Round Table, Love Triangle
"Damn it!"
The king flung a drinking goblet into the wall of the room; it clattered against the stone and rolled over by the hearth, where a wizened old man with a long grey beard scooped it up without comment and placed it on the table beside the candlestick. A draft of cold night air sent the single flame guttering for a moment before it righted itself on its wick.
"Arthur," he began, his voice tired from having the same conversation over and over again.
"No! I'm not going to make him leave! Lancelot du Lac is my finest knight, my strong right arm, and I would as soon trust him with my life as I would lie down to sleep in my own bed! He has proven his loyalty time and again, and I don't understand why you hate him so!"
Merlin sighed. The trouble with knowing the future, he decided, was that you knew that no matter what you said now, none of it would make any difference later. He felt like poor Cassandra, forever warning of disaster and forever watching exactly what was predicted coming to pass. The only difference, he grumped privately, was that Cassandra was never called upon later to fix the mess the stupid sods got into by ignoring her advice in the first place!
The old man sighed again. "Arthur. Listen to me. It is not that I hate the boy – on the contrary, I like him very much – but he will be bad for you. Your destiny is to rule the whole of Britannia, as the Once and Future King. You've read the runes written upon your sword, you know what I say is true."
"What has that got to do with Lancelot?"
Merlin glared at his impulsive student. "Fifteen years of my tutelage and you still can't hold your tongue while I tell my tales? I carry druid blood in me; we get where we get in our own time. Now hush, and let me speak."
Arthur's mouth twitched impatiently, but he subsided his ceaseless prowling and sank into a chair. "I'm listening."
"Good. Now, what was I saying?"
It was Arthur's turn to sigh. He was never sure if this was Merlin's way of making sure his royal pupil had been paying attention or if the mage genuinely didn't remember. Who could tell? The man spent so much time plagued by his visions of the future that the Round Table's standard joke (told only when Merlin couldn't possibly be listening, of course) was that he lived backwards, future to past.
"You were talking about the destiny of the wielder of Excalibur," he said.
Merlin's brow twitched. "Not my exact words, but close enough. As I say, your destiny is plain. But Lancelot's destiny twines with yours, as an oak and the parasite mistletoe vine. For awhile, both may live in harmony, and both bear fruit and have useful properties. But if the mistletoe is not cut off quickly enough, it chokes the oak, starves it of everything it needs to survive, and eventually kills it, and with it, itself. If you do not send Lancelot du Lac away, and soon, neither of you will survive to the fruition of your individual destinies."
But Arthur shook his head. "How can I fulfill my destiny as king of all Britannia without my strong right arm at my side? None can master or even match the strength of Lancelot! To say nothing of his purity – they say that God himself smiles upon his golden head! He is my advisor, Merlin, in matters of war, as much as you are my advisor in matters of state. My kingdom would crumble without him."
Abruptly, the mage stood. "Then it is too late. His destiny has already made the first choking loop about yours, and now neither of you will escape the doom I have foreseen." He made to exit, but paused in the doorway, looking back over his shoulder. "Wart, I have warned you. It is the most that I could do. I hope you do not regret the years to come."
Something about the mage's tone warned Arthur that everything was not right, but the grey head had already turned the corner out of sight and he didn't feel like running after the old man like a school boy. The king sighed and stirred the embers in the fireplace. Merlin was prone to these sorts of moods. Give it a day, maybe two, and the man would be back to normal, or what passed for normal for him. Maybe the mage had just been living backwards a bit too much tonight.
Inspired, he stuck his head out into the hall and hailed the first page that went scampering by. "Boy! Take a jug of red wine up to Merlin's tower! The good stuff; ask the cook what he likes." Hah! That ought to put the old bugger straight to sleep and no mistake, and in the morning, hopefully his future demons would have ceased bothering him. And then Merlin might stop bothering him, Arthur thought with satisfaction as he headed off to his own bed.
He considered a stop at his wife's chambers but decided against it. Guinevere was abed again with the morning nausea and needed her sleep; even a concerned husband knew better than to awaken her so late for nothing more than reassurance that all was well. The whole castle was holding its breath; this was the third time that the queen had taken to bed with signs of child; would this one live to draw breath? For everyone's sake, and especially his gentle wife's, Arthur hoped so. She'd been devastated after her first two losses, so early on in the pregnancies that there hadn't even been a body to bury.
As the king stretched out beneath his furs he thought again of Merlin's warning. "Oak and mistletoe?" he muttered aloud. "Faugh." The old man was grasping at straws. Perhaps if he and Lancelot spent a bit more time together, the mage would come round to Arthur's point of view. Stranger things had been known to happen; after all, Merlin spoke to trees, didn't he?
Sleep claimed him gently as a lover. Meanwhile, someone else was doing just the same to Merlin.
The mage's tower was open to the weather, as it always was. To work magic, the wielder must be intimate with all the elements: earth, fire, water, stone, wood, metal, and air, a seven sided star which must be equally balanced on all points lest the whole tip out of balance.
He climbed the stairs gingerly. He was old, and old bones did not heal so well from a fall as young bones did. Besides, it was far easier for an old man to slip than a young man. Merlin did not quite consider that fair, but that was life. He grimaced sourly. If only he did live future to past, the way those fools downstairs joked when they thought he couldn't hear, he would only have to worry about growing younger.
"That would be the life," he muttered to himself as he finally made the door to his tower. There was a jug on the table outside his door and he sniffed it suspiciously. Hm. Cabernet. Arthur must have sent it up. Well, he was a considerate lad; Merlin would drink a toast to the young king's continued health with the first sip.
Hefting the wine, he prodded a few runes carved into the wood frame with a practiced finger. The magically-sealed door opened at his touch and he stumped in, placing the wine on his worktable and stretching his aching back.
It was only as he reached for a goblet that he realized that his tower was far warmer than it ought to be at this time of year. The cold breeze of early spring nights should have left frost on the stone. He glanced about. There was a fire in the grate. Merlin knew he had not set it, and no one knew how to enter his tower save Merlin himself. The mage's shoulders tensed and he turned slowly, the old predator in him stretching out his senses to their fullest extent, completely on the alert.
A woman lay on a couch that he knew he did not own, facing away from the fire, staring south out of one of the four great windows he'd had specially commissioned. She was beautiful. Her hair was the color of clouds at a honeyed dawn, curling down over her shoulders in waves like the sea. Her eyes shone above lips red as rubies; their jeweled depths black as earth and yet shining with the reflected light of the stars. Her full-bodied figure was clothed in a shimmering gown fluid as quicksilver and airy as gossamer, the cloth as green as the new budded maple leaves in spring.
Her eye had caught upon him and watched, smiling in delight, as he turned to face her fully.
"Peregrine." She greeted him warmly, standing as if she were hostess and not guest in this tower.
Merlin gulped. He'd not heard that name since his boyhood, fifty summers past. If he'd had any doubts about the identity of the woman before him, they'd been dashed with the speaking of his Truename.
"Nimue." He tried and failed to keep his voice level.
She shivered. "Well met, old friend."
Recalled to his hostly duties, he poured wine into two cups and proffered the first to the woman. Solemnly, she toasted the four compass points and then drained it, in the manner prescribed by the Old Way. Merlin followed suit, and poured more.
The traditions satisfied, the pair sat down, Merlin easing his aching joints down with far more cracking and popping than he'd intended.
Nimue bit her lip. "Was it worth it, then?" she asked, once he was finally settled. "Was the boy-king worth it? Growing old, growing mortal?"
He sighed. "Arthur is headstrong. He lets his heart run away with his head, and he is absolutely fanatical once he has put his mind to something. He sees things only one way unless someone kicks his point of view around a bit. But he is loyal, and true. People love him for his charm, and he has a strength of purpose and belief that men will follow blindly. His heart bleeds for injustice, and he longs to set all the world to rights. He knows that he will never solve every problem, or even most problems, but that has never once stopped him from trying.
"Yes, my old friend. I do believe he was worth every day I spent looking for him, every day I spent training him, and every day I spent guiding him. He is the Once and Future King."
"And now he must prove himself alone."
She spoke simply, but Merlin still frowned. "Already? There is still much I must teach him, much he has yet to learn."
But the nymph pressed a slender finger to his mouth. "The deal was made, and now it is done. I loved you when you were young. You begged of me half a century to accomplish the visions you saw even then, and I gave you the power to do it. And now, Peregrine, this very night, this very hour, our bargain is ended. Come to me, and let me ease your pains, for no lover of mine need be old, or tired, or worn."
Almost as if against his will, Merlin stood. There was no creaking of bones, no protesting joints. He took a step toward her and his feet planted firmly upon the stone. His back felt straighter than it had in many long summers. Another step, and his eyesight sharpened, cleared. Another step, and the beard on his chin darkened, and shortened, until what had been a full two feet of white was a fine dark scruff. He held up a strong, smooth, tanned hand and pushed a lock of glossy black hair back behind one ear. He ran his tongue around a full mouth of solid, strong teeth and laughed for the sheer joy of it.
Nimue took young Peregrine in her arms and kissed him soundly, looking as young as he himself did. Twining around one another they leapt off into space, carried by a breeze to the cloud castles of the sprites. There, Nimue fed her long-awaited lover on lighting cordial and thick slices of thunderhead steak, cumulus bread and thin cirrus broth. When the pair grew bored of the air, they sank to the earth and surfed the waves alongside mighty Poseidon's chariot, played chess with the taproots of the mighty oak, gamboled about the fiery fields of volcanoes with the salamanders, became lost in the mirrored reflections in veins of gold and silver, laughed at one another's images in the facets of raw diamonds. At last, Peregrine grew old once more, for men are men, no matter how much love an immortal may bear them, and Nimue, unable to work her magic of youth again and yet unwilling to let her lover go, convinced her friend the alder to accept him into her arms. Peregrine, called Merlin, sank into the heartwood of the tree.
"Rest, my love," whispered Nimue. "You shall awaken once again. Arthur may be the Once and Future King, but you are the Once and Future Mage. One destiny cannot escape the other; you are like two trees grown from the same bole, woven around one another until the eye cannot decide which trunk is whose. So sleep…sleep, and dream."
Arthur stalked around his castle in a foul mood. Where in all of Mithras' – Christ's, he corrected himself – green earth was Merlin? The mage had taken himself off without warning before, but he'd always returned after a few days. It had now been several weeks and the man was nowhere to be found. Arthur had sent his knights out searching, but even they could find no sign of Merlin. It was as if he'd sunk into the stone.
He remembered Merlin's last warning, that he should send Lancelot away. Wishing to respect his parting (Arthur tried not to think, [i]dying[/i], not yet) wish, Arthur had deployed his strongest knight to search farthest afield, to give the king time to think about what move to make next.
In the meantime, Guinevere had started to show more obvious signs of child. Arthur held his breath whenever he spoke to her, or of her, or even thought about her, as if too much dwelling upon the baby would make her lose it. He knew his wife to be a strong woman, but he feared that the loss of a third child might undo her.
Even more pressing, however, was the encroaching of foreign warriors on their western shores. The men of Eire bore a deep grudge against Camelot and Arthur – he didn't know why, though he suspected that their priests had told them stories of bad omens or some such connected with him. They had been making noise for some months now, and were, according to his scouts, starting to gear up for war. The Celts at the northern border were rumbling as well, displeased with the new, peaceful ways enforced on them by the edicts of Camelot, and the Picts who lived in the southwestern-most corner of the island had never acknowledged Arthur as anything more than a fellow clan leader. The king could feel the stirrings of discontent all around him, but he knew of nothing that could still them, or even slow them. That was what he depended on Merlin for. Damn the demons in hell, where was the man?
He was sparring in the practice yard, hoping the exercise would clear his head and feeling surly because it was not, when he heard the wall top guard cry out a warning.
"What is it man?" he called up.
"Riders! Two men, approaching from the west!"
"Can you see their shields?"
"Dust's too thick, my lord!"
"What manner of men be they?"
"Armed, sir! They wear…wait, it's Sir Lancelot's device!"
Arthur laughed aloud. "By the gods, that's good to know! As soon as he has refreshed himself from his journey, send him to me! I'll have his tale from him personally!"
The king wiped the sweat from his brow and drank a long dipperful of water, as sword work is thirsty work, before heading into the castle himself, to change and make ready for his impending audience with his favorite knight.
But Lancelot's news was all bad. He had not found Merlin, no, not even a scent of him. Bandits were gaining ground in Nottingham Forest, and the Picts were restless.
"And this dratted drought has the peasants worried. Around here, things aren't so bad, we've got the river and deep wells to draw from. But further out, there's nothing. If they don't get rain soon, the crops will fail and we'll have a minor famine on our hands. Remember, there wasn't much rain last year, either."
Arthur nodded. "Or the year before that. I imagine stores are scraping bottom. Are the lords easing their burdens on their serfs?"
Lancelot wavered. "Some are, my lord. But others insist on 'taking their due,' as they call it."
"Hm." Arthur leaned back in his seat. "They don't fear riots?"
"They don't even consider the people capable of it. The stupid ones say that the peasants would never rise against the man that God and King have placed over them. The keener ones keep highly visible soldiers and promise violent retribution to even the lowest of lawbreakers, punishments they don't hesitate to hand out. It keeps them scared and weeds out those likeliest to cause trouble. But I worry. The whole country isn't quite a tinderbox yet, but it's fast becoming one."
The king's shoulders bowed. He sat in silence for a moment before finally looking up. "Thank you, Lancelot."
The faithful knight nodded and rose to leave. He hesitated, uncertain, then laid his hand on his monarch's shoulder. "I'm sorry, Arthur. I wish I had some good news for you."
Arthur smiled wryly and a little sadly up into Lancelot's face. Then the young man took his leave.
Guinevere's chambers were darkened, even in the middle of the day. She would have preferred the light and fresh air, but all the wise women of the castle cautioned her against it. Having lost two babies already, she had to be very, very careful not to lose this one. The wind carried deadly vapors which could infect the child growing in her womb and cause him to drop from her tree early.
So the window remained shuttered and draped with heavy tapestries. It was into this shadowed twilight that Arthur cautiously stepped. "Gwen?" he called softly.
A figure stirred in a low couch by the fire. "Arthur?"
His wife rose and he hurried to greet her, kissing her, cautious not to hold her too tightly or to press against her belly. She was six months along now, noticeably round with the child inside.
Sitting beside her, he cradled the bump in one hand, stroking her hair. She held his other hand, touching his face and beard as if it had been months instead of one day since she'd seen him last.
"How are you?" he asked her.
"I'm well. Your son grows." She wrapped her hand over his over the baby and pressed in. A small [i]thump[/i] brushed his palm and Arthur gasped and looked at his wife.
She smiled. "He hardly gives me any rest anymore, he kicks so much."
The baby kicked again and Arthur smiled. "Feels like he's trying to kick his way out into the world."
Guinevere's eyes went wide, and the king immediately regretted his words. "Not for another three months yet, God willing," he quickly amended himself.
Still, she turned and rapped her knuckles on the wooden frame of the couch. "Leave this place and forget what you've heard," she whispered to the ether. The priests would have frowned, but all natives of England knew better than to ignore the Old Ones, especially at such delicate times as birth and death. The tricksters were known to take what one said literally, and the only way to scare them off was to touch bone to wood.
They talked for a bit, and cuddled for longer. Arthur held her tightly to his side, both longing and terrified to touch her as a man touches his wife, and then they said their goodbyes. The duties of a kingdom do not put themselves on hold just because the king has the duties of a husband and father to fulfill.
That night, the king was deep in contemplation of his maps when a knock interrupted him. He looked up.
It was Guinevere's maid. Her eyes were wide and frightened, and Arthur felt his mouth go dry. "What is it?" he asked, rather more roughly than he intended.
"It – it is her majesty. She –" the girl stammered to a halt, twisting her hands in the folds of her dress.
"Well?" His heart was hammering against his ribs. It couldn't be, not again, not now, not when they were so close…!
"She – she bleeds. She…the child…"
He pushed past the girl, bounding down the stairs three at a time and careening into walls in his haste.
But there was nothing he could do. He could hear Gwen clearly through the heavy door, sobbing. Women with blood-flecked sleeves pushed past him carrying boiling water up from the kitchens and clean rags.
A stout matron stopped right in front of him. "Your majesty," she said with the perfunctory courtesy of one who knew she had to be polite but didn't have the time. "Your wife is bleeding heavily. We are trying to stop it, but it would be best for you to stay away."
She turned to go, but Arthur grabbed her sleeve. "Please…will she be alright?"
The midwife looked over her shoulder at him, pity in her face. "We're doing our best. But you can help by going to the chapel and praying to our good lord to spare her life." She pushed open the door, revealing a scene of chaos within the queen's chambers, and then it closed.
Arthur stood stunned in the hallway. His hands were shaking. What did the woman mean? Was he about to lose Guinevere too?
One of the women opened the door and eased past him, a small, cloth-wrapped bundle clutched to her chest. It was barely large enough to be a kitten. Arthur reached out to touch it, and the memory of his careless words echoed in his ears. He snatched back his hand and fled.
He nearly ran Lancelot over in the hall. "What is it, Arthur?"
The king's face was fierce with grief. "My son. Gwen lost our son!"
Lancelot's face crumpled. "Oh, Arthur…I'm sorry. Here," he took his friend by the shoulders and led him to his chambers. "You shouldn't be alone at a time like this."
"I'm the king. I should be able to handle this."
"Tomorrow." Lancelot was firm. "You can be the king tomorrow. For tonight, you are a man who has just lost his child." Arthur took the wine that his knight handed him and downed half the cup in one gulp. "How is Guinevere?"
Arthur shook his head. "I don't know. They wouldn't let me see her. They said…they said to pray for her." He took another gulp and Lancelot refilled his vessel, pouring a cup for himself. "My God, Lance! This afternoon I was frustrated that I hadn't made love to her for six months! Now our baby's dead, and Gwen may be dying! How can I ever forgive myself?" The king tossed back his wine and refilled the cup himself, spilling a little on the table.
Lancelot put down his wine and reached carefully across the table, taking his king's hand in his own. "It's not your fault, Arthur. It's women's business, so I don't know all the details, but I know that nothing you did or said is responsible for what happened tonight. Do you hear me, Arthur? It's not your fault!"
The king shook his head. "I'm the king. What's the point of being the king if you lose everyone you love? Merlin left, my baby's dead, Gwen's…" he choked, unable to say it. "Right before he disappeared, Merlin tried to get me to send you away, you know that Lance?" He gulped another cup of wine, but his hands were trembling so badly that most of it spilled on the way to his mouth.
Lancelot rose and plucked the wine from Arthur's grasp, setting it out of reach. "Come on, sire. This was a bad idea, you need bed more than drink." He grasped the king around the waist, pulling him to his unsteady feet. Arthur clung to him.
"I wouldn't send you away then, Lance. And I won't send you away now. Not now, not never. You're my faithful knight. You'd never betray me. You'd never leave me. Why would I do the same to you?"
Lancelot's throat choked up. "Thank you, sire."
"Lance? You're the only one I can count on. I love you, Lance, my strong right arm. My only faithful one… Stay with me, Lancelot. I don't think I can face tonight alone." Arthur held tightly to his knight, eyes wide and begging.
Lancelot's heart broke to see his king so vulnerable, and he knew he couldn't take him out into the castle in this condition. No one could be allowed to see Arthur so weak.
"Come on, Arthur. My bed will serve you well enough for tonight."
He maneuvered Arthur onto the mattress and was just turning away when a strong hand closed over his wrist. "Lance…"
Lancelot hesitated a long moment.
"Please," Arthur begged. "Don't leave me alone."
The king left his knight's chambers the next morning. Neither spoke of what had passed between them, but they both swore that such weakness would never happen again.
Guinevere had survived the night and lay sleeping, mourning the loss of her third child. Arthur decided to let her rest. Lancelot disappeared into the forest alone and came back with his hands empty.
Two serving maids whispered about that. "I've never known Sir Lancelot to be unsuccessful in anything, ever."
"Aye. But he and the queen are close. Perhaps his 'hunt' wasn't anything more than an excuse to get out and think things through."
"You're saying that the babe that was lost was his?"
"I'm not saying yea or nay on that score. I've always thought that he's a bit [i]too[/i] attentive to another man's wife, if you ask me."
"No more than he is to any other man's wife, and her being the queen and all… Consider the source, is all I'm saying."
"Aye…but then why would he be brooding?"
"We're all brooding. That was the heir what she lost."
"Mm. And none more than the king. Three children, and none alive. If he'd just take a mistress and sire a bastard, then we'd at least have [i]a[/i] Pendragon for the throne, if not a legitimate one."
"You really think his majesty would ever do such a thing? He's besotted with Guinevere. He'd never break her heart with infidelity."
"He's taking this loss near as hard as she."
"Thank God for Lancelot, then. You notice he's been even more attentive to the king since the miscarriage?"
"Oh, aye. Poor man."
"Which one?"
"Both, if the rumors are true. I've heard tell that Guinevere is foreswearing any contact with men for a year, to let her womb heal."
"Huh. Well, if celibacy wins an heir, then gods bless her."
The other held up a single finger and tapped her nose. "From your lips to God's ears, friend."
Months passed, but for Guinevere, it felt as if she could still feel an empty space where her child had been, an ache that never eased. She cried herself to sleep, clutching her prayer beads. "Oh God in heaven," she whispered. "I won't insult you by asking why you took my child, but please, Lord, bless me and my husband with a breathing babe! I'm so miserable…I can only be half a woman without a child in my arms. Arthur doesn't say it, but I can see it in his eyes – I'm failing him, Lord! He hardly comes around anymore. He doesn't touch me the way he used to. He's just so tense and angry. And he snaps at Lancelot. He never used to do that. He's his best friend! Father, show me the way to heal their friendship, because, God, I think, sometimes, that I might be the cause of the rift…"
Dining beside Arthur one night, she found her eye caught by Lancelot. His golden head was turned towards her, blue eyes focused on the high table. She smiled and raised her hand to wave, but saw…he wasn't looking at her. His eyes were on – she followed his gaze – Arthur. And her husband's eyes were locked on Lancelot's. If she didn't know her husband as well as she did, she wouldn't have seen it, but she did. He had in his face a shadow of the look he'd worn after every one of her losses, one of naked longing, and misery, and faint helpless anger. But these emotions weren't for her.
She abruptly stood. "I'm sorry, love, I'm not feeling well," she told Arthur, hurrying out.
She fairly ran to the chapel, falling on her knees before the altar, her heart sobbing out even as her mouth tightened around the cries, determined to draw no attention to herself. This was not a time for a priest to get involved.
"What do I do? What do I do? Have I lost my husband? Have I lost his love? Lord, Father God, what should I do? Should I bare my womb again, to win my husband back? I don't want to lose another baby, but I don't want to lose my baby's father, either!"
The tide worked its way out of her, a flood of questions and tears, and left her panting on the cold flagstones. And in the peace that follows the storm, she felt her answer.
"Are you serious?" she asked God, but there was no reply, only the certain knowledge that she had been spoken to.
"I don't want to…" she whispered, but she crossed herself before the icon and bowed anyway, before exiting.
That night, Guinevere sent her servants away. "I want to be alone, tonight," she told them, and then sent her maid to find her husband.
The maid winked and told her that the job would be done right away. True to her word, within minutes Arthur was knocking at her door.
"Gwen? What's the matter, love?"
She shook her head and beckoned him in. "Nothing, Arthur. I just think that we need to have a very candid talk."
Guinevere settled herself on the couch and drew him down beside her. Then she readjusted her dress, and cleared her throat, folded her hands, unfolded them, and refolded them before finally standing to pace, waving him back to his seat, and then sitting across from him. "Arthur, I – It's been hard on you, hasn't it, my miscarriage. Es. All three of them. And the enforced celibacy, for both of us."
He cleared his throat then, but she reached across and covered his mouth with her fingers. "I know you've taken no lovers from the servants, or from the court ladies. People are such gossips, even around their queen. But, Arthur, that doesn't mean you can't. My trials don't have to be yours."
He took her hands in his. "Gwen, I love no one but you! You're the only woman for me; I can wait for you."
She smiled. "Arthur. A king has a duty to himself as well as to his people. I love you, and you love me. I know that. But you're on edge. I can feel it, and the whole court is starting to feel it too.
"And…Lancelot agrees with me."
He recoiled. "What are you saying, Gwen?"
She squeezed his hands. "I'm saying, I know what happened. I guessed, and Lancelot confirmed. Well, he tried to weasel out of answering, but the weasling told me everything I needed to know." The king tried to flinch away, but she held his hand. "Arthur. Listen to me. I need time to heal. You need Lancelot. Lance agrees."
"Why would he agree?" Arthur demanded.
There was a rustling from the bedroom as the blonde knight himself came around the doorjamb. "Because she's right, Arthur. As always. You married a woman with a very solid head on her shoulders."
"Lance…" Arthur's face was naked with raw emotion. Longing conflicting with shame and confusion. He turned to Guinevere. "What does this mean?"
She reached a hand to Lancelot and he took it. "It means," she said, placing king's and knight's hands together, "that I give you to one another. Do what you need to do to be happy, my love, until I am able to help you myself."
"But what will people say?"
A quick smile. "Only that you are doing your duties as a husband. Lance knows the passages through the walls; he can meet you here whenever you want."
"And you – you're okay with this, love?"
"I wouldn't do it if I weren't alright with it. I love you, Arthur, and I want only what is best for you."
"And Lance? Say no if you don't want…what it is my wife is offering. You can say no, no one will blame you."
Lancelot smiled. "Gwen made the proposition, but I agreed. I love you, Arthur, as much as I love her, as much as I love England."
Arthur slid from the couch and knelt before Guinevere, kissing her hands. "Thank you," he whispered.
Then he and his faithful knight disappeared into the bedchamber.
Guinevere glanced at the crucifix on the wall and gripped her beads tight. She would sleep in the sitting room tonight. "Am I doing the right thing?" she asked the icon. And she knew that no one else would believe her, but she could have sworn she saw the figure on the cross smile.