Chapter Twenty-Two

Summer 514

Arthur wrote to Morgan and me as often as he could, keeping us abreast of their progress and obstacles in finding the Grail. By the time they reached the Sanctuary of the Stars, the Grail maidens had long since moved on, and they were having trouble tracking their movements.

Arthur wrote, “Despite the setbacks we encounter, I have great faith that the Holy Ghost will direct us to the Grail in the end. As each moment of our lives has led us to this point, each step we take brings us closer to our destined prize. Its acquisition will assure Camelot’s safety and prosperity as well as fix our legacy in the annals of time. Have no fear for me, for my passion for this great quest does not wane with time but rather grows as I see signs of God’s divine hand all around us. I beg you to keep me, the Combrogi, and this divine mission in your prayers. I send my love to both of you and to my son.”

When I read the letter aloud to Morgan and Mordred, he grumbled, “As his son, I should be by his side, not here with the women.”

But as much as he complained, Mordred was making good use of his time stuck in Camelot. He’d proclaimed himself Lord of Camelot in his father’s absence and my champion while Lancelot was away. He more than proved himself worthy of the jobs, displaying a subtle cunning he could have learned only from Lot and—despite his age and general attitude of superiority—a wisdom no doubt born of Ana’s influence.

Elaine was as taken with his progress as though he were her own son, which I supposed was only natural given that Galahad was off with Arthur and his men. Now that the boys were too old for her art lessons, she clung to me like spider silk, and her constant vacillations in mood grated on my nerves. Between Morgan’s gloating over her advancing pregnancy and Elaine’s ever-shifting joy at her son’s good fortune and despair that he would never return, I was surrounded by madwomen. I was liable to lock Elaine in the dungeon if I couldn’t find something useful for her to do.

One sticky summer afternoon when the clouds hung low in the sky, teasing us with the prospect of a storm, the Irish emissary and I were discussing the finer points of a new treaty with King Illan mac Dúnlainge of Leinster. I was trying to convince him that a proposal of marriage between Mordred and his lord’s daughter was only one option to securing peace in our lands when one of Arthur’s scouts was announced.

“Forgive me,” I said to the emissary, who, to my great annoyance, appeared relieved to be given leave of my argument. “Send him in.”

The scout was still breathing hard when he sank to one knee before me. “My lady, I come in advance of a party in need of your help. Lancelot and several others were most grievously wounded in Rheged battling a man who called himself the Grail Sentinel. I beg you make ready for their party.”

My hand flew to my mouth. For a moment, I could not speak. Fear coursed through me, panic riding in its wake. Lancelot, the man who had saved me countless times, the one whom I considered invincible, was wounded, and badly enough to be transported here. What of Arthur? Had they been together? My knees shook. But then, just as quickly, my experience on the fields of battle and my training as a priestess overrode my emotions.

“The king? How many injured? What is the extent of their wounds?” I found myself asking when all I wanted to do was collapse and cry.

“The king is well, I assure you. He is off in another land, following a lead in pursuit of the holy relic. Eight wounded in all. Most are in need of stitches and bone-setting, but I fear Lancelot suffered the worst. He took a blade in the side, and we cannot fully staunch the bleeding.”

“How much time before they arrive?”

The scout thought for a moment. “A day at most.”

“Thank you for giving us time to prepare.” I asked for Mordred to be sent to me. Once he arrived, I said, “See that our guest is well attended. Also, please find your mother. I have need of her assistance.” I nearly choked on the last sentence.

Mordred’s face lit up at his new responsibility. “Yes, my lady.” He turned to the scout. “Come, sir. Follow me.”

I found Elaine in the chapel, on her knees. “Elaine, raise your prayers to God as you work. We must prepare the barracks to receive a number of wounded.”

By nightfall, we had converted the barracks into an infirmary, just in time for the soldiers to arrive. Morgan set up a station for mixing herbs and dressing wounds while Elaine ensured supplies were at the ready and water was boiling in the cauldron over the fire. Grainne and I prepared a room in the castle, which was warmer and drier, for those requiring our constant attention.

The carts pulled into the gates of Camelot in the small hours of night, desperate shouts and whinnying of horses breaking the silence of the slumbering castle. Mordred stumbled from the entrance hall and began seeing to the horses without being asked, relieving the men to carry the wounded into the barracks.

The cart bearing Lancelot was in the middle of the pack. Before I even saw his face, I knew he was near to dying. His clothes and the sacks beneath him were pools of black, and even from a distance, the stench of infection made bile rise in my throat. Next to him in the cart were the spoils of his hard-won victory—the armor and head of the knight he had killed.

I wrinkled my nose at the rotting head and told the nearest guard, “Spike that up with the others and take his mail to the armory to see what we can learn from its construction. You two”—I gestured to Gareth and Owain, his guards on the journey here—“get him into the castle. Morgan will show you where to go.”

I watched them go, conflicted about whether to attend to him immediately or assess the others first.

“Go, be with him,” Grainne said as if reading my thoughts, as if she knew exactly what we were to each other. She squeezed my arm. “You and Morgan are his best hope. I have Elaine to help with the others. Go.” She shoved me gently toward the doors.

Morgan was already removing Lancelot’s clothing when I arrived. I grabbed a rag and soaked in it hot water, then I applied it to an area around his wound where his clothing adhered to his skin.

“It’s a wonder he has not died of blood loss,” Morgan said.

Lancelot looked to have been beaten within an inch of his life. His eyes were swollen, painted with purple and black bruises. His lower lip was split and puffy, a long gash running from the left side up an inflamed cheekbone. As my eyes traveled lower, his injuries only worsened. His skin was pale and clammy, a sure sign of inflection if the stench from the wound between his ribs wasn’t indication enough. One shoulder stuck out at an odd angle, and he appeared to have taken several crushing blows to the chest. But those would have to wait.

The cloth around his wound finally gave way, and we were able to see the full extent of the damage. The skin around it had already begun to fester, the sickly yellow-green bile the source of the stench. The men had done their best to pack the wound with moss and spider silk, and it was likely the reason why he was still alive now, but it was also the source of the infection.

“We’re going to have to cut this skin away,” Morgan said. “We need to cleanse the wound first though. Give him some poppy juice to ensure he feels nothing and does not wake.”

While she doused his wound with vinegar, I forced Lancelot’s mouth open and poured in a carefully measured dose of ruby syrup. Too little and he could stir, crazed with hallucinations. Too much and he might die.

“Be strong, my champion. For me. For the Goddess who raised you and the one who chose you as her own,” I whispered in his ear.

We set about the gruesome task of cleaning and debriding the wound. I was thankful for my years of training in Avalon, and even what I had seen at Caledon Wood and Badon, for without it, I surely would not have made it through the surgery. Once we could see the wound clearly, we found the source of the bleeding.

“It looks like he received the bite of an axe. We will have to close it off with heat,” Morgan said. “Take that poker out of the fire and bring it to me.”

I looked at her uncertainly. I’d never heard of such a method except in conjunction with amputation, which was external, not internal.

“Do you wish him to live or no?” She snapped her fingers at me. “The Greeks did this with much success. I learned it from the healer of Uther’s army, a Saracen woman. Have no fear.”

She placed the glowing tip of the poker into Lancelot’s wound. His flesh sizzled, giving off a smell not unlike meat over a spit. Morgan rinsed the wound once again—this time with boiled, cooled sea water—and inspected it.

“That should stop it.” She handed the poker back to me and motioned for a second one, which she placed on the external wound. With a puff of smoke and another sickening whiff of burning flesh, it closed. “If he was likely not to move this area, I would dress the wound as is, but given he will likely tear it open again, I think it best to reinforce it with stitches. Would you like to do the honors?”

I knelt at Lancelot’s side and carefully sewed his wound. “Where did you learn all of this? It goes well beyond our training in Avalon.”

“One does not spend years as a camp woman without learning a thing or two.” Her smile was wry. “Or did you believe I spent all of my time whoring? Of course you did. A battleground where the injured are from multiple lands is the best school a healer could ever ask for, if not the toughest.”

After I finished sewing and bandaging Lancelot’s wound, we set his broken bones and cleansed his remaining wounds.

Muttering as she worked, Morgan gave vent to her innermost feelings about her profession. “I’ve told Arthur a thousand times to bring a priestess with him on every mission for we could save lives if they were tended earlier, but he does not listen.”

Finally, we lifted the calfskin shades to let in fresh air and cleaned up the space so it resembled more a sick room than a surgery tent. I placed sweet-smelling herbs in vases and on hot coals and cool cloths on Lancelot’s forehead and neck to bring his fever down.

“Do you remember how to make a healing beer?” Morgan asked me.

“Yes.”

“When he is conscious and can tolerate water from the sacred springs, give him a thick beer of honey, mugwart, oats, and nettles. He will not like the taste, but he has lost a lot of blood, and it will do wonders to help him regain his strength. Then, and only then, allow him to try some bread. We don’t need him suffering stomach ills on top of everything else.”

I nodded, relieved to see her go. I began the process of brewing the ale, and once it could be left unattended, I sank to the floor next to Lancelot’s unconscious form and prayed. My mind could scarcely form words, but I trusted that my patrons, Rhiannon and Lugh, as well as the Morrigan, patroness of those wounded in battle, and Brigid, the great healer, would know the cries of my heart without words.

Sometime in the midst of my prayers, I must have fallen asleep for I walked in the land between worlds with Lancelot, battling a giant dressed in black, the man whose cruel eyes had stared at me from Lancelot’s side in the cart. I saw how hard Lancelot had fought and how he received every wound we’d tended, but what I did not know was why.

The knight had just sliced into Lancelot’s side with a fierce-looking axe on a long pole when I awoke with a start to a soft rapping on the door. I grunted something that was supposed to resemble “enter,” and Elaine peeked around the door. I sat up, motioning for her to come in.

She handed me a cup of wine, which I gratefully drained. “I thought you could use some relief. I have already slept a little. Morgan is abed, and Grainne is watching over those in the barracks. Get some sleep. I will stand vigil.” Elaine’s eyes misted over, and her face became wistful.

Her expression reminded me of her youthful crush on Lancelot and her fancy that he would become her husband. Oh, how our lives had taken paths we could never have foreseen.

I stood and kissed her cheek. “He is in the hands of his gods. We have done all we can.”

Elaine smiled sadly and fingered the enameled ring on her left hand. “Indeed. I will pray for him.”

I returned her joyless smile. “That is all we can do. If he wakes, please come find me. Oh!” I suddenly remembered the beginnings of the beer. I covered it tightly. “Be sure no one disturbs this.”

Elaine nodded, sitting on a stool at Lancelot’s side.

As I slipped out, Elaine took Lancelot’s hand and kissed it. Silent tears rolled down her cheeks. Was it possible? Could Elaine still harbor feelings for Lancelot? Surely he could not be her mysterious husband—or could he? I shook my head. No, he certainly would not have engaged in an affair with me were that the case. Yet the memory of Elaine’s grief lingered in my mind, as did the seed of doubt.

One week passed, then two. Lancelot did not improve. I began to fear he would never wake. My days were spent in constant vigil at his side, trading off with Morgan or Elaine only to sleep or perform necessary duties. By the time the full moon came around, we were all at our wits’ end.

Morgan wanted to give him wolfsbane to try to draw his spirit back, but I was hesitant.

She wheeled on me when I expressed my concern. “So it was all right for Isolde to use the same drug on you when you were far less injured, but you take issue with me using it to save a dying man?”

I couldn’t answer her because she was right in calling out my hypocrisy. But I couldn’t let go of the story Merlin had told me about her poisoning Rowena so long ago in Avalon.

“How do you know you won’t kill him?” I asked.

She glared at me. “You know I do not know. I am only doing as we were both trained. And as I have far more experience in these dire situations than you, I do not think you are in a place to judge.”

I decided to lay my fears on the table. “What about Rowena? You made a mistake once, and she nearly died.”

“You”—she pointed at me—“were not there. How dare you judge me based on what you did not see for yourself?” She shook her head. “Is that it? Are you afraid I will poison him on purpose? To what end? I have nothing to gain if Lancelot dies. He is Arthur’s dearest friend. I would do nothing to hurt him. Why do you always insist on finding me guilty before even asking my side? I may not like you, but I am not out to destroy everyone I meet.”

She was right. “What did happen that day?” I asked in a small voice.

Morgan gave a sarcastic laugh. “Twenty years on and now you wish to know.” She turned away from me as she prepared the elixir. “I will tell you this—it was not I who added the offending herb to my brew but another who wished to take my place as second. I will not name her, as I have never found proof, but if I ever do, I will kill her with my bare hands in public for all to see. That is the real reason why I left Avalon. I could not remain there knowing there was one willing to kill to take my place.”

She gave Lancelot the wolfsbane, and we continued our cycle of vigil, tending wounds, and sleep.

A few days later, as I was trudging back from a particularly difficult pleading day, during which I’d lost my patience with the petitioners more than once, Owain and I crossed paths.

“You look like death visited you then changed her mind,” he joked.

I glared at him but said nothing.

“Are you hungry?” He was already steering me toward the kitchens.

“Famished,” I answered as I sank down on a bench.

He set a cut of meat in front of me on a thick trencher of bread along with a mug of heady ale.

We chewed in silence before I finally asked him, “What happened to Lancelot?”

Owain looked up. “I was wondering when someone was going to ask. Nasty situation that. We were heading into a valley near the border of Rheged and Powys when we encountered him.” Owain gestured out the window to where the knight’s head now decayed on a pike. “Did you know the villagers are calling him the Black Knight since his entire armor was dark? Anyway, he called himself the Grail Sentinel and declared that anyone who sought it must defeat him first. None of us know if he had any official position or was simply a local loon capitalizing on the quest, but we had to face him in case he was really the final guardian.” Owain took a long draught from his cup. “Whoever he was, he was well trained. He insisted on challenging each of us to single combat. You’ve seen what he did to Lancelot. The others in the infirmary are the ones who managed to escape. Some were not so lucky.”

I stared into my cup. “I wish I had known how all would suffer.” I looked at him. “I had the chance to stop this, to talk Arthur out of this madness, and I did not.”

Owain scrutinized me. “Who said this would be easy? A quest commanded by a god or goddess never is. Think about the old tales. These situations are sent to test our strength and our faith. If we pass, the rewards will be great.”

“If” was the word ringing in my head as I finished my meal.
I was just about to thank Owain for his company and insight when Elaine found us. Her eyes were red-rimmed, and tear stains marred her face. My heart stopped. Surely she was here to tell us Lancelot was dead. I placed shaking hands on her shoulders, looking deep into her eyes.

“Lancelot is awake,” she whispered.

“Oh, thank the gods.” I hugged Elaine.

I started to release her, but she stopped me by holding up two small vials. She must have taken them from the store in Lancelot’s room.

“May I borrow these?” she asked. “If I am correct, they are chamomile and comfrey. I would like to use them on my nervous stomach and sore knees.”

I squinted at them, making sure she had properly identified them. “Yes, but be certain not to ingest the comfrey. It is poisonous.”

Leaving Elaine, I rushed to the sick room. I was so relieved to see Lancelot conscious that I fell to my knees at his side.

“How do you feel?” I asked, grasping his hands. It took all my willpower not to kiss him lest someone walk in at the wrong moment.

“I’m in pain. A lot of it. And I’m having trouble recalling how I came to be in Camelot. I remember the knight and his armor, but that is all. I don’t remember drawing my sword or being attacked.” Lancelot looked down at his mending body. “But obviously I was.” Looking at me, he added. “Thank you for saving me, Guinevere.”

I put a hand on his shoulder. “You remember who you are, where you are, and who I am, so you will be well. It will just take time.” I handed him a cup of healing beer.

He started to shrug then winced. “If you believe so, it must be true.” His tone was slightly flirtatious, so I knew he would be just fine.

“I will stay here with you as long as you like. But when you feel up to getting out of bed, let me know. Morgan has given me detailed instructions on how to continue your treatment.”

He puffed out a small laugh, all his broken ribs would allow. “Follow it or face the consequences, yes?”

“Something like that.” I chuckled. “Finish your beer.”

Again the moon waxed and waned, and we had no word from Arthur nor any of the other questing knights. Lancelot was improving, eating a steady diet of liver and whatever greens we could find to help him regain his strength. Each day, we walked with him around the grounds, going a little farther each time.

By spring, Mordred’s seventeenth year was drawing near, the time he would be considered a man according to his father’s tribe. But Arthur had not yet returned, so Lot stood in at Mordred’s manhood ritual. Morgan, as his mother, was not allowed to witness the ritual for it symbolized Mordred breaking free of his need of her and coming into his own. However, as priestesses, Grainne and I watched over him as he meditated deep in the woods the night before he was set loose to kill or be killed by whatever beast the Hag decreed.

In silence, we approached him, Grainne dressed all in white with flowers entwined in her hair, acting as the Virgin Goddess who armed him for the hunt. She gave him a spear and a sling with a single stone. I was the Mother Goddess. My red dress reflected the blood with which I now painted him, blood kept from the stag Arthur had killed in Avalon, reconstituted for this very purpose. His absent mother represented the Crone and the wisdom he had gained at her skirts. Together, we handed him off to Lot and the other men, who would council him until nightfall, when his hunt would commence.

The following day, we haunted the forest, trying to sneak a look at the young warrior and making noise to throw off his senses. It was great fun for adults but, I was sure, not amusing to Mordred, who could not return to this camp until he had proof of his kill.

Lancelot and I walked and talked as we usually did but were so engrossed in our conversation we failed to notice when we became separated from the others.

Thunder rumbled in the distance. It was the first thing that drew our attention away from each other.

“A storm is coming,” I said stupidly as heavy drops of rain began to fall.

We raced back toward the castle, but the rain was coming down so hard we both knew we would not make it before the storm broke in earnest. With a deafening crack, lightning struck a tree not one hundred paces in front of us. I screamed and practically jumped into Lancelot’s arms.

Once my heart had slowed to its normal rhythm, I looked around to get my bearings. Even through the rainy haze, I knew where we were. I grabbed Lancelot’s arm and tugged.

“Come on,” I yelled over the rolling thunder. “I know where we can take shelter.”

I led him to a small hut deep in the woods. It was made of bent saplings, just as Diarmad’s had been, but this made his house look like a castle. I pushed on a clump of branches, and they gave way, allowing us entry into the tiny dwelling.

The hut was a single room, barely wider than Lancelot was tall. The floor was bare earth, and a circle of rocks served as a fire pit. Overhead, a few ancient clumps of herbs hung from the roof, long past their prime.

Lancelot immediately went to the only furniture in the room—a small chest. He pulled out a moth-eaten blanket and threw it at me playfully. I caught it and dried my hair while he kindled a small fire.

“It’s a hunter’s cabin, meant to be a retreat while they wait for game or need a place to spend the night,” I said by way of apology for the mean surroundings, dumping my wet cloak in one corner. “Not nearly as nice as the one we found in the mountains.”

Outside, lightning lit up the sky, and thunder shook the ground.

“It is fine, I assure you,” Lancelot said. “I’ve bedded down in worse places.”

I peered through the branches. “I hope Mordred won his hunt already. I cannot imagine fighting a wild animal in weather like this.”

Lancelot stood behind me. “He is fine. The animals have better senses than we do. They would have disappeared into their dens, burrows, and caves long before the storm rolled in.”

I felt simpleminded in the wake of such a logical explanation. “You know this from experience, I suspect?” I turned, not realizing until it was too late that I was now trapped in the cage of his arms.

Lancelot’s face was only inches from mine. “I have spent quite a bit of time in the wild.” He backed up, turning away. “Some of it with you,” he added with a small laugh.

I sat next to the fire and traced random patterns in the dirt to distract myself from his nearness, his smell, and the heat beginning to course through my veins. He wasn’t ready yet, I told myself. He still needed time to heal.

Lancelot sat down opposite me, the small orange flames between us. For a while, we simply listened to the storm. Eventually he pulled off his wet shirt and discarded it next to my soaked cloak.

He said my name between booms of thunder. “Can I tell you something?”

I had to move closer to hear him. “Anything.”

“Sometimes—” He swallowed and tried again. “Sometimes I feel like I will be forever haunted by a memory I do not have. Of the Black Knight who almost stole my life.”

I gazed at him, unused to a man being so open about his feelings. Perhaps it was his Breton ancestry that made him be so candid with me. I gave him a small half smile. “I understand, in a way. I too was haunted—but by what I did remember. If Avalon taught me one thing, it is that until you admit what you’ve experienced, you cannot move on.”

Lancelot stoked the fire and added more wood until it was a respectable size. “But how can I if I cannot remember it?”

“I can help you.”

“How?”

“We have a ritual of remembrance in Avalon. I went through it myself before I returned to Camelot. All you have to do is trust me.” I stood.

He took my hands. “I have pledged my life to you. Say the word, and it is done.”

I plucked a handful of herbs from the clusters above. Sage and wild lettuce. They were dusty and bone dry, but they would do. I rearranged the stones so that, when placed on top of them, the herbs would smoke but not be consumed by the flames until they had given off their full fragrance.

“Do you have a water skin?”

Lancelot unhooked it from his belt. We each took a drink, then I poured a generous amount on the fire. I inhaled deeply. It was hickory wood. This was a good start.

I cast the herbs into the steam and fire. “Move over.”

He moved against one wall so I could sit in front of him, water skin in my lap.

“Now breathe deeply.”

We both inhaled.

“Close your eyes. Listen the rhythm of the rain.” Once his breathing slowed, I took his hand and placed it on my chest. His breath caught, but I ignored it. “Now concentrate on matching your heartbeat to mine.”

I poured another handful of water over the stones, and they hissed, sending hot white smoke into the air.

“Open your eyes and look into the steam. Tell me what you see.”

His heartbeat increased along with his breathing. “The Black Knight is coming at me, swinging his terrible axe. I am defending myself but only just. He slams into me, knocking me to the ground. But that is not enough for him. He bangs my head into the ground, punching me about the face and chest while I am immobile. But I rally, pushing him off, struggling to my feet. I slash out with my sword, getting in a few good blows before he is on me again. I force him back, knocking off his helmet, and he stares at me with those crazed black eyes.” Lancelot’s voice caught.

His body trembled against my back. I poured more water onto the rocks.

“Then what? What happens next?” I prompted.

“He wraps his hands around my neck, trying to suffocate me. I’m choking, but then I get a grip on his hair and yank his head back. Turning my head, I bite his fingers, forcing him to release me. We come at each other again, breathing heavily. He swings his axe, catching me in the side. I am down, done for. But my companions are not. They rush the knight and finally bring him down as I fade in and out of consciousness. They help me up and put a sword in my hand, holding down the dying knight.

“‘Take your honor for this victory is yours,’ they say to me. Suddenly, I am full of strength. I know what I must do. I raise the blade and bring it down through the flesh and corded muscle of his neck, through the bone and nerves, until it rolls to the side in a river of blood and he is no more.”

“Good, now there is one more thing you must do so this new knowledge does not haunt you.” I patiently recounted the steps of closing one’s mind to a memory, the very same steps Viviane had taught me so many years before when I first arrived in Avalon.

Silence descended on us, comforting as a blanket. We sat in it until a peal of thunder startled us out of our reverie. I glanced over my shoulder at Lancelot. His skin was covered in sweat, face pale as chalk, eyes still haunted. I started to get up, but he held me fast.

“Thank you.” His voice was husky, as though he’d just awoken from a deep sleep. “You truly are a goddess.”

I ducked my head, embarrassed, and plucked at my tunic, which was clinging to my skin in the heat from the rainwater, fire, and steam. “I am not. I am a priestess, and it is my sworn duty to use what I know to give relief to those who are suffering whenever I can.”

Lancelot brushed a piece of hair from my cheek. “There is something else, something I haven’t told you.” He shifted so I could face him. “After the battle, when I was unconscious, I saw the place where the Grail is kept. I was allowed to venture inside but only so far. When I tried to move forward, it was as though an invisible barrier held me back. But I could see beyond. There, on a pedestal, was the Grail. But it was veiled. Nearby was a beautiful woman with eyes like leaves after the rain and ink-black hair. She had your face.”

I gasped.

Lancelot put a finger to my lips. “I heard her voice, or rather your voice, in my head. ‘Son of the Lake, your soul is torn. You cannot serve the Grail and the queen, for she is Sovereignty, singularly demanding of your attention. You must make a choice.’”

He leaned into me, his breath warm on my lips. “I chose you. I will never behold the Grail in its true form because of that, but I am at peace. I have been yours from the moment I set eyes on you at the tournament.”

I learned in and kissed him, my fingers tangling in his black curls, tightening, pulling, wanting. Needing. Our tongues touched, seeking the deepest recesses of one another.

I gently pushed him onto his back, mindful of his still-mending wounds, and pulled off my tunic, baring my breasts in the firelight. Leaning over him, I ran my tongue over his chest and stomach, stopping only when his trousers got in the way. Running my fingers slowly up his thighs, I groaned when I felt his arousal. He lifted his hips, and I peeled off his trousers. I’d intended to take him into my mouth, but he guided my hips over his. I closed my eyes and brought him into me.

I raised my arms and brought the energy of the storm into my body, every nerve tingling as I moved against him, grinding my hips in time with the vibration of the thunder all around us.

Lancelot sat up and lowered his head to my breasts, tongue flicking, tantalizing, teasing. I arched my back, crying out as pleasure built in my limbs. I moved my hips faster, seeking release. He moaned and kissed my neck, gripping my shoulders as his breathing grew ragged. I closed my eyes and grasped his shoulder blades. Waves of pleasure washed through me, and I dug my nails into his back and tossed my head back with a primal scream. Moments later, Lancelot groaned, and a spasm shook him as a surge of warmth filled my loins.

We collapsed in a heap next to the fire, panting, slowly returning to our senses.

I gazed at him, amazed at how happy I felt. This man was once again my lover, and I had no shame in it. For what felt like hours, we lay in each other’s arms, caught up in our own thoughts, his fingertips tracing lazy circles on my upper arms.

“We should probably go,” Lancelot finally murmured. “The worst of the storm has ended, and the others will be wondering what happened to us.”

“Mmm. . . hmm,” I replied but made no move to get up. Then I remembered Mordred and my duty to him.

After hastily donning our clothes, we stepped out into the rain. It was still coming down hard, but I relished it, letting it wash the sweat and smell of desire off of me.

Lot and Grainne were waiting beneath the canopy of an ash tree when we reached the place Mordred had departed the morning before.

“We were caught in the storm. Found a hunter’s hut,” I explained before anyone could ask.

“We were too,” Lot said, holding up his dripping sleeve as proof. “But we were not so lucky. This is the best cover we could find.”

“It helps to know these woods.” I rubbed my hands together. “Any sign of Mordred?”

“Not yet.”

The rain slowly dissipated, then the sun broke through, giving the remaining drops an Otherworldly quality, like golden showers of faerie dust. I laughed and ducked out from beneath the leaves, spinning in the rain like a giddy young girl. It wasn’t long before Grainne joined me. We held hands and skipped in circles, reveling in the joy of the moment.

“Look!” Lancelot cried, pointing toward the west.

At first I thought he was directing our attention to the vivid rainbow stretching across the sky, but then a figure caught my eye. Mordred stood at the edge of the wood, scratched and bloody, a large boar slung over his shoulders. He flung his burden to the ground and flashed a triumphant grin.

Lot was the first to reach him. “Congratulations, son. You are now a man of the tribe.”

Mordred wrenched a tusk from the boar and used it to slit open the beast’s belly. I painted Mordred’s face and chest with the blood, confirming the veracity of his kill.

Then, while Lancelot and Lot spoke words of welcome into the tribe of men, Grainne and I removed the beast’s entrails, seeking to divine Mordred’s future in them. I plunged my hands into the hot, steaming mess, and my sight clouded over. Mordred was before me, fully grown. His face was painted in wild symbols with woad and chalk, hair limed for battle. Behind him was a vast army of Picts, Irish, and Saxons, and next to him stood Elga in all her ferocious glory. I could not see whom he opposed, but whoever it was stood little chance of victory over this army.

I came back to myself with a start and looked at the proud boy being kindly harassed by Lot and Lancelot. What was to come to turn him into such a hardened warrior? I shook my head, seeking to clear it, and washed my hands and arms clean.

“The gods have foretold you will be a great warrior,” I told Mordred, keeping the particulars to myself. There was no need to burden him at such a young age with knowledge that may or may not come to pass. “Receive the blessing of Sovereignty.” I kissed his forehead, lips, and heart.

Grainne took up his spear and sling along with a sword specially commissioned by Arthur for this occasion. “Be armed by the Goddess and live to uphold her ways.”

Lancelot and Lot cheered, lifting Mordred onto their shoulders.

“Now, son. . .” Lot chuckled. “Let’s find you a woman and finish making you man!”