Queen of Camelot Part I: The Child Queen

Prologue

     The night of my birth the famed witch Giselda, the ugliest woman in all Britain, came to see my father the King of Northgalis. It was the last night in April, cold and blowing a fine, icy rain. My father and his drinking companions, such nobles and petty lords as could leave their lands in the hands of others, sat in the hall before a great log fire while the women attended my mother and brought him tidings as the night wore on.
     The guard let her in, not knowing who she was. She was old and bent,  her hands were crippled and swollen, and my father’s hospitality to the poor and infirm was well known. But she would not stay to warm herself before the peat fire in the kitchen, where the cooks were heating water for the queen’s birthing.  She made for the hall, and the king. When the guard would have stopped her, she lifted her hood and glared at him. The very sight of her face froze him to the spot where he stood, and she passed by.
     Likewise, when she came into the hall and the company turned to her in surprise and then protest, she silenced them all when she uncovered her head.
     “King Leodegrance!” she cried. My father faced her. He was always the bravest man among brave men.
     “I am he, witch. State your business and be gone. You come at a time of celebration and we would not be interrupted!  Know you not my young queen gives birth this night?”  His companions cheered him, and he even smiled at the old witch.  He was the father of five sons of fighting age, and the new husband of the loveliest woman in Wales. He could afford to be magnanimous.
      The witch stared at him, trancelike, until the room was quiet and all eyes were on her.
     “Beware, King! Laugh not until the night is over! It is a night of wonders!  The queenstar in the east has fallen in a hail of light. And in its place burns a new star of wondrous brightness! The fairest in the heavens! These are portents of things to come. There is magic in the air this night. In this house.”
     My father was not a Christian;  nor were the others in the room. He worshipped Mithras, the soldiers’ god, as did most of the war leaders who fought under the High King Uther Pendragon. Yet he also believed in the Old Ones, the gods of crossroads and waterways, of moving air and of the hollow hills, gods whom men had worshipped before ever the Romans came to Britain.  To speak to him of magic was to touch him near the heart, and he was afraid.
     “What do you mean, woman?” he demanded, hiding his fear in anger.  “Where in this house?”
     The witch grinned, showing black and broken teeth. Suddenly her voice fell into a low and vibrant monotone, and all strained to hear her words.
     “This night shall be born a daughter who shall rule the mightiest in the land.”  Her words fell on silence. The king my father stared.  “She will be the greatest beauty the world has known, and the highest lady in all the kingdoms of Britain. Her name will live on in the minds of men for twenty centuries to come.  Through her will you reach glory.”  Here she paused, and passed her tongue over dry, cracked lips. Someone handed her a cup of spiced wine and she drank.  “But she will bring you pain, king, before ever she brings you joy.  Beloved of kings, she shall betray a king and be herself betrayed. Hers will be a fate no one will envy. She will be the white shadow over the brightest glory of Britain.”
    Here she stopped, shook herself awake, and doing my stunned father a low curtsy, hurried out of the house before any man had sense enough to stop her.
     The room was at once alive with voices. Each man asked his neighbor what she had meant; each man thought he knew what the prophecy foretold. All of them took it as wonderful news for my father, except my father himself. He sat frowning in his great chair, saying over and over “The white shadow. White shadow.”  He used the Celtic word the witch had spoken: guenhwyfar .
     Just before dawn the weather broke, and the wind softened. It was the first of May, a day sacred to the ancient Goddess, and the queen’s labors were over. My father, asleep over his wine like his fellows, awoke with a start of premonition to find his chamberlain trembling at his elbow.  He was charged with a dolorous message. The good Queen Elen had brought forth a daughter, but had died thereof. With her last breath she had kissed me, and named me:  Guinevere.
 
 

Excerpt from Chapter 8: Betrothal

     The next time I saw my dear friend Fion was in the autumn of my fourteenth year. His father Gilomar had died that summer and Fion was now King. He was on his way to Caer Camel to a meeting of all of Arthur’s nobles and his allies, called by the Companions for the purpose of finding Arthur a wife. Pellinore himself was going, and stayed his departure to wait for Fion and travel down with him to the Summer Country.
    The news of this great meeting spread like wildfire throughout the Kingdom, and every king who attended carried instructions from his lady to propose his daughter, or his granddaughter, or his niece or whomever among his kin was the most eligible. Bards were hired to sing poems extolling the beauties of this maid and that, family lineages were hunted up and extended back to Roman governors, or Maximus if it were possible. Bargains were made among families for backing; friendships of long standing were broken in the heat of competition.
    The only two people in the kingdom who stood aloof from this frenzy were, oddly, the High King and myself. By all reports Arthur had no desire to remarry, but was aware of the necessity to produce an heir, and thus yielded to the pressure brought by his Companions. He was content to let his subjects make the choice for him. All he required in a bride, he had said, was an honest tongue and a soft voice. As for myself, even if I had had Elaine’s ambition, which I did not, there was no one to speak for me. My parents were dead. My brothers had daughters of their own. My guardians were the parents of one of the most eligible maidens in the land, and one who desired nothing more than the very position which needed filling. At last, it seemed, the world was marching to Elaine’s tune. This, she told me in secret, as if it were news, was what she had been born for. She was sure of it.
    Indeed, in the new gown she wore to Fion’s welcome feast, she looked every inch a queen. With her dark gold hair bound with flowers, her dancing, sky-blue eyes, her milky skin, and willowy figure, she could have passed for a woman of twenty, although she was but thirteen. Even Fion stared. He was still unmarried, but it was too late to renew his suit for Elaine. The only topic at dinner that night was the searching of Britain for Arthur’s bride,  and Elaine positively glowed. When Pellinore announced his intention to propose Elaine to the High King, the hall stood up and cheered. Elaine squeezed my hand hard under the table, and although she cast down her eyes as a maid should, her look was triumphant.
    When the noise in the hall had abated somewhat, I turned to Fion.
    “My lord Fion, the last time we saw you, you were on your way to make your peace with our King. Pray tell us how you found him: were you treated honorably? Did you get fair hearing?”
    “I have never met a more honorable man, fair lady,” replied Fion solemnly. “Your King was graciousness itself. He heard me out until I had nothing more to say. He knew who I was, but he did not hold my father”s sins against me. By the questions he asked, I saw he had a thorough knowledge of our shore defenses and knew something of the rivalries among our petty kings. I do not know how he gets his information, or how he has the time to think of Ireland with the Saxons at his back, but he understood how the land lay all about him, and he welcomed me most honorably. He made me feel like a brother.” He paused. Pellinore was nodding with a broad smile on his face, and Elaine’s eyes were shining. “He speaks to the lowliest of his servants with consideration. Every man has respect at Arthur’s table. Were my heart not in Ireland, I would lay it at his feet.”
    Every man in the hall rose cheering, and there were many shouts of “Arthur!” and “Fion!” I was moved by his testimonial. Elaine was beside herself with excitement.
“You see, Gwen,” she whispered to me, “he really is what he is supposed to be! I have known it my entire life!”
    So she had. Elaine had never lost her faith in Arthur. She had believed every wonderous tale she had ever heard about him, and Fion’s words were only fuel to her fire. I prayed hard that night that God would grant her her wish, even if it meant Alyse took us all to live at Court.
 
 

    Everyone knows what happened, of course. It is difficult to look back over the span of years and remember the uproar of those days. The meeting, which had been planned to last a week in order that everyone could speak, stretched to two weeks, and then three. There were too many candidates, and a consensus could not be found. Every leading family in the land had a daughter or a niece of marriageable age. Every maid had a flawless lineage, flawless complexion, flawless eyes of black, brown, blue, green, gray; flawless hair of gold, brown, black, red; features of surpassing beauty, and sweet breath and a lovely voice.
    Even Arthur wearied of it, and went hawking. Feuds developed, powerful leaders backed one family and then another as the offers of gold increased. Happy was the man who had nothing to gain or lose by the King’s decision. And throughout it all, Merlin sat by the High King’s chair, old and frail, his black eyes watching it all, saying nothing.
    At last, his patience near an end, King Arthur commanded the meeting to close. He would not divide his kingdom over a woman, he said. He would rather die unwed.
    Only then did a young man rise from the rear of the Welsh delegation, and, having received permission to speak, addressed the High King in a trembling voice. Just as silver was found threaded into black rock deep within the earth, he began, just as gold was sprinkled sparsely over pebbled sands, so all treasures worth pursuing did not come easy; the brightest jewel often lay buried in the darkest clay.
    As he overcame his fear, his voice fell into the sweet sing-song of the storyteller, and the Welshmen in the hall settled back comfortably to hear his tale. It was, it seems, the tale of the Emperor Maximus and how he found his Elen, the famous Welsh beauty with sapphire eyes whom Maximus wed and for whom he forswore allegiance to Rome. She was, he sang, fairer than the stars among the heavens, more constant than the sun in his course across the sky, sweeter than wildflowers that grace the summer meadows, and ever a true companion to the King. In all his endeavors she was beside him; she brought him luck and victory; he never lost a battle until he left Britain, where she could not follow.
    The singer paused­Welshmen were wont to attribute Maximus’ prowess to the virtues of his Welsh wife, but it was unwise to expect this descendent of Maximus to believe it­he claimed, instead, that hidden in the dark Welsh mountains lay a jewel as bright as Elen, a girl as beautiful, as wise and steadfast, as Maximus’ own bride. Like a vein of precious metal lying undiscovered in the hills, she awaited the High King’s notice; a word from him could bring her gold to light. A king’s daughter she was, descended from Elen, with hair of starlight and the voice of a nightingale.
    And Gwillim, for it was my old childhood companion who had risen to speak before them all, took a deep breath and held hard to his courage. The maiden’s name, he said, was Guinevere.
    Dead silence fell as the last note faded. The Companions froze. Arthurís face was a mask. Merlin shut his eyes. Then the throng found their voices, and angry protests arose on all sides. “How dare the boy?” “What maid is this? I have heard no tell of her.” “That he should mention  the name before the King!”
    Then Gwarthgydd rose, and clapped a hand on Gwillim’s shoulder.
    “My lords,” he said, and his deep rumbling voice got their attention. “The lad speaks of my half-sister, Guinevere of Northgallis. In his later years, my father the King of Northgallis wed Elen of Gwynedd, a beauty of renown. She died giving birth to the lady in question, who was a childhood friend of Gwillim’s here. She is now the ward of King Pellinore and Queen Alyse and lives in Gwynedd. Gwillim likes a good tale, but all he has said is true enough.”
    “Is that the Lark of Gwynedd?” someone asked. “I have heard of her.”
    “Isn’t that the maid the old witch prophesied about, the night of her birth? You remember Giselda­”
    “A curse, I thought it was, a spell­”
    “Oh no, she prophesied great beauty and great fame­”
    “Has anyone seen her?” asked one of the Companions. “Where is Pellinore? Who can attest to the lad’s claims?”
    But Pellinore, weary of words, was out hunting. It was Fion who stood.