Mistress of Legend

Chapter 5

Chapter Five

Summer 519

As summer’s heat slowly took hold, it became clear that Camelot was changing under Mordred’s rule. With most of the Combrogi off fighting at Arthur’s side, he enjoyed nearly absolute power, something to be feared in one so young and rash.

I was not the only one to take note, and that meant our people, already distrustful, became increasingly nervous. It began with rumblings in the countryside. The lowly men and women who came to Camelot on pleading day—a custom Mordred tolerated but delegated to me because it tried his patience—all told tales of the Picts massing as though for some great council. According to one woman, the northern tribes—the Damnonii, Novantae, Selgovae, and Votadini—were growing restless as well, no doubt spooked by the sudden activity of the Picts.

Next came whisperings in the marketplace, brought back by Sobian’s ever-observant ears. “Some of the women say the townsfolk are quietly taking sides. The whores at the Boar’s Head say their patrons argue nightly. Some of the merchants’ wives say their husbands have been discussing it too.”

I stopped the spinning wheel in front of me, relaxed the arm holding the yarn, and looked at Sobian. “You cannot truly believe Mordred is planning an insurrection, can you?”

She leveled me with her most serious look. “I can, and I do. And I do not believe he will do it alone. He aims to unite the Picts and the Saxons against Arthur. The northern tribes too, if they’ll take him. I think that’s the real reason why he’s keeping you here.”

“Keeping me here?”

“Yes. Mordred easily could have sent you to Brittany with Arthur or put you on a ship following in his wake, but he needs you. You are Mordred’s greatest asset, and also a threat. Regardless of what Arthur said that day in front of the Combrogi, you are still our consecrated queen. Arthur cannot undo that. He can renounce you all he wants, but only death can unmake a queen. We all know how the ancient law works. For another to become king, the power of sovereignty must pass through you. He needs your cooperation, if not your blessing, to fulfill his plans.”

I considered her words. “I have already told Mordred I will not seek the throne, so I am no threat to him. How else could I be of help to him?”

Sobian fixed me with a hard stare. “Are you daft or in denial? He could marry you, for one. Do not tell me it never crossed your mind. He needs a strong wife to cement his power, and you have more than proven your skill. It is either you or one of the Saxons or Picts. He already knows and loves you. It is not so big a leap.”

“But I am like a mother to him!” I swallowed hard to contain the bile that soured the back of my throat.

“Still, you are not his kin, so nothing is stopping him if he is of a mind to do it. All I am saying is to be wary.”

Thanks to this exchange, that night at dinner, we both had our hackles up, especially given the extravagant meal. The largess was unusual and could not be without meaning. Who was Mordred trying to impress and why? I couldn’t help but watch every move he and Morgan made, my eyes narrowing as I calculated the nuances behind the idle conversation as we slowly demolished the fully dressed swan and several additional courses.

The pageantry had to be for his mother’s new champion, Accolon, the second son of the house of Rheged. I had never trusted that man, not since the day he’d tried so hard to catch his cousin Aggrivane and I in the act of a dalliance under Pellinor’s roof. He certainly shouldn’t be privy to the intimate conversations of our private meals.

For such dynamics to be at play, more had to be going on in Mordred’s court than simply holding power in Arthur’s stead. Waiting any longer to find out if the rumors were true, if Mordred was angling to make his temporary power into something more, would be dangerous. However, I couldn’t simply ask him outright; I needed to use a question that would appear innocent to outsiders, yet test the limits of Mordred’s willingness to confide in me.

Picking at my pudding with feigned disinterest, I asked, “The barracks and smithy were quite busy when Sobian and I passed them earlier today. You have given them some special assignment?”

“Only ensuring our standing army stays in practice and our weapons are at the ready in our king’s absence,” he answered.

“That does not explain the Saxon spears and Pictish swords I saw cooling on the racks,” Sobian said, one eyebrow raised in subtle challenge.

Mordred shrugged. “Just because Arthur refuses to adopt the weapons of our enemies does not mean I will be as narrow-minded.” He turned to me. “You were a battle queen. Do you not agree that we should have every useful weapon at our disposal?”

I ran a finger around the rim of my cup, considering his words. He did have a point. If his words were true, then my suspicions were nothing more than a case of mistaken purpose. Maybe the rest of the rumors were the same. The Pictish gathering everyone was so concerned about could have been planned long before Arthur left for Brittany. As for the villagers taking sides, wasn’t it natural to compare the son to his father? It could all come down to a matter of interpretation. Having known Mordred for so long, I desperately wanted to believe it, to trust him.

“I do. In fact, I wonder that we did not think of it before.”

Mordred smiled. “It is understandable. You had more pressing matters to attend to, such as securing the peace we now enjoy. But I wish to be prepared, for our enemies will only stay quiet for so long. We will be ready when they decide to move.”

Satisfied with his answer, at least about the smithy, I settled back into my chair, casting a glance at Sobian to gauge her reaction. She was observing Mordred through lowered lashes, pretending—for I had learned many of her schemes in the last nineteen years—to be overcome by the generous food and drink. That she was employing such an act meant only one thing—she didn’t believe him.

Though I accepted his answer about the weapons, I still harbored misgivings about his overall plan. Did Mordred know a strong contingent of his people were suspicious of his motives? He deserved to know what was being whispered behind his back. “I fear your good intentions may have been misunderstood.”

Mordred wrinkled his brow and fixed me with a questioning look.

“Surely you have heard what the people are saying about you?”

“I have not,” he said slowly, leaning forward over his plate, elbows on the table, intensely interested now.

I cleared my throat, unsettled by how much he looked like Arthur in that pose. “They say you are planning rebellion. They tell tales that you are allying with the Picts and trying to convince the four northern tribes to overthrow Arthur while he is in Brittany.”

As quickly as they’d materialized, the similarities between father and son melted away. Whereas Arthur would have gone quiet at that news, blue eyes pensive with concern, Mordred merely nodded, a slight smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“This news cannot possibly please you,” I said, aghast.

“Of course it can,” Mordred answered over the rim of his cup. “What did the old philosopher say? ‘The enemy of my enemy is my friend’?”

Mordred’s calm unnerved me more than if he had screamed his outrage. I narrowed my eyes at him as I ripped off a hunk of bread, needing something to do with my hands. “But the northern tribes are our allies. Whose enemy does that make them? The Saxons?”

“For one,” Mordred replied around a mouthful of spiced plums.

I narrowed my eyes at him. “What exactly are you planning?”

It was Morgan who answered. “That is for us to know.” She gave me an indulgent smile that reeked of triumph and stroked Accolon’s hand as though he were a prized pet. “While we’re talking about enemies, I have it on good authority that Mark’s nephew, Constantine, may be our next threat.”

“Is he still waving his sword around?” Accolon asked, more amused than concerned. “He is fairly impotent as long as Arthur and Mordred live.”

“What about Helene? Does she not factor into the line of succession?” I asked, glancing at Morgan.

“No one would accept a woman as High Queen alone, much less a mere girl who has not yet lost her milk teeth,” Accolon scoffed. “But as Arthur’s daughter she will be quite a prize as she grows.” He turned to Morgan. “You would do well to guard her against men like me.”

She glared back at him, but said nothing.

Returning to his original point, Accolon added, “No, Constantine is not a real threat. His claim to Camelot rests only in that Arthur favored him before he knew about his son, so he can do nothing until the throne is vacant.”

“Tell that to the people of the Summer Country,” Morgan retorted. “I hear that he is working his way north and has his sights set next on Venta Belgarum. The people there are either fleeing into the hillfort or trying to outrun his army to safety.”

Mordred’s expression clouded. “Why did I not know of this?” His tone was sharp, a mixture of anger and accusation aimed at his mother.

“I only received word yesterday.” Morgan placed her hand over her son’s as though to placate him. “I have friends in the south who report he is showing signs of having taken after his uncle in ambition. They say he now demands his household function like a Roman villa. His confidants say he wishes to restore Britain to its former Imperial glory.”

Mordred adopted Arthur’s pensive look, staring across the room into nothingness.

“That is troubling.” It was the only thing I could think to say.

“Indeed,” Mordred mumbled, still deep in thought.

Morgan looked at us as though we were daft and threw up her hands. “Am I the only one who sees the opportunity here? Son, you need to act decisively against Constantine without delay. The people need a reason to trust you—perhaps even fear you. If you can secure Venta Belgarum, you will be a hero to the largest kingdom in Britain and you will demonstrate your might to the kingdom of Bernicia and anyone else who might oppose you.”

Sobian leaned over and whispered in my ear, shielding her mouth from view with one hand, “She is acting like Mordred is king in fact as well as name, as though Arthur is dead.”

I shivered involuntarily. “Perhaps to her, he is. He abandoned her without a ruling, and no one knows what will happen when he returns. If she doesn’t act now, she may miss her only chance.”

“Meaning?”

I shook my head, glancing at Mordred. “Not here. I’ll tell you tonight.” I sighed, watching Morgan quietly explained her idea to Mordred. Accolon nodded along like a devoted hound. “I don’t like that she can so easily manipulate Accolon. He and Owain are a formidable force, and popular as well. If she can control them, Arthur may not have a throne to return to.”

“Guinevere,” Mordred called, breaking up our side conversation, “do you still have your set of Holy Stones? Bring them out.”

“What? Why?” Despite my confusion, I rose, already obeying his command.

Why would he make such a request? Holy Stones, considered by some to be merely a game but taught to all priestesses as part of our training, was a method of divination long used by the Druids to advise chieftains in battle. Each stone represented a different type of solider, each triangle an opposing army led by a red queen. When combined with the sight and proper training, a Druid or priestess could use them to divine the outcome of a battle, thus ensuring the safest course of action for their ruler. It was normally only used in times of war or uncertainty.

Ah, that was it. Mordred was weighing the wisdom of his mother’s plan and wanted to know what the gods predicted. Since Morgan’s conversion to Christianity, she had forsworn such acts of divination. But lucky for Mordred, I had not and I had a different gift. Whereas she could see the future, I could see what was presently happening at a distance, which would give Mordred the chance to head off any future that his mother had already foreseen.

My stomach churned as I traced the halls to my chambers and back, a small round board under my arm and a bag of stones in hand. My feet moved by long habit, mind absorbed in the ramifications of what I was about to do. I had little choice but to read the stones for Mordred; while he did not hold me there against my will, I had nowhere to go if he tired of me or turned me out. Plus, angering him was dangerous; there were sufficient people who wished to finish what the bishop had started that I was best under Mordred’s protection until Arthur could pardon Lancelot and see me safely to Brittany.

When I returned, they had all arranged themselves in front of the fire, leaving an empty place to Mordred’s right for me. I set up the board with two sets of opposing stones, the clear quartz representing Mordred’s army, the red jasper Constantine’s, just as we had been taught in Avalon. But something was not right. Every time I looked at the board, I saw shadows to my left and right. There were more parties involved.

“Morgan, do you still have your set? I need more stones. They are telling me there is more at play.”

She scowled at me but silently got to her feet and left the room.

While she was away, Mordred drew me off to one side, out of Accolon’s hearing.

“I heard you and Sobian speaking earlier.”

“And?” I tried to keep my voice light, but my embarrassment at being caught burned in my cheeks. How much had he heard?

He leaned in so that our noses almost touched, an oddly intimate gesture. “What is your ruling? Would you kill my mother along with the priest?”

I swallowed, not wishing to divulge my thoughts to him, especially without Arthur as witness. Although, since Mordred was acting king, he had just as much right to that information as his father. I took a deep breath.

“No,” I answered slowly, forcing myself to look Mordred in the eye. “Just as when you were accused of raping that girl, I cannot determine her guilt or innocence with any certainty. She could be lying or she could be speaking the truth. As much as I want to punish her for what she has done to me and to Arthur, I cannot condemn a fellow priestess without irrefutable proof.”

“So you would allow her to go free?” His warm breath brushed my cheek.

“Not exactly. I will recommend to Arthur that he set Morgan up in comfort in a remote estate of her choosing so she will be less prone to trouble. I wouldn’t advise keeping her at court, lest she interfere again. And I don’t recommend you condone whatever plan she and Accolon have concocted. Chances are good it benefits them more than you.”

Morgan returned then, and we jumped apart like two children caught in the act of stealing a cooling bread roll from the windowsill. Morgan didn’t seem to notice, holding out a bag to me. Her icy glare conveyed that if anyone outside this room ever heard that she still possessed a set of Holy Stones, she would make me regret it.

I tipped the bag into my palm and picked out the lapis, placing it on my left, before setting the malachite on my right. I breathed deeply, allowing the quiet rhythm of four people breathing and the soft crackle of the fire to lull me into that place between worlds where the voices of the gods could be heard.

The sight took over and I was no longer in the room with them. Flying above the field of battle and seeing through the eyes of the Morrigan’s crows, I learned this skirmish was meaningless. Yes, it would stop Constantine from advancing—for now—but it was but a small thread in the tapestry the gods were weaving with our lives.

My fingers manipulated the pieces on and off the board until no more quartz or jasper remained. This war was not about the red and clear stones—Constantine and Mordred—at all. It was about those who were left, the blue—Morgan, the child raised in Avalon—and the green—me, the daughter of the Votadini. In the center, all alone, save for our two queens at the head of our armies, was the quartz king. But it wasn’t Mordred or Arthur; it was both. The stones were saying that in the end, the fate of Camelot would not rest in the hands of other lords or even foreigners; it depended on those of us in this room and our absent king.

I came back to myself with a start. Mordred and Accolon were staring at me, but my attention was drawn to Morgan, who was gripping the edges of her chair, her eyes glassy and far away. She may no longer court the sight, but it clearly had a hold of her now. Her visions may well augment or explain what I had just experienced.

I rushed to her side. “What do you see?”

She did not respond immediately. Her eyes whipped back and forth, like those of a dreamer, watching something only she could perceive. “Arthur. He will never again set foot in Camelot.”

Blood drained from my face and I grabbed her hand, seeking to steady myself on the arm of her chair. “He will die in Brittany?”

“No. Not death, not yet.” Her eyes darted again as another vision overtook her. She paled and her eyes grew wide with horror, her mouth gaping, chin trembling as though she would cry.

“What is it? Please tell me.”

She was back to herself in the space of a breath, but her face still bore the etchings of worry and fear caused by her vision. She refused to meet my gaze, caught somewhere between this world and the next.

“Morgan?”

She did not answer, only shook her head slowly, gazing past me at her son.

I squatted in front of her so that I was at her eye level, breaking her line of sight to Mordred. “I know you bear no love for me, but you need to unburden yourself. We both know the pain will only grow if you do not confide your fear. What did you see?”

Her attention whipped back to me and her blue eyes fastened on mine. “I do not fear that which I can yet control.” She rose, back perfectly straight and shoulders set. “We can yet avoid calamity.” She took in Mordred and Accolon, who regarded her with a combination of curiosity and fear. “Arm yourselves, my loves. You have a battle to prepare for, one that will do much to cement your futures as leaders of Camelot. Guinevere can tell you more based on what she has seen. I have other matters to attend to if we are going to avoid the fate the gods have shown.” With no more explanation, she stalked toward the door, muttering, “Goddess help me, I will not allow them to make fools of us all.”

Who exactly were they and how did her visions fit with mine? What role did she and I play in the coming war and how—and why—did Arthur and Mordred stand between us? The stones had told us that the gods knew the answer, but they were not yet ready to make us party to their plans.