Culver, who by now were my most helpful spies.
I had returned to my quarters late one night, then sent Anette to sleep. She was within a few weeks of her due date and, like Gweyn, beyond the capabilities of normal movement. I worried for her, frail as she was.
Sitting in my favorite chair in the parlor, I was just about to take up my embroidery, when I noticed someone standing across from me.
“Morgen,” I said, my voice scarcely a whisper. “But you are not—"
“I frightened you,” she said.
I brought one of my trembling fingers to my lips. “It is not unusual for someone to appear unbidden into my midst—but they are most typically present in the castle.”
She looked wild in my domestic environment, her dark hair trying to escape its braided confines, homespun gown in grey and dun such a contrast to my elegant blue and gold silks. To look at her face, none would expect we shared the same mother.
Then, her image shifted, like ink on water, and re-established itself again, the lines clearer this time.
I was so rarely in the presence of magic I came quite slowly to the realization she was, in fact, projecting herself.
“Oh, dear … you are … this is a spell,” I said, sitting down across from her, peering at her.
Morgen looked weary to her bones, lines carved deep around her eyes, the trenches around her mouth more pronounced than I had seen in years. “I need to speak with you; I do not have long.”
“Where are you?” I asked. Her projection gave no indication of place. How did this magic work?
“Tintagel,” she said, softly. Her father’s castle in Cornwall, then. Where Arthur was conceived, and our mother betrayed.
“You look unwell, my dear,” I said.
“Gweynevere is going to have her child soon,” she said, her voice gaining strength. She stood and turned around, then began pacing. The wightly version of herself moved along the rushed floor, but the feet were not quite substantial. It looked as though she were walking on mist. “A boy.”
“Amhar,” I said, hating the name still. The woman had no sense in naming, clearly. “Yes.”
“She cannot raise the boy,” Morgen said, shaking her hair so her braids waved side to side. I never once heard her speak so detachedly. I wondered if she was taking herbs to facilitate the projection. “But I cannot be in Carelon, so I need your help.”
I almost burst into raucous laughter but hid it instead behind a curt smile. “My help? Dear sister… is not Margawse available?”
The image of my sister Morgen rippled, as if I had disturbed her reflection in a pool. It was strange to think she would reach for help in such an unusual way. Magic was not typically wasted on one such as me.
“She cannot help me,” Morgen said, and I caught a hint of frustration, as if she were suddenly aware of how far she had to lower herself to address me in this way. “Anna, I ask you to do this because you are the only one among us who can. It is for the preservation of us all.”
“You sound so riddled with doom,” I observed. As strange as it may sound, I was quite flattered Morgen sought me out, especially in such an unusual way. Magic always existed on the periphery of my life, distanced to the point I often discredited it. There were times I did not believe in the powers of Morgen and Merlin, and the priests and priestess of Avillion. I believed their wiles to be just that: tricks to entice the rest of us into thinking they held more power than the average person, even if my prophecy haunted my thoughts.
Yet, I could not deny it now. It had been rumored my mother, Igraine, was descended of the same line of conjurors as Merlin, and though I did not take much stock in gossip, it was possible. Merlin, for all his meddling, only involved himself with my mother once.
“Will you help me, or will you make this more difficult than it already is?” Morgen said. I had struck a nerve.
“It depends. Am I being told, or do I have a say?”
“It would depend upon you. But I ask you first and try and explain myself. The power here drains me.”
“Of course.”
I folded the unattended embroidery at my lap, twisting one of the red threads up and over my fingers. The tension helped focus me on the wavering image of my half-sister as she stopped pacing and faced me.
“Gweynevere cannot be allowed to—no, let me try again,” Morgen said, wincing as she retraced her line of thought. “The child of Arthur and Gweynevere cannot be raised at Carelon.”
“What are you suggesting?” I asked, somehow not surprised at her proclamation. Their marriage had been a bad omen from the beginning, with Merlin opposing it. Arthur’s covetousness was the only reason it even happened; and now with the arrival of Hwyfar, matters were sure to get out of hand. “I do not see why you need me.”
“I am being kept at a distance by other powers.”
“I owe you nothing.”
“Oh, do you not?”
“No,” I snapped. “Nothing.”
“You tell me, sister,” Morgen said gently. “You asked for herbs, for books, and I sent them to you. You asked for knowledge, and I provided. And you returned to Carelon a widow.”
Her words hung, cold. I’d not told her, exactly, what transpired the night of Lot’s death. I took a long time to believe it myself, to fully grasp what I was capable of in the end.
“Continue,” I said, my throat dry.
“Your maid, Anette, will give birth to her child on the same day Gweynevere. You will take that child to the Queen in exchange for Amhar. You will bring Amhar to one of the priests of Avillion, who will meet you in the Queen’s chamber.”
“Morgen—” I said, trying to keep my composure, but lacking the presence of mind to do so. Gooseflesh ran up and down my arms, unrelenting. I was short of breath. Words danced in my mind, but I could not form them. “There are eyes here. Always watching me. You know of whom I speak.”
Morgen nodded. “I will keep Merlin from you.” The way she said his name sent a chill down my spine; my stomach ran cold.
“Morgen, I must ask—are you in danger?”
She did not reply. “Gweyn trusts you. She loves you. The midwife assisting her is in my service. In the meantime, you’ll need to prepare yourself; you will need to gain entrance to the Queen’s chambers, in the event you are not allowed in.”
“How will I do such a thing? I cannot just walk about commanding the midwives give me the son’s heir—she will be surrounded by guards. Surely Lanceloch would see me, or someone else, and ask after—”
“You’ll pull shadows, as you always do.”
“Pull shadows?” I asked.
Now it was time for Morgen to smile; she even laughed a little, teeth flashing behind red, red lips. “Oh, Anna dearest sister,” she said. “Have you been so blind all these years? I suppose you’ve always been such a simple girl, doing as you’re told.”
When I said nothing, for lack of knowing what to say, she continued. “You pull shadows every day. When you walk down the hall, you do it without even knowing. Our mother did it; Elaine does it. It is a family gift, allowing you to walk as if in the shadows, so people do not recognize you. Aunt Vyvian is the best of all of us. It was one of the reasons for her exile. They discovered what she could do. For she could slip inside the skin of others. This is the power of the women in our line, and the price we pay when we shape the world. She lives alone, she lives chained, because she dared to challenge Merlin.”
