Mistress of Legend

Chapter 3

Chapter Three

The Combrogi leaked word that I had returned under Arthur’s guard as though it was secret information intended only for a select few. They let it “slip” through tongues seemingly loosened by liquor in the taverns, traded it as currency in dim back alleyways, and passed it to servants during illicit relations. As expected, the news slithered from ear to ear faster than a flea-born disease.

When the proclamation went out that Arthur wished for all of his subjects to assemble in Camelot’s courtyard, they eagerly complied. Some camped out overnight, wrapped in thick blankets and cloaks, leaning against buildings or sleeping on the cold stone pavers. Others straggled in near dawn, staking out their places with wooden crates or dirty quilts. Enterprising merchants set up booths and sold spiced wine, hot cider, roasted nuts, and fresh bread to the crowds as though this were a festival.

The pale winter sun had just crested the horizon when Sobian stepped into my chambers, stomping her feet from the chill. “They are riled up. Some are speculating this will be a hanging, while others hope you will be reinstalled as queen. They are taking bets as to whether by the end of the day, your head will sport a crown or end up in a basket.”

I swallowed hard. “That’s comforting.”

“Don’t worry. The Combrogi will guard you. Arthur will not let anything happen to you, not now.”

By mid-morning, the courtyard was full to bursting with people sitting on every stall roof, leaning out of windows, and lining the walls. Those not as lucky were forced to wait in the frigid shadow of the gates or make due with a patch of open land on the road leading to the castle. By noon, they were packed in so tightly, no room remained for even a rat to scurry over the feet of the assembled people.

Arthur led me out onto a balcony overlooking the throng. As Sobian promised, the Combrogi lined the rail, shields at the ready to defect any rocks or arrows aimed at hastening the king’s justice. Behind me, to my right, Morgan sat on a throne, her copper hair plated into a thick braid that wound around her head like the crown she was denied as only being named royal wife, rather than queen—a title I had held until Arthur stripped me of it during my trial. Her face was set into an impassive mask, despite the fact it must have been killing her to have me within Camelot’s walls again. This was my first time laying eyes on her, outside of when she nursed me, so my heart was thrilled to see her misery. After what she had done, she deserved so much more.

I was glad, however, that her four-year-old daughter, Helene, was not here to see her father and mother pitted against one another. As I had spent time in Lyonesse’s household, so was Helene being fostered in the House of Rheged with the family of Morgan’s first husband, Uriens. She would return here when she was older to assist Arthur and Morgan in running Camelot until she was betrothed.

Morgan’s partner in their crimes against Arthur, Bishop Marius, stood to my left, wrists and ankles shackled, flanked on either side by Arthur’s guards. His red tunic—which he claimed to wear as a symbol of the blood of Christ, but I’d long suspected he favored because it brought attention to him—hung off a thinner frame than I remembered, but he appeared otherwise well treated.

Mordred, Arthur’s son by Morgan long before they married, rounded out our party, standing in his father’s shadow. Surveying his people, he looked every inch the heir in his golden tunic and cloak, his thick necklaces glinting in the sunlight.

I leaned over to him. “I haven’t had a chance to thank you yet for helping set me free.”

He gave me a boyish smile. “It was the least I could do. I’m hoping now that you are here—”

The Combrogi ringing the balcony struck the butts of their spears on the floor to quiet the crowd. The resulting boom drowned out the rest of what Mordred said.

Arthur stepped forward, and two of the guard parted to let him through. “My people, I have long governed this land with the intention of being as just and as fair as possible. That means admitting when I have done wrong. I have committed a grievous error against a woman I should have honored above all.

“Hear me, people of Camelot. I was wrong to condemn Guinevere and even more in error when I considered ending her life as a fitting punishment to assuage my thirst for vengeance. I never intended her death; she never should have been sent to the stake. I was ill-guided but do not fall upon that as an excuse. I ask you here and now to witness my apology to the woman whom I wronged.”

He fell to his knees before me, hands clasped as though in prayer, appearing more like a penitent at the feet of a priest than a High King addressing his former wife. “Guinevere, there are no words I can offer to make things right, but I can assure you of my deep repentance for the sin I have committed against you. I am truly sorry. Can you ever find it in your heart to forgive me?”

I let the silence settle like so much dust underfoot as I debated how to respond. For a king, much less the High King, to humble himself so publicly was rare indeed. On one hand, mere words meant little—were I not trained to manipulate the elements, I would have succumbed to the deadly flames. But on the other, his repentance was sincere. Around us, people shifted from foot to foot, hardly daring to breathe as they awaited my answer. Deep within, the nudge of the Goddess—as we collectively referred to all goddesses in Avalon—urged me to swallow my considerable pride and grant him clemency.

“I can, and I do,” I said, allowing my voice to carry over the crowd, who cheered and applauded in response.

Arthur stood and embraced me. Then backing up a few steps, he removed his sword—one of the treasures of Avalon—from its scabbard and held it aloft. “In the sight of the citizens of Camelot, I hereby pardon you of all charges leveled against you, especially and including the charge of high treason and the accusation of heresy. You are allowed to practice whatever faith you see fit. Return to your life as a free and innocent woman in the sight of all.”

Most of the crowd yelled encouragement and whistled, but their joy was countered by a not insignificant number of boos and hisses from those who had noticed Arthur had failed to directly address the charge of adultery.

“Heretic!” someone yelled.

“w***e!” called another.

I bristled at the insults but made no move to defend myself.

Arthur raised his hand for silence, and at his signal, guards elbowed through the crowd to remove those causing the most agitation before they could spark a riot.

Arthur said, “Bishop Marius stands accused of grievous wrongdoing in connection with these events. He will be tried at my convenience. While she no longer holds the title of queen, I have asked Guinevere to serve as judge.”

Marius’s eyes widened so far and so fast, they nearly popped out of his head. “I object most strenuously.”

Arthur carried on speaking, either not hearing or ignoring his prisoner’s protests. “You have seen her dispense justice and mercy in equal measure for more than twenty years, and I have every reason to believe she will render impartial judgment in this case as well.”

Marius broke free of the steadying hold his guards had on him and rushed Arthur. “If I am to be subject to a farce of justice, then she should be charged as well.” He gestured to Morgan with his bound hands. “Your beloved wife helped to incapacitate you. Arrest her for the traitor she is.”

The rowdy crowd stilled, suddenly silent.

I looked over my shoulder at Morgan. She gripped the arms of the throne so hard her knuckles were white. Her face had paled like curdled milk, her blue eyes hard as flint and her jaw taut as though she was fighting to resist spewing forth rage.

She stood, graceful and silent, regarding the assembled people. Finally, she took three steps forward. “I am innocent, but if our king wishes to try me, so be it. I trust that justice shall prevail.” She held out her arms to Arthur, offering them for binding like a prisoner.

Arthur faced her, still and solemn as a statue. To most, he likely appeared impassive, but I had spent enough time with him to be able to detect the warring emotions flickering across his features. He wanted to believe Morgan was innocent; that much was clear from his directive to not involve her in Marius’s trial. But now that Marius had publicly accused her, Arthur could not ignore the charges. To do so would be proving the very point he was trying to invalidate—that he practiced favoritism with those close to him.

Arthur motioned to her. “Morgan, royal wife to the king, you stand accused of conspiring with the bishop to interfere in my justice toward Guinevere and Lancelot. You will stand trial immediately following that of the bishop. In the meantime, I will not remit you to the prison, but know you are free only at my mercy.”

It did not escape my notice, nor that of the grumbling people, that Arthur had reduced Morgan’s crime from high treason in the form of attempted assassination to conspiracy to impede justice. While some cheered to see her publicly accused and humiliated, many others rallied to her defense, loudly reminding Arthur that she was his wife and deserving of his respect. Some even called for her to be named queen in my stead, while others demanded he divorce her on the spot as he had done with me.

In the back of my mind, a memory tingled, vying for my attention like an itch. More than thirty years prior, under a full moon in Avalon, the Goddess had predicted this moment. “The day will come when sister shall oppose sister, both in this sacred place and without. Loyalties will be tested and betrayed, so heed my warning.”

The goddess of war would face the goddess of the moon, wife would turn against wife, two priestesses locked in a cosmic battle. We had come so close to this before, but always something had stopped us from engaging one another. It was still not our time. But the shadows were retreating, making room for us to stand in opposition. The culmination was not far off, and when it came, it would be to the death. The question was which of us would be left standing.