Free Guinevere: The Legend in Autumn by Persia Woolley

to seduce Lancelot into helping her unseat Arthur,” I noted. “That was several years back, but I can’t believe she’s abandoned the idea.”
    “Probably not abandoned,” Nimue agreed, holding up a vial of rosemary oil. “But getting rid of a popular king is hard and nasty work. And Morgan’s ambitions are split; on the one hand she wants the power of the throne, and on the other she’s determined to make worship of the Old Gods dominant throughout the land. But there are some who no longer trust her as a spiritual leader.”
    My eyebrows went up and Nimue put down the vial with a nod. “The Lady of the Lake is losing credence among the Druids. Her insistence on giving the Goddess supremacy over all the other Gods does not sit well with our Pagan priests. So perhaps your sister-in-law is too busy trying to consolidate her own base of power to be plotting against you.”
    “Perhaps,” I agreed, unconvinced.
    The doire reached over and put her hand on my arm. “Have no fear, Gwen—I will let you know if there’s any indication Arthur is in jeopardy again. Now, tell me, how is Albion’s Queen doing?”
    Her use of the ancient name for Britain brought a smile, and I assured her I was quite well.
    “And the royal marriage?” she prompted.
    “The most solid in Britain,” I assured her. Ours had been a political union to begin with, though I’d grown to love Arthur early on. And he’d come to love me, too, in his way; his distress when he thought I might leave once I learned about Mordred was proof of that. But after eleven years together I was as much a part of Arthur’s world as the sunrise, and even more taken for granted. So we laughed and argued and worked to make the Round Table a success, like parents struggling to raise a child, but never seemed to touch in more than flesh.
    “What of Lancelot?” Nimue continued, her great, dark eyes scanning my soul. She was the only person, other than Isolde, to whom I could speak freely about the Breton.
    “Ah, with Lance it is the opposite. We are just as close as ever, he is just as adamant about not going to bed, and I suppose we will spend the rest of our lives like that.” I gave her a rueful grin. “But I’d be lost if he wasn’t here, beside me.”
    Nimue’s gaze shifted to some space between now and the future, and I thought her eyes widened briefly. Then she was bending over a tray of packets, her slim fingers riffling quickly through them. At last she wrinkled her nose and pushing the herbs away, declared that she’d send her husband home alone after the Round Table while she stayed on to help process the simples for our medicine cupboard. With that we went to join the rest of the folk in the Hall, but I wondered what she had seen that made her think she should remain at Camelot.
    The feast that night was typical of our best hospitality, and afterward our own bard, Riderich, gave over the Harper’s Stool to the visiting storytellers of other monarchs. Before long the Hall rang with the ancient tales of glory and bravery, of famous heroes and the Gods who guided them. Most of the performers told their stories in the time-honored way, accompanying the well-loved words with runs of notes or an occasional chord, until Riderich’s pupil, Taliesin, set his small Irish harp on his knee. Then the sounds became melodies as he poured forth songs every bit as charming as any that Tristan himself might have sung.
    We listened, enthralled, for among Celts there is no force more powerful for invoking peace or pride than music. When the magic of the young man’s playing died a ways, Urien’s bard, Talhaern, rose to his feet and requested that we allow Taliesin to come study with him. Considering that Talhaern was called the Father of Inspiration, it was a fine compliment. I wondered if he knew how many people thought Taliesin was a changeling child, more fey than mortal, and that he was sometimes taken with fits, when strange words poured from his mouth.