Guinevere: The Legend in Autumn by Persia Woolley Page A

opened up again—bleak and empty, full of despair and the bitter knowledge that I could never achieve what every milkmaid and scullery girl found so exceptionally easy. Not only had that chit of a girl bedded the man I could not, she’d given him a child as well. A child…the very gift of life and immortality which I could never give Arthur or Lance or anyone else.
    The air had gone out of my lungs and I stared, stupefied, at the dragonfly that had come to rest on the edge of the rock. It had lost all its color, like a world gone dead.
    Gradually realization seeped through me. It spread through my body like a giant, throbbing bruise until even my fingers and toes ached with the pain of it. Jumping to my feet, I let out a wail and began to run blindly toward the horses.
    “Gwen!” Lance’s cry reached me as I tugged Etain’s reins free and swung up into the saddle. “Gwen, wait!”
    But the filly took her cue from my wordless scream, pivoting to head across the meadow toward the broken woods beyond. I leaned forward, keeping enough pressure on the bit so that she was still within my power, but urging her on as much as possible. After the first few strides she lengthened out, growing more confident by the second.
    Behind us, Lance’s horse was pounding to catch up, so I gave Etain’s ribs a solid whack with my heels, and she summoned up an extra burst of speed as we entered the trees.
    It was not the first time I’d tried to outrun my fate. When Bedivere confirmed that Mordred was indeed Arthur’s son, I had bolted from the knowledge, racing into the wind of an oncoming storm.
    But that was down a clear Roman Road. Now I was trying to guide an inexperienced animal through an ever-darkening wood. Hazel withes whipped my arms as Etain swerved wildly to avoid the most obvious thickets, and I barely ducked in time to miss a low-hanging branch. The trunks of huge trees raced past as she bolted through the forest, and I wondered fleetingly how soon before we’d crash headlong into one of them. At last I gave up trying to guide her, and letting her have her head, twined my hands in her flaxen mane and crouched forward along her neck.
    Instinctively the filly plunged toward the openings where golden sunlight denoted space between high arching oak and ash. We plunged dizzyingly from shadow to light and on again, and the blood that pounded in my ears drowned out all thoughts of jealousy and betrayal, irony and woeful lack. The whole of my world had narrowed down to simply trying to survive.
    Suddenly the land fell away and I caught a glimpse of soft, rolling pastures beyond a stone wall. Etain was going too fast to stop, so with a tightening of knees and thighs, I set the filly to the barrier, praying she had more sense than her scatter-brained mother.
    She took the wall at full speed, collecting and launching into the air as though she’d grown wings. Even her landing was graceful, without stumble or hesitation, and when I shifted my weight and gathered up the reins again, the young mare slowed to a trot, tossing her head and arching her neck proudly.
    A great wave of relief and affection washed over me—I was still alive more because of her good instincts than my own, and I patted her withers gratefully.
    Behind us Lance’s warhorse cleared the wall with practiced ease. By the time we’d crossed the pasture he’d caught up and we rode side-by-side in measured silence.
    Whatever else that horrendous ride had produced, my panic had subsided, leaving me able to think calmly once more—though I still couldn’t bring myself to look at him, lest the rage that was building in me toward Elaine should be channeled directly at him instead.
    The air between us turned as brittle as glass on the verge of shattering. With each breath the wall of silence rose higher, like the crystal tower the peasants claim Nimue erected around Merlin. It hid not the death of a body, as the old stories say, but my withdrawal from love, and I paid