The Guinevere's Tale Trilogy

Chapter 3-2

To fill the time between, Argante commissioned a tapestry for the king in praise of his wise decision to include Avalon in his circle of closest councilors. The motif chosen was representative of the mysteries of Avalon, the very same mysteries Uther himself had sworn to uphold many years before when he took the Druidic oath upon his initiation into their mysteries. In this way, the tapestry would be not only a gift; it would also serve as a reminder of the old ways in a court increasingly populated by unsympathetic Christian priests.

It could have been woven on one of Avalon’s many looms, but Argante insisted the tapestry be hand-stitched in ancient decorative tradition. She decided such a task would be perfect for the neophytes, and so Grainne and Mona were given the assignment of preparing and weaving the base fabric, while the elaborate embroidery would fall into the more dexterous hands of Morgan and myself. We worked for what felt like months, and as winter warmed into early spring, our labor was nearly complete.

The evening before Viviane was to leave for the northern country, only two blocks of sewing remained. The pattern was rapidly taking shape, my tired hands sewing what remained of the Goddess’s gown. Next to me, a stool sat empty but for multicolored threads brushing the floor as Morgan had left them hanging the night before. Only one of the God’s feet and the grass on which he stood remained to be sewn; an hour or two more of stitching, and her wearisome job would be done.

But Morgan was nowhere to be found. She had disappeared not long after breakfast and never showed up to complete her task. Where could she be? Not for the first time, I found myself resenting her ability to do as she pleased with little or no consequence.

I will likely be the only one to note her absence as long as she comes to the evening’s ritual on time. One thing is for certain, I will not do her portion of the work for her. Let her feel Argante’s wrath for once. It would only be fair.

The sun was just beginning to slip below the horizon when I buried the final knot in my section. Breathing a sigh of relief, I snipped off the excess thread and sat back, admiring the results of our work. Finally, it was all done, except for Morgan’s block. I stretched my aching arms, pinched out the candle flame, and made my way toward the door, intent on resting before the twilight ritual.

I didn’t even make it out the door before Morgan came rushing up the stairs, face white, hair flapping wildly behind her.

“Morgan, kind of you to make an appearance. Do you not think you are taking quite a risk? Many threads demand attention, but little time remains.”

She threw a biting look in my direction in response to my mocking. “If you must know, Guinevere”—she said my name like it was bitter to her tongue—“I came to fetch your help.”

I feigned surprise. “You are asking me for help?” I started toward the door. “You made your bed, Morgan; now you must sleep in it. I will not aid you one stitch.”

Morgan’s hand clamped around my arm, forcing me to face her. “No, you silly cow, I do not need your help with the sewing. Ailis has found her way up a tree near the lake and cannot get down again.”

How did Viviane’s young daughter manage to climb up a tree? There was little time for speculation. Viviane would have all our hides if her only child were to suffer any misfortune.

“Where is Viviane? Does she know?”

“I don’t know. I came here because you were closer—”

I didn’t wait around to let her finish her excuse. My feet carried me swiftly across the plains of waving grass to the shore of the inland lake. I scanned the trees lining the water’s edge. Sure enough, there was the sobbing lass, a tiny version of her mother save for her auburn hair, clinging to a tree branch that stretched its fingers out over the lake.

Morgan had been right to summon help. Ailis had not yet learned to swim, so if she fell, she would drown. And from the vise-like grip she had on the bobbing branch, I guessed she did not have the dexterity or courage to back down the tree either.

“Ailis! Ailis, stay where you are. I will come and get you.”

The girl did not respond, only continued to wail.

Without a second thought, I scampered toward her, plowing through the foliage that separated us. The base of the tree was surrounded by clumps of tall plants with spiked stems and tooth-like leaves, whose berry-like purple and green flowers appeared harmless from a distance. Only now that I was standing in them, arms and legs prickling like I was being attacked by bees, did I recognize the plants for what they were—stinging nettle. No doubt I would pay for my good deed later with an itchy rash.

Grumbling to myself that I should have known better—it was one of the plants we’d had to identify in our first herbalism test—I climbed up the tree, using the outcropping branches to support my ascent. I inched forward, wincing as the skin pricked by the nettles was irritated by the tree bark, until I had the wailing child in my arms and we were once again safely on the ground.

Even before I set Ailis down, the tiny poisonous teeth hooked into her dress told me she had been playing in the nettles long before I arrived. Not wanting to expose anyone else to the irritating plant, I bathed Ailis in the lake, hoping the water would lessen the severity of her outbreak. As her tears slowly subsided, she began to tell me about the colorful songbird that had caught her attention, inspiring her to scale the tree to have a closer look. Once she was dry, I returned her to Viviane’s care, but only after making her promise never to do such a thing again.

The sky was almost completely dark by the time I neared my quarters, so I would not have enough time to change my clothes before the ritual began. As I passed the weaving room, I heard Argante speaking with Morgan and peeked my head in to see her reaction to my earlier work.

At first, I could not understand the distress and concern etched in Argante’s face. But then I looked down and saw its source. All of my long hours of stitching had been ripped out of the hanging as if I had never completed them, and the lower left corner—Morgan’s block—was burned, pieces of blackened thread and crumpled cloth the only testaments to the tragedy. Nearby, a soot-stained taper lay in a pool of wax, as if someone had franticly flung it away from the tapestry.

“What happened here?” I asked incredulously, crossing in front of Morgan to finger the thread that made up all my missing stitches.

“Your irresponsibility caused this girl’s work to be ruined,” Argante growled coldly. “That is what happened here.”

“What?” My astonishment echoed off the stone pillars and silent loom.

“When I came in, some of the ribbons were hanging down from your block, dancing precariously close to the candle flame,” Morgan explained, picking up a charred thread as evidence. “I tried to intervene, but a gust of wind tipped the flame, igniting the cloth. All I could do was put it out.” Her wide blue eyes were filled with innocent astonishment.

My blood boiled. How dare she blame this on me! Did Argante really believe that story? Surely she could see through Morgan’s lies.

Struggling to contain my rage, I faced Argante. “But that is not . . . I am certain I extinguished the flame—” I began, unable to collect my thoughts.

“No, I will hear no excuses from you, Guinevere,” Argante cut me off. “Look at you, scraped and covered in dirt. If you had been here doing what you were supposed to be instead of cavorting through the hills, none of this would have happened.”

I listened to her berate me in utter shock. So that was how it happened. Morgan needed a way to blame her absence on someone else, and the child’s peril proved a convenient means. She might even have encouraged Ailis to climb that tree. Now she was turning her thoughtlessness on me. I had to make Argante understand.

“Lady, please listen to me. I did no such thing. Morgan—”

Argante turned on me with steely eyes. “I said no more!” She clasped her hands and surveyed the burned material. “The damage is unfortunate, but it is repairable. As you know, Viviane leaves at first light for her meeting with the king, so all the work must be completed by then. Guinevere, you will stay here and mend what your carelessness has ruined, as well as complete your allotted portion of the embroidery. Morgan will assist me in tonight’s ritual in your place. In addition, to ensure you learn to take your responsibilities seriously, you will scrub the sanctuary stairs in the morning.”

I opened my mouth to protest once again, but Argante ignored me and walked away, as did Morgan, but only after casting a wicked grin in my direction.

So that was it. I had no choice but to endure Morgan’s punishment while she plied everyone else with lies. Damn her! I raged inwardly while I completed the tedious work. The moon rose and set, the stars shone brightly and paled into dawn, and all the while, my heavy eyes squinted at endless rows of stitching until at long last, the final thread was knotted and hidden away.

Argante woke me with a gentle pat just after sunrise. I had no memory of falling asleep, but she said I had done so a few hours earlier. She inspected my work, nodding approvingly as she ran her fingers across the needlework.

“Your stitching is well done,” she commented, inspecting a complex pattern.

I began to pack away the spools of thread. Slowly, I became aware of Argante’s silent gaze and looked up.

“Where did you get those?” She gestured to the trail of red, inflamed blisters that wound their way up my arm.

Involuntarily, my face flushed. “Yesterday, after I finished my sewing, Morgan came rushing in, telling me Ailis was trapped in a tree and in need of my rescue. I rushed to help her without paying heed to the plants at its base. It is—”

“I know what it is,” Argante said, clearly irritated. “Most of Ailis’s body is covered in blisters. At least now we know where she was exposed to the plant.” The old woman sighed. “Now if you will excuse me, I need to speak with Morgan.” She stopped in the doorway and turned. “Mona has gathered all you will need to tend to the stairs. In the meantime, make a poultice of sorrel and mud to apply to your rash. It will help relieve the itching.”

When I arrived, bathed and medicated, to complete the last part of my unjust sentence, I was surprised to see Morgan leaning against one of the pillars at the top of the stairs, her expression as sullen as the gray, frostbitten morning.

“Morgan? What are you doing here?”

She shot me an icy look. “Always so innocent, aren’t you?” She pointed toward the pail and bristle-brush sitting at her feet. “I, too, am to play scouring maid today. And I suppose I have you to thank for that. Am I right?”

I raised an eyebrow at her and dipped my brush into the bucket. “If anyone is to blame, it is you. Why did you burn the material, Morgan?”

She turned away, toying with her own brush. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“Yes, you do. Why did you do it?”

She ignored my question and raised her voice in a mocking, sing-song tone. “High and mighty Guinevere, daughter of the great King Leodgrance. Are you afraid the hem of your gown may be dirtied by a little hard work? Nothing less than perfection for you, oh pristine one.”

Her sarcasm stung. I flung the brush back down into the bucket, sloshing soapy bubbles at my feet. “Do you really think me that much a fool? Have you learned nothing about me in the last three years? I have no fear of hard work—no one here does, or she would not survive.” As I advanced on Morgan, my mind briefly flashed back to my first washing lesson with Mona. “But unlike you, I would never betray my sister just to make myself look better in Argante’s eyes.”