‘What do you know already?’ I asked.
‘I know what Morgan chooses to tell me, and what that bitch chooses is a version of her wretched God’s truth.’ She spoke loudly enough to be overheard by anyone eavesdropping on our conversation.
‘I doubt that Morgan’s God was disappointed by what happened,’ I said, then told her the full story of that Samain Eve. She stayed silent when I had finished, just staring out of the window at the snow-covered compound where a dozen hardy pilgrims knelt before the holy thorn. I fed the fire from the pile of logs beside the wall.
‘So Nimue took Gwydre to the summit?’ Guinevere asked.
‘She sent Blackshields to fetch him. To kidnap him, in truth. It wasn’t difficult. The town was full of strangers and all kinds of spearmen were wandering in and out of the palace.’ I paused. ‘I doubt he was ever in real danger, though.’
‘Of course he was!’ she snapped.
Her vehemence took me aback. ‘It was the other child who was to be killed,’ I protested, ‘Mordred’s son. He was stripped, ready for the knife, but not Gwydre.’
‘And when that other child’s death had accomplished nothing, what would have happened then?’
Guinevere asked. ‘You think Merlin wouldn’t have hung Gwydre by his heels?’
‘Merlin would not do that to Arthur’s son,’ I said, though I confess there was no conviction in my voice.
‘But Nimue would,’ Guinevere said, ‘Nimue would slaughter every child in Britain to bring the Gods back, and Merlin would have been tempted. To get so close,’ she held a finger and thumb a coin’s breadth apart, ‘and with only Gwydre’s life between Merlin and the return of the Gods? Oh, I think he would have been tempted.’ She walked to the fire and opened her robe to let the warmth inside its folds. She wore a black gown beneath the robe and had not a single jewel in sight. Not even a ring on her fingers. ‘Merlin,’ she said softly, ‘might have felt a pang of guilt for killing Gwydre, but not Nimue. She sees no difference between this world and the Otherworld, so what does it matter to her if a child lives or dies? But the child that matters, Derfel, is the ruler’s son. To gain what is most precious you must give up what is most valuable, and what is valuable in Dumnonia is not some bastard whelp of Mordred’s. Arthur rules here, not Mordred. Nimue wanted Gwydre dead. Merlin knew that, only he hoped that the lesser deaths would suffice. But Nimue doesn’t care. One day, Derfel, she’ll assemble the Treasures again and on that day Gwydre will have his blood drained into the Cauldron.’
‘Not while Arthur lives.’
‘Not while I live either!’ she proclaimed fiercely, and then, recognizing her helplessness, she shrugged. She turned back to the window and let the brown robe drop. ‘I haven’t been a good mother,’ she said unexpectedly. I did not know what to say, so said nothing. I had never been close to Guinevere, indeed she treated me with the same rough mix of affection and derision that she might have extended to a stupid but willing dog, but now, perhaps because she had no one else with whom to share her thoughts, she offered them to me. ‘I don’t even like being a mother,’ she admitted. ‘These women, now,’ she indicated Morgan’s white-robed women who hurried through the snow between the shrine’s buildings, ‘they all worship motherhood, but they’re all as dry as husks. They weep for their Mary and tell me that only a mother can know true sadness, but who wants to know that?’ She asked the question fiercely. ‘It’s all such a waste of life!’ She was bitterly angry now. ‘Cows make good mothers and sheep suckle perfectly adequately, so what merit lies in motherhood? Any stupid girl can become a mother! It’s all that most of them are fit for! Motherhood isn’t an achievement, it’s an inevitability!’ I saw she was weeping despite her anger.
‘But it was all Arthur ever wanted me to be! A suckling cow!’
‘No, Lady,’ I said.
She turned on me angrily, her eyes bright with tears. ‘You know more than I about this, Derfel?’
‘He was proud of you, Lady,’ I said awkwardly. ‘He revelled in your beauty.’
‘He could have had a statue made of me if that’s all he wanted! A statue with milk ducts that he could clamp his infants onto!’
‘He loved you,’ I protested.
She stared at me and I thought she was about to erupt into a blistering anger, but instead she smiled wanly. ‘He worshipped me, Derfel,’ she said tiredly, ‘and that is not the same thing as being loved.’ She sat suddenly, collapsing onto a bench beside the wooden chest. ‘And being worshipped, Derfel, is very tiresome. But he seems to have found a new goddess now.’
‘He’s done what, Lady?’
‘You didn’t know?’ She seemed surprised, then plucked up the letter. ‘Here, read it.’
I took the parchment from her. It carried no date, just the superscription Moridunum, showing that it had been written from Oengus mac Airem’s capital. The letter was in Arthur’s solid handwriting and was as cold as the snow that lay so thick on the windowsill. ‘You should know, Lady,’ he had written, ‘that I am renouncing you as my wife and taking Argante, daughter of Oengus mac Airem, instead. I do not renounce Gwydre, only you.’ That was all. It was not even signed.
‘You really didn’t know?’ Guinevere asked me.
‘No, Lady,’ I said. I was far more astonished than Guinevere. I had heard men say that Arthur should take another wife, but he had said nothing to me and I felt oifended that he had not trusted me. I felt offended and disappointed. ‘I didn’t know,’ I insisted.
‘Someone opened the letter,’ Guinevere said in wry amusement. ‘You can see they left a smudge of dirt on the bottom. Arthur wouldn’t do that.’ She leaned back so that her springing red hair was crushed against the wall. ‘Why is he marrying?’ she asked.
I shrugged. ‘A man should be married, Lady.’
‘Nonsense. You don’t think any the less of Galahad because he’s never married.’
‘A man needs. ’ I began, then my voice tailed away.
‘I know what a man needs,’ Guinevere said with amusement. ‘But why is Arthur marrying now? You think he loves this girl?’
‘I hope so, Lady.’
She smiled. ‘He’s marrying, Derfel, to prove that he doesn’t love me.’
I believed her, but I dared not agree with her. ‘I’m sure it’s love, Lady,’ I said instead. She laughed at that. ‘How old is this Argante?’
‘Fifteen?’ I guessed. ‘Maybe only fourteen?’
She frowned, thinking back. ‘I thought she was meant to marry Mordred?’
‘I thought so too,’ I answered, for I remembered Oengus offering her as a bride to our King.
‘But why should Oengus marry the child to a limping idiot like Mordred when he can put her into Arthur’s bed?’ Guinevere said. ‘Only fifteen, you think?’
‘If that.’
‘Is she pretty?’
‘I’ve never seen her, Lady, but Oengus says she is.’
‘The Ui Liathain do breed pretty girls,’ Guinevere said. ‘Was her sister beautiful?’
‘Iseult? Yes, in a way.’
‘This child will need to be beautiful,’ Guinevere said in an amused voice. ‘Arthur won’t look at her otherwise. All men have to envy him. That much he does demand of his wives. They must be beautiful and, of course, much better behaved than I was.’ She laughed and looked sideways at me. ‘But even if she’s beautiful and well behaved it won’t work, Derfel.’
‘It won’t?’
‘Oh, I’m sure the child can spit out babies for him if that’s what he wants, but unless she’s clever he’ll get very bored with her.’ She turned to gaze into the fire. ‘Why do you think he wrote to tell me?’
‘Because he thinks you should know,’ I said.