Queen of Camelot Part II: The High Queen

Excerpt from Chapter 16: The Isle of Mona  

     Rough hands grabbed me and something foul was thrust into my mouth. My hands were bound behind me. Gasping for breath, I saw Lancelot on the ground, kicking and writhing while seven men in ill-dressed skins gagged and bound him and took his sword. One he kicked in the groin, another in the knee. The leader lifted a club and smashed his head. I drew breath to scream, but choked on the gag. With a grunt, Lancelot lay still. It had all happened in a moment, and in absolute silence. The birds still sang undisturbed in the treetops.
    There were twelve men altogether. They bound Lancelot and tied his senseless body to the oak. A thin stream of blood seeped from his ear. Then two of them lifted me as easily as they might carry a brace of quail, and headed down an animal track towards the shore. Since I could do nothing against them, I lay still, but I could not keep the tears from my eyes. Had they killed him? Would he live? Would his own soldiers find him there at length? If he lived, he would wish himself dead before he faced Arthur’s men, bound and gagged, the Queen taken and his sword gone. O my Lancelot! How cruelly the fates were wont to treat us!
    The men carried me a long way, without speaking so much as a whisper. I knew we were getting near the sea; I smelt it. Near the water’s edge they dumped me rudely on the sand, stripped off their skins and buried them under a rock. From the same hiding place they drew forth robes, roughly sewn of coarse gray cloth, and donned them. For belts they had only simple twine. Two by two they ran into the brush and pulled out little lightweight coracles made of bone and wood and tanned skins, well waxed.
    “Gorn, you and Llyd take her. Yours is the biggest.”
    “She will sink it. Let Bilin have her. His is strongest.”
    “If she comes with me there will be no room for Nidd. I cannot paddle her alone.”
    “Do as I say, Gorn. The soldiers will find him soon. So what if she is taller than we thought? Try it. If she struggles, strike her.”
    Hands grabbed me, and hauled me into the tiny craft. I could not believe they were going to trust these primitive constructions to the sea. They rocked and swayed and spun about, dangerously deep in the water. I shut my eyes and in my heart said every prayer of penitence I knew.
    Time crawled by in silence. The only sounds were sea sounds, the chuckle of water as the waves lifted and dropped us, the soft kiss of the paddles, the muffled cry of seabirds. I grew unaccountably sleepy, and struggled to open my eyes. We were enveloped in gray mist so thick that the robed men seemed to disappear before my eyes, although they were certainly there, pressed hard against me, swaying with the effort of keeping the horrible little craft afloat. A sob welled up within me, and I gulped to keep it down. I knew now who these creatures were. They were druids, and we were going to Mona’s Isle.
    To me it seemed like years before we reached the shore. Even then, the men were quiet, talking to each other in low voices, two of them carrying me as they had before, the others carrying the little boats and hiding them in the bushes. Then they marched single file through the pine woods that grew close to the water’s edge, up a small rise and out of the cold mist into brilliant sunshine. I looked about as best I could. We were in a sheep meadow, where sheep and goats grazed with a shepherd boy and his dog in close attendance. It looked for all the world like any peaceful meadow in Britain.
    Suddenly I heard chanting. It began as a low hum, steady and throbbing, but as we approched its source I could distinguish the words, ritual and meaningless, chanted to a pounding rhythm that beat upon one’s skull like a hammer at the smithís forge. The men’s gait changed; now they marched to the chant, swinging left and right. I felt the steady pumping in my belly and thought I would be sick. Above us on both sides rose dark standing stones, breathing cold upon my neck, pricking my flesh like eyes on oneís back. At the end of the avenue the men stopped. I tilted my head back and saw a tall man in a white robe standing before a wide door carved into the hillside behind him. His hood hid his face. He raised his hands in a solemn blessing, and then said curtly,
    “Take her below. The cell is prepared. Well done.”
    As the men began to move, he came around to get a better look at me, and I saw, tucked in his embroidered belt, the long crescent knife of sacrifice. The white hood bent lower, and within its shadow gleamed a row of sharp, even teeth. He was smiling. I fainted.
 
 

    When I awoke I lay upon a narrow pallet in a small cell. The floor was dirt, beaten hard and swept clean. Walls of undressed rock sweated moisture. Through a crevice crept a draft of sweet air. There were no windows, and only one door, low and curved and ill-fitting. Beside the pallet was a stool of carved wood, and on it, a horn cup and a candle. I sat up as memory flooded back, and groaned. They had wrenched my shoulder when they dropped me on the beach. I moved my arm tentatively; stiffness, no more. Where the cruel rope had torn my wrists, and the gag cut my mouth, someone had applied a soothing balm. The smell was familiar­oil of spikenard? I shook my head to clear it and bracing  my hands against the rock, I managed to stand, although my head was spinning. I gasped, looking down at myself. I was dressed in a white druid’s robe, and nothing else! I was naked beneath it. They had taken my tunic, my leggings, even my undergarments and my boots. My bare feet were clean, my hair was clean­they had stripped me and bathed me and even scented my hair! Surely they must have drugged me to do so much without my waking! I began to shake, and sat down again quickly upon the pallet. That I was being carefully readied for something was certain, but for what?
    Someone scratched upon the door, and then slowly pushed it open. A young man’s face looked in, and he smiled when he saw me awake. He nodded to me politely, and came in holding a wooden pitcher.
    “Good evening, my lady. You must be thirsty. Would you like some more water? Why, you haven’t touched your water yet.”
    “I don’t know what’s in it.”
    He grinned. “You think it might be poisoned? Poison is a dirty tool. Servants of Christ may stoop to poison. We do not. See? I will drink some myself.” This he did, with no ill effects. When he refilled the cup and passed it to me, I drank gratefully.
    “Thank you. What is your name? May I know it?”
    “Kevin, my lady.”
    “Thank you, Kevin. I am in your debt.”
    He set the pitcher upon the little stool and bowed to me.
    “Who are you, Kevin? Why are you kind to me, when the others were not? What are you doing here? May I ask these things?”
    “Well, you may ask them,” said Kevin easily. I judged him to be about nineteen, but it was hard to tell. “The ones who brought you here are servants, really. I am a graduate of the School. I am an acolyte. Soon, I will be an initiate.”
    I attempted a smile, but my mouth was stiff from the gag. “Congratulations.”
    “Can you stand, my lady? Would you like a hand?” He extended his hand, strong and warm, and I took it. I was taller than he was by a head. He took a step back, and surveyed me slowly from head to toe.
    “You are a beautiful woman,” he said bluntly. “It was a pleasure to prepare you.”
    I blushed, affronted at such directness. “What did you do to me? Prepare me for what?”
    Kevin smiled. His teeth looked very white in his short black beard. “Do not be afraid. We who serve the Goddess take vows of chastity from full moon to new. But tomorrow, when you are made one of us, if you are willing. . . .”
    “Made one of you? Is that what I am prepared for?”
    “It is a lesson to Maelgon. You will be offered to the Goddess. If she claims you, one of Maelgon’s own family shall be numbered among us. A just retribution, donít you think?”
    “How am I to be offered? How will she claim me?”
    “Ahhh,” sighed Kevin, “now you are asking questions I may not answer. You must wait for dawn, when the new moon stands above Nemet.”
    I shivered, and clutched the robe about me.
Kevin smiled, and backed towards the door. “Do not be afraid, beautiful one. Salowen himself has consecrated you to the Goddess. You have been done great honor.”
    “Salowen! Was he here?”
    “Indeed. He oversaw the preparations.”
    My hand went to the crucifix at my throat, but of course it was not there. Kevin observed the gesture, and smiled again.
    “We are not savages,” he said gently, ìno matter what they teach you about us. You will live to see your husband and children again. Good evening.î And he closed the door behind him.
    “Children!” I gasped. “I have no children! Kevin! Kevin! Come back! Who do you think I am?”
    But the door was locked, and no one answered my pounding. I threw myself on the pallet and wept until I was beyond feeling. Hours passed. I tossed fitfully, unable to sleep. I did not know what awaited me. The Goddess I had worshipped as a child, the Goddess Niniane served, was the Good Goddess, the Mother of men, whose gifts were life and health and fertility. To her belonged the spring blooming, the full, rich living of high summer, the planting and harvesting of all good things, the yearly renewal of life. But here on Mona Salowen woshipped the Dark Goddess, the Great Goddess, who lived in Nemet and exacted retribution for one’s sins. Her gifts were justice, victory, vengeance and death. And yet, they were one Mother. Like the gold coin of Britain, with Arthur’s image stamped on one side and his deadly Sword Excalibur on the other, so did the Goddess have two faces she turned to men.
    “O Holy Mother,” I whispered, kneeling on the dirt floor and clasping my hands tight. “Blessed Mary, Bearer of Light, Giver of Death, whatever name it pleases you to take, Mother, hear my plea. Spare Lancelot’s life and deliver me from the trial that awaits me. Send me Arthur! Send me Merlin! If escape be possible, oh please, please rescue me. If not­if not, give me strength to endure what is ahead. Let me not shame Arthur, whatever happens, more than I have done already. Oh, Mother, Mother, give me strength!”
    After this, I was able to sleep. But I woke as soon as the door opened. It was Kevin, bearing a new candle.
    “Kevin!” I leapt up, and went to his side. “Oh, Kevin, what hour is it now?”
    “The new moon has risen. I have just come from the ceremony.” Indeed, there was a milky calm about him, and his voice was thick with sleep. I wondered if it were true, that the druids drugged themselves for worship, and if so, why? “It will be dawn in four hours. I brought you a candle.”
    “Kevin, tarry a moment, I pray you.” I placed a hand upon his arm, and he turned swiftly to me, a light in his eyes. Only then did I remember that his vows of chastity no longer bound him, and I stepped back a pace, holding hard to my courage. “You told me before, I should live to see my children again. Kevin, I have no children. Do you not know me? I am Guinevere, Queen of Britain. King Arthurís wife.”
    He went pale, and stared at me unmoving.
    “I must see Salowen the Archdruid. If he is able, after the ceremony, send him to me at once. I must see him before the dawn. His very life, the future of the Isle itself, is at stake.”
    Slowly, with great care, Kevin turned away from me and lit the candle with a steady hand. Then he went to the door and stopped.
    “If he will see me, I will tell him what you have said.”
    “Make him see you!” I cried. “Surely there must be one among your number who knows me by sight! Bring him here.” But the door was closed, and Kevin was already gone.
    I waited a long time. I sat on the pallet and dozed, hearing the druidsí chanting in my dreams, but waking afterwards to deathly stillness. Suddenly, when I had nearly given up hope, a robed figure slipped silently into my cell. I blinked to make sure he was not a vision. His hood was thrown back, revealing a thin face with narrow eyes, a long, hooked nose and thin, cruel mouth. His white hair was cropped close to his head; I could see the bones of his skull.  Around his neck he wore a thick collar, beautifully patterned. His hands, long and thin and sensual, made a quick sign over my head, and then disappeared into the folds of his robe.
    “I am Salowen,” he said. His voice, deep and rich and vibrant, was that of a man half his age and twice his size.
    I struggled to my feet, and made him a reverence.
    “You do me honor, Salowen, to see me. I asked you to come, because I fear you have made a mistake.”
    “I do not make mistakes.”
    “If you think taking me will anger Maelgon, you are in error.”
    “You are his sister.”
    I gasped. To be taken for Elaine! What cruel irony was this?
    “I am not his sister!” I cried. “Elaine is in Less Britain with her sons. She has never left since she went there as a bride. Surely you must know this!”
    He nodded calmly. “As I know that you have befriended your brother’s wife, the new queen, and have reconciled her to your mother.”
He had spies in Maelgonís very household! “My mother is dead. I grew up in Gwynedd as Pellinore’s ward. Queen Alyse is my aunt, although she has been as a mother to me.”
    “And Maelgon a brother.”
    “No. I never liked Maelgon, and he never liked me. He always was a bully. That is why Arthur came to Wales, to bring peace between you or remove him from the throne.”
    “Ha!” He laughed harshly, and the patterned collar around his neck began to move. My hand flew to my mouth to cover a scream. The collar slowly unwound itself into a great snake, sliding down his arm towards me, its eager tongue flicking in and out.
    “Do not move,” Salowen commanded. His long hands stroked the slithering flesh as the snake descended, sliding gracefully across the floor, brushing my feet. Gracefully the snake lifted its head, wrapped itself around my legs and began to climb. I shut my eyes and held myself still. I was terrified that I might faint. I heard a low pitched whistle, and at once the snake retreated, uncoiling gracefully from about my ankles and returning to Salowenís outstretched hand. When he had settled it again about his neck, and I had begun to breathe, he smiled, showing his little cat’s teeth.
“That is a point in your favor. It is well known that the Lady Elaine cannot abide serpents.”
    “It is well known that Elaine has never left Lanascol!” I retorted angrily.
    Something flashed in his eyes, and I shivered. “It is well known,” he hissed softly, “that Guinevere has never left Camelot.”
    “How can I prove who I am? Is there no one here who knows me?”
    “There is Cathbad. If he returns in time.”
    “Cathbad! Then­then it was you who tricked Arthur into leaving Gwynedd?”
    Again he smiled, and again a frisson of horror slipped up my spine. “Tell me this,” he said softly, leaning closer, “if you are not Maelgon’s sister, what were you doing in the forest, alone with her husband?”
    I flushed scarlet, avoiding his eyes. There was no reply to that. Pleased, Salowen stroked the snake and regarded me dispassionately. “If you are Guinevere, then you are Maelgon’s cousin. And if you are dear to Maelgon’s sister’s husband, so much the better. You are a woman like any other. The Goddess herself shall judge you.”
    “I will not become one of your cult!”
    His smile grew broader, and his voice grew softer. “Indeed, you will not. Is that what Kevin told you? Kevin is an acolyte. He knows little. But he will know the truth before dawn.”
    He turned away from me.
    “What will you do? Be sure you will answer to Arthur for it! Have you not the courage to tell me?”
    He whipped around. His eyes were burning slits in his face.
    “You wish to talk about courage? You will need it. At dawn you will be offered to the Goddess. If she accepts you, she will spare your life and you will owe it to her always. If not, you will die.”
    “It is three hundred years since the kind of sacrifice you speak of was banned in Britain!” I cried, fighting back a sob.
    “And it is a thousand years since a priestess of the Goddess was beheaded at her prayers,” he spat.
    “I am not responsible for that.”
    “And I am not responsible for the Goddessí judgement.”
    “How­how will I be judged?” I whispered helplessly.
    “By fire.”