Mistress of Legend

Chapter 8-6

His features smoothed as his breathing slowed, the lines of hatred and anger that had marred them over the last year disappearing until he resembled the boy who had welcomed me upon my return to Camelot from captivity, rather than the bitter monster he had recently become.

In my lap, Arthur groaned. His eyelashes fluttered and he opened his good eye, squinting at me. “I knew you’d come.”

“I would be nowhere else.” I squeezed his hand, ignoring the twinge in my gut that told me his seeing me meant he was near death as well. “Arthur, I love you. If you remember nothing else, let it be those words.”

He shifted, turning his head to have a better view of me. “And I you.” He caught sight of his son, slumped in Morgan’s arms. “Son?” His voice was thick with confusion.

He did not know what he had done. Mordred’s blow must have rendered him unconscious before his blade pierced his son’s flesh. Now was not the time to tell him.

At least Morgan seemed to feel the same. Still crying, she grasped Arthur’s other hand. “He died in battle. Is that not what you have always wished for him?”

Arthur gave a small bark of a laugh. “A hero? Yes. Death? No.” He drawled the last word like a drunkard. The darkness was about to claim him.

I patted his cheeks, gently at first then harder when he did not respond. “Arthur, do you not wish to say farewell to your son?”

“My boy,” was all Arthur managed before he fell into unconsciousness again.

I shook his shoulders. “Arthur! Arthur, no!”

As his breathing slowed, I sobbed harder, glancing over his shoulder at Morgan. She was weeping so hard her whole body shook as she clasped her son to her breast, his hands flapping limply at his side, the bloody dagger at her feet. Her skin was as pale as moonlight, her red lips twisted into a silent scream of anguish.

Kay stood, shaking his head while tears rolled silently down his cheeks.

Mordred was dead. For all intents and purposes, so was Arthur. That was the news Kay emerged from the fort to tell their men. I lay Arthur gently on the floor and went to the window to watch the armies react. As word spread, men ceased fighting and turned to face the fort. To a one, every Briton fell to one knee in honor of their fallen leaders.

Only the gods knew how things would have been different if everyone on the battlefield had shared their allegiance. While most saw the ceasing of hostility as a sign of respect, others used it to their advantage. The rumbling of horse’s hooves shattered the silence as a Pict on horseback raced through the crowd. Swinging his axe like a scythe, he removed the heads of eight kneeling Britons before anyone could react. The Saxons followed suit, stabbing another dozen with their javelins as they mourned their kings.

“Raise your arms, men. Defend your fallen kings with your life. This is your final tribute to them,” Kay yelled before disappearing into the fray with Bedivere.

Morgan and I were alone with the bodies of our beloved men. She reluctantly laid Mordred on the floor, passing her hand over his eyes. She crossed his arms over his breast, hands forever laced with the pommel of his damaged sword, before she bent over him.

“Goodbye, my son,” she whispered and kissed his forehead.

Arthur’s heart beat lightly beneath my hand, the sensation carrying with it a thousand memories—the first time his gaze met mine at the tournament, his expression of adoration when I told him I was pregnant, even his grief when he thought me dead, his joy at my return after my exile with Malegant, the wonder and regret in his eyes as he traced my scarred face when we met again after the fire. All those things and more tumbled over one another in my mind as I contemplated what must come next.

I knelt, pressing his hand to my lips, grateful for this last moment with him, for I knew it for what it was. “For all that we were, all that we dared to dream, I love you. In this life and the next.” I turned to Morgan. “He’s yours.”

She was still staring at the lifeless body of her son. She’d barely heard me. “What?”

I walked over to her and took her shoulders, forcing her unfocused eyes to me. With exaggerated volume, I repeated myself. “I said, ‘He’s yours.’”

She blinked at me as though I spoke a foreign language.

“Arthur is not dead, not yet, and I know the only place that can heal him.” I shook her lightly to get her attention. “Morgan, listen to me. You are the only one who can help Arthur now. I concede the last of his life to you. Get him to Avalon and summon Helena in case she needs to say goodbye to her father. She will be safer there than with Owain and Accolon in the days to come.”

The mention of her daughter’s name brought Morgan out of her grief-stricken trance. She blinked at me again, shook her head, then came to life. “You are not really here. But I am. I can save him.” A wicked grin spread across her face. She stuck her head out of the back of the fort. “You!” she called to a woman standing nearby. “Find Grainne and Mona and tell them to bring the Grail.” She turned to the man guarding Arthur. “Get him to a horse. We must away to Avalon.”

“Not a horse, lady. It will be faster to take him by water,” one of the women said. “I will take you.” She was one of Sobian’s girls, one of a handful who’d stayed to fight with Arthur even when their leader refused. She would do everything she could to ensure he made it in time to be healed.

They took him from my arms, and all of my strength bled out as though I were the one with a mortal wound. Arthur was in the hands of the Goddess now, and those of Morgan as her representative and his wife. My vision blurred. Gray tendrils of smoke rolled in from its edges until I could see nothing more. I was vaguely aware of rejoining my body in my cold, small cell. But I did not care. I embraced the darkness with all the passion of a lover.

After twenty-four years, it was over. Camelot was no more.

I woke to the bright light of Easter morning and the joyful song of “Alleluia” wafting in from the open window overlooking the chapel. For a few moments, I floated on this optimism, my spirit buoyant and free, my mind clear of all but the light and song.

But when I sat up, my head throbbed and memories returned in flashes—Aggrivane fallen among his brethren; then Arthur senseless on the ground, a bloody gash to his head; Mordred clutching his abdomen; the grief-stricken face of Morgan. Her voice rang in my head, “We must away to Avalon.”

Was I meant to follow her? For the third time in less than two years, I had nowhere to go. Avalon was a logical choice. I would be safe and welcome there. But yet, as comforting as that idea was, it didn’t feel quite right. There was something else I was yet meant to do, and Avalon wasn’t where it would happen.

I shuffled mindlessly as I gathered my few belongings, rolling robes and cloaks into a pack for my departure. I may not have a destination, but I could not stay here. I had troubled the poor sisters enough. They had shown me more kindness than I could ever ask. I could not turn around and ask them to harbor me in what would likely be dark days ahead.

Now that Arthur was at the very least severely incapacitated and his heir dead, there would be a fight for the throne of High King. Just as in the days following Uther’s death, men with any claim and none at all would turn against one another in the quest for power. If my whereabouts were known, I would be a target for everything from assassination attempts—lest I make my own bid for the throne, which I had no intention of doing—to insurrections in my name, or even yet another abduction by one who sought to use my sovereignty to bolster his claim. I would be a danger to everyone I came in contact with.

That didn’t even factor in the Saxons and the Picts, who, even if the last of the Combrogi managed to contain them, would likely be making their own bids for expanded land. I had a feeling Elga still lived, and if I was correct, she would come here to seek my blood. I would not let Mayda pay for her sister’s twisted sense of vengeance. Plus, even if the Picts chose to turn tail and return to their homelands, they would no doubt wreak havoc on their way, and sooner or later, they would resume their centuries-old war with the tribes of the north. With no strong Briton leadership to stop them, they would press as far south as they could.

No, this was not the time for me to retreat into the mists. Let those who will believe I died in a convent, but I would complete my life as I had started it—as a warrior’s daughter. There was only one place for that—my mother’s homeland and its capital of Din Eidyn.

I knelt one last time, squinting through the small window to ensure the sisters would be at Mass a while longer. My gaze traveled over the white-robed women, hair covered in light lace veils and crowns of lilies, and alighted on Mayda. She was at the head of the group of older sisters, nearest to the priest, her face suffused with joy at the resurrection of her god. I would miss her terribly. I couldn’t predict what her sister would do when she showed up here and found me missing, but at least Elga would have no reason to harm her. That was the best repayment I could give—for now.

I smoothed out the bedspread and turned in a circle one last time, making sure I hadn’t left anything. On impulse, I swept a hand under the bed, and it brushed against something hard. I withdrew the box of jewels. I opened it, tempted to take one to safeguard my passage north. But I could not. It would be wrong to use my hosts that way.

I closed the box and set off to return it to Mayda’s office. On the way, I passed the kitchens, silent save two young maids, one turning the spit and the other minding a bubbling cauldron, both of which would be served at the feast after Mass. They were so intent on their duties, it was not hard to slip past them and into the small larder. As I would not be around for the morning meal, I did not feel guilty about taking some bread, cheese, a bit of smoked fish, and a skin of wine for my journey.

Provisions packed, I unlocked Mayda’s door and placed the box back where I had found it. The light caught on Arthur’s ring in its customary place on my right hand, and I realized I had the means to fund my journey after all. I could easily pawn it in town. No one would recognize me, and it was doubtful any enterprising man would turn down a rare piece of gold and jewels. It was also fitting, I supposed, that I leave my last vestige of Arthur behind, as I was leaving behind my life as queen.

I stepped out into the bright light of the courtyard with a heart weighed down by sorrow. No one was around to witness my leaving, not even the porter. She too was attending Mass. But that also meant there was no one to witness my grief. As I closed the latch of the convent gate, I didn’t even bother wiping the tears away or trying to stave off the throbbing of my thrice-broken heart. Facing the open road and an uncertain future, I gave in to my loneliness and misery, praying that at my journey’s end, I might find some measure of peace.