Mistress of Legend

Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Winter 519

The next month was a blur, lived in flashes that were more like visions than solid reality. First the world was black, then searing light pierced my eyes and the left side of my body was consumed by fire, burning, skin crackling and peeling back, leaving tender flesh and muscle exposed. Strong arms held me down when I tried to fight the sting of water and wine. By the time the sweet scent of honey and herbs reached my nose, I was worn out, numb, spent from the pain.

I slipped in and out of fever dreams that were no more pleasant for my mind and soul than the treatment my body was undergoing. In one, Arthur embraced me at Camelot’s gates, only to sink a sharp blade into my side again and again. This blade did not kill me, but rather it gave him a place to begin peeling away my skin, which came off in searing strips until my flayed flesh was gone completely. Sometimes this was intermingled with Morgan or Grainne’s voice and the now-familiar scent of their healing salve.

Other times I dreamed that Bishop Marius had his boney arms around me, pressing his poisoned Communion chalice to my lips, only to wake and find one of the priestesses holding a mug of warm, earthy liquid to my lips and commanding me to drink.

Long stretches of blackness followed, interspersed with periods of agony. Had I an axe, I would have happily cleaved myself in two, if only to stop the sharp, burning pain. Many times in the past I had burned myself while cooking, on a candle flame, or practicing manipulating the element of fire in Avalon. Then, I’d thought I would die from a wound no bigger than my little finger. Now, with half of my body flayed, skin pulling and pinching as it tried to recover from the deadly kiss of the flames, I begged the Goddess for relief. Deliver me, Mother, and I swear that from this moment forth, I will suffer small injuries in silence, without complaint. Deliver me, please. But most of the time I could not form rational thought. All I could do was scream, and when my throat grew raw, my screams were silent.

In the cold gray days between the winter solstice and Imbolc, I woke to find the pain, while still present, was much more manageable. Grainne was sitting by my side, holding a cool, wet cloth to my forehead, her gray eyes as full of love and concern as a mother’s for her child.

“Praise Brigid, you are with us once again.” The relief in her voice was so great, I wondered how close I had come to dying. I tried to sit up, but Grainne placed a firm hand on me. “Do not move. Your wounds are exposed. I was just about to cover them when I felt you stirring.”

My eyes were drawn to find the source of my pain. From my shoulder, down my left arm, to my hip, knee, and part of my left shin were pockets of angry red rivulets where blisters had once bubbled and burst. Around them, the skin was twisted, blackened, and tough. Slathered on top was a layer of the honey herb mixture I had smelled in my dreams. I had seen my share of battlefield burns and knew enough of healing to understand how badly I was injured.

I searched Grainne’s gray eyes for some sign I was wrong. “These will scar, won’t they?”

She pressed her lips together. “I’m afraid so. But at least you are past the risk of blood poisoning.”

She relayed the events of the last few months as she wound me tightly in white cloth to keep my wounds clean. Arthur still held Marius in the jail. Morgan had brushed off my comment about her poisoning someone as a mistake of the fever, and rumor had it Lancelot was involved in a civil war with his brothers in Brittany, but Arthur still hadn’t offered to pardon him.

I was only partially listening, having raised my healthy hand to my left cheek. The skin was leathery, pulled tight over my cheekbone. What was worse, I could not feel the touch of my fingertips. I moved my hand to my ear with the same result. Snapping my fingers, I was relieved to be able to hear the sharp sound with as much clarity as before. But when I brushed my hand through my hair, it came out in dry, straw-like black clumps.

I stared at it for a moment before the tears fell. “What have I become?”

She held me close and rocked me as I cried. “You are still you, a queen—regardless of what Arthur says—and a strong, courageous woman. You only need time to heal. By summer, you will be back to your old self. You’ll see.”

A knock on the door interrupted any further conversation. I wiped my eyes so that whoever it was couldn’t see that I had been crying.

Grainne went to the door. From the bed, I could not see who was on the other side, but I heard her tell my guest I was awake.

She turned back to me. “It is Arthur. Do you feel well enough to see him?”

I scowled, tempted to say no, but reluctantly agreed. I couldn’t avoid facing him forever.

Grainne slipped out as Arthur entered, leaving us alone.

Even nearing forty summers, Arthur’s height and brawn were fearsome to behold. Where other men responded to the passage of years by curling in on themselves like the fronds of a fern, Arthur held his head high, shoulders squared, every inch the High King. Even his skin, which was crossed with deep wrinkles and battle scars, appeared chiseled rather than wizened. Had he not betrayed me so, I would have been proud to be married to such a handsome warrior.

Arthur made to embrace me, but seeing my bandages, he stopped himself. “Oh, praise God. I will offer a thousand Masses of thanksgiving that you are well.”

I smiled, knowing it was expected of me, even though the gesture meant nothing since I did not share Arthur’s faith. “I am alive,” I corrected him. “But I have a long way to go before I can be called well.”

I shifted in the bed, unsure of how to act but unable to flee. How does one interact with their former husband who might or might not be guilty of trying to have one killed? I supposed one could pretend everything was fine, but that was not in my nature. I desperately wanted to ask how Morgan had deflected his curiosity about the poison, but leading with that was likely not a good idea.

Arthur cleared his throat. “If you don’t mind, I would like to explain what happened that night. I want you to know.”

“Go on,” I said cautiously.

He sat on the edge of the bed. “You may recall that at Bishop Marius’s suggestion, I received Holy Communion and retired to bed after being unable to come to a verdict in your case. A night of prayer showed me how wrong Bishop Marius was in demanding your death. Upon reflection, I realized he was not in the least concerned with your affair with Lancelot, which was my reason for putting you on trial. He claimed to be concerned with your treasonous betrayal of me, but he was really acting out of his own selfish concerns—all because you do not share my Christian faith. You were unfaithful to me, yes, but as you said, I was equally disloyal to you. The whole trial became much more than anyone, Aggrivane and Mordred included, ever intended. They have told me how sorry they are.”

I eyed him warily, pulling the blankets tighter to my breast like a shield. “They have shown me their regret by aiding in my rescue and healing. But what of you? I know you were unable to stop the burning. I saw it in a vision as I fought back the fire that raged around me.”

Arthur’s face lit up with hope. “If you had a vision, then you know I was ill, incapacitated.” His words came faster now, as he sought to make me understand. “I have been over and over that night in my mind, trying to determine why I was so ill. It was no ordinary sickness, so I must suspect poison. The only thing I consumed that no one else did was Holy Communion, so I am holding Bishop Marius under suspicion.”

In my mind’s eye, I once again saw the bishop tip a tiny drop into the Communion chalice. He turned and handed the vial to a woman in a dark hood. Her face was obscured, but a strand of copper hair peeked out, betraying her identity. “He did not act alone. You likely will not believe me when I name his accomplice, but I must.”

Arthur studied my eyes and squeezed his own shut. He pinched the bridge of his nose as though his thoughts pained him. “Please do not say it was Morgan.”

“Why do you suspect her?”

“I don’t, but the bishop has named her as an accomplice.”

“He tells the truth, at least in that regard. That is why I refused to let her near me with those anesthetizing drops. She heard me say she poisoned you. It is not so far a stretch to think she might not want someone who knows her secret to live.”

Arthur scowled at me. “Morgan could never kill anyone, least of all you. You have known each other since you were girls in Avalon together.”

“I would not be so sure.” I told Arthur about my vision of him crying out that the burning should be stopped. He was alone, so no one heard, and he was so ill he could not stand to go to anyone and give them word that he did not condone what was happening in the courtyard below.

“Yes, that was exactly what happened.” He bowed his head, hunching forward, elbows on his knees, encumbered by the burden of guilt he carried. “I don’t know what exactly took place that day, but I aim to find out.” He looked at me as though struck by a sudden inspiration. “Would you be willing to be the judge when Marius has his trial? I cannot act as judge in the case because I am its victim and certainly not impartial—”

“And you think I am?” I chuckled mirthlessly. “Do you realize you are giving me the chance to exact revenge on a person who has done nothing but antagonize me for years? Arthur, you are mad. If it is a judge you seek, ask any priestess. We are all trained in the same manner.”

“No. It must to be you. And for now, leave Morgan out of this. I cannot bring charges against her until I know for certain—”

“What more proof could you need? Marius admits that she aided him, and I have told you of my vision. You have a claim and someone to corroborate it. That is enough for you to find them both guilty. I will testify if needs be, but I do not understand why you need me to act as judge.”

Arthur rubbed the back of his neck. “I can try the bishop, but I cannot sentence him, not with the whole of the country watching. If I find him innocent, my soul will not rest easy, for justice will not be done. But if I find him guilty… well, he has powerful allies, so you know what that could mean. Open rebellion.” Arthur’s bloodshot eyes were pleading. “I am trying to save Camelot.”

“So what you are saying is that if I don’t act as judge in your place, you fear you will be viewed as unjust and someone may try to overthrow you.” I made a disbelieving sound. “Who have you become, Arthur? You used to be a just man whom I respected. Now you are just as concerned with your reputation as every other noble I’ve ever known. Personally, I think that is exactly what you deserve. What you did to me, even putting Morgan and Marius’s involvement aside, is unforgiveable. Yet you dare ask me for help.”

“Is there nothing I can do to change your mind?” Arthur’s voice was pleading.

I may not have been as conniving as Morgan, but this was an opportunity I could not let pass me by. This was my chance to set my life straight and I was going to take it. “Pardon Lancelot in open court and ensure his safe passage back to Britain. If you personally guarantee no harm will come to either of us, I will assent to your request.”

A range of emotions flickered across Arthur’s face—incredulity, pain, serious deliberation, and finally, acceptance. “It will be done. I swear it on both my God and yours. As soon as you are well, you will get your pardon, I will recall Lancelot, and we will have a trial for the bishop. I am more than ready to put this all behind us.”

I squirmed, my wounds flaring up again. One day these events would be but a distant memory for him, but I would have to live with the consequences every day for the rest of my life. If he wanted me to act as judge, I would. But he should not expect the Mother’s mercy. Too much had happened, too many trusts shattered, too many hearts broken. No, so much pain could only summon the wrath of the Crone.