Guinevere: The Legend in Autumn by Persia Woolley Page B

no heed to the young, childish voice that begged me to relent before I imprisoned both of us in icy bitterness.
    Lance watched me anxiously, and I didn’t have to see them to know his eyes were pleading for forgiveness. Understanding I could give; forgiveness was beyond my grasp. At last, when he dismounted to open the pasture gate at the Road, I faced him with a cold smile.
    “Not bad for her first time out,” I said, patting Etain’s neck and refusing to acknowledge the cause for my flight.
    The Breton’s response was formal, accepting the distance that I was putting between us, but his voice was more ragged than the pursuit would warrant. “You might have been killed, M’lady.”
    “Oh, lots of things might have happened that didn’t,” I flung back, lifting my chin defiantly. There was no way I would admit to anyone—not the Gods nor Arthur, nor even Lance himself—how terribly deep the hurt had gone.
    So we rode back to Camelot in silence while I laid layer upon layer of pride across the wound before Elaine could arrive at Court and take Lancelot away from me.

Chapter VII
    Other Women’s Sons
     
    It seems there’s something worrying at you, M’lady,” Elyzabel said, concern making her unusually bold. I had chosen her to take Enid’s place as my maid and confidante in part because her broad northern accent reminded me of my childhood in Rheged, and her older years gave her advice an added weight. “I’m more than willing to listen,” she offered.
    We had ridden out to do some harvesting of our own, this being the best time to gather devil’s bit and the roots of marsh mallows. On the way home we went to gather some of the barbed teazles our weavers use for fulling, but as we approached the tall, dried plants, we found them surrounded by a charm of goldfinches. Perched on the spiky seedpods, the pretty little birds were busily extracting hidden seeds, fluttering and trilling among themselves without taking any notice of us. I stared at them in silence, wishing I could pick my way through my own thorny situation as blithely.
    “If you want to talk about it, that is,” Elyzabel continued, and I looked over at her. Seeing the friendship and concern on her face, I was tempted to pour out the whole story of Elaine’s trickery. But caution stilled my tongue. What if the rumor wasn’t true? Maybe Elaine wasn’t on her way to Court. Maybe she hadn’t even conceived, in which case there was no reason to mention the sordid little affair to anyone. Certainly I didn’t want to expose Lancelot to unnecessary embarrassment if it could be avoided.
    So the words stuck in my throat, and I ended by shaking my head mutely. I would go on struggling with the devils of jealousy and rage by myself.
    To the rest of the world I was always the busy Queen—quick, competent, unruffled by the daily squalls of a High Court. Even Arthur saw me so, and I doubted he noted the new edge to my voice. He even seemed oblivious to my tossing and turning as night after sleepless night went by. But then, my husband would sleep through anything that didn’t threaten his Britain.
    Only Lance, keeping himself as distant from me as I was from him, could guess at the chaos inside—the unshed tears, the long, heart-broken pleadings with the Gods, the wild swings between rage and sorrow.
    The thought of Elaine filled me with silent curses—at the girl, at Lancelot, and finally at the Gods. I turned the subject first this way and then that, trying to find a way to accept it graciously, but the very possibility of her bearing him a son opened too many taunts from the past.
    At least he had told me as soon as he heard the news, so it wasn’t really like finding out about Mordred. I had had no warning about that, for Arthur had kept the wretched secret of his fatherhood hidden from all save Bedivere and Merlin. So I’d blundered into that discovery all unknowing, and been devastated by Morgause’s gloating revelation.
    It had never