Shouts of celebration rang down the line, and knights and squires began dismounting and unloading their packs and building fires and gathering together. Terence looked for Mordred, but in the milling crowds and dark could not tell which figure was his. Alexander embraced Alis, then Acoriondes, and joined in the raucous party that was developing around them. Bread and cheese and figs and salted meats were spread out on blankets—a military feast—while Alexander procured from somewhere a bottle of wine.
"This one is mine!" he declared jovially. "The rest of you have to find your own." He raised the bottle in a toast and called out, "To Lady Sarah of Milrick, soon my empress!" and took a long drink from the bottle. A few seconds later he choked, gasped, tried to speak, then fell to his knees and crumpled over on his side. Frantically shoving three petrified knights to one side, Terence threw himself to the ground beside the emperor, feeling at his neck. Behind him he was vaguely aware of an agonized scream—it sounded like Alexander's brother, Cligés—then heard Acoriondes's pleading voice gasping, "Terence! Terence!"
Terence looked up into his friend's eyes. "He's dead," Terence said.
BOOK II: CLIGÉS
The Elixir of Good Dreams
Terence had come to Greece to fight a war, and afterward to attend a wedding. He stayed for a friend's funeral.
The Emperor Alexander was laid to rest with great honor and deep grief. It was clear that the people of Greece regarded Alexander in much the same light as the English regarded King Arthur—as that one ruler in a hundred who actually put their welfare above his own—and they mourned his passing accordingly. Since Alexander had no sons, Cligés was declared his successor. He promptly declined the throne—at least until he came of age in two years. At that time, under imperial law, he would have no choice, but until then he was permitted to leave the government in the hands of a regent. He immediately named Alis to continue in that role. Cligés said he could never replace his brother and refused to let people call him emperor; Alis only looked weary at the thought of two more years of rule.
To be sure, there had been some who, shortly after Alexander's death, had wondered if perhaps Cligés had poisoned his brother so as to seize the throne. Several of the Greek courtiers speculated openly on this possibility, showing no particular surprise or outrage at the idea, and Terence began to understand what Acorion-des had meant when he said that the imperial court had a history of plots. But even the Greeks had to admit that Cligés's grief for his brother was genuine and that it would be very odd for him to murder his brother then refuse to take his place. After Cligés, suspicion turned to Alis, who had already assumed the throne once, but in the light of Alis's offer to let Alexander execute him, that theory sounded hollow as well. Terence had his own suspicions, of course, but he still could think of no reason for Mordred to have done such a thing. In the end, no one had seen who gave Alexander the poisoned wine, and that was where the matter rested.
Once the funeral and the period of mourning were over, Gawain began talking about returning to England. Terence knew that Count Anders's rebellion was never far from his mind, and that his friend was eager to be at Arthur's side again. The English troops set a day for their return and began provisioning for the journey. On the night before their departure, as the English knights were meeting with Acoriondes to discuss their route home, they got a surprise. Upon being asked for his opinion on some matter, Mordred said, "Do you know, I think I won't be going with you."
"Eh?" said Gawain.
"You remember what King Arthur said when he sent me with you—that it would be good for me to visit foreign lands?" He frowned thoughtfully. "Or rather, wasn't that helpful suggestion from our dear Greek friend? Oh, well—it doesn't matter. Now that I'm here, I think I might do some traveling, maybe visit the Holy Lands. After all, I was out looking for adventures when all this started, remember?"
Terence had mixed feelings about this. On the one hand, anything that kept Mordred away from England seemed a good thing; on the other hand, anything that kept Mordred out from under his watchful gaze seemed dangerous. At that point, Dinadan's drawling voice interrupted his thoughts. "Since you bring it up," he said, "I've been thinking the same way myself. These Greek musicians have some fascinating instruments, and once I get the hang of the language, I'd like to hear their stories. I might just stay here awhile." He glanced at Acoriondes. "So long as it's all right with the regent, of course."
Acoriondes bowed his head. "I am sure it will be, Sir Dinadan. And if it is not convenient for him, I would be honored to have you as my own guest. Indeed, if I might make so bold, I have another suggestion." He raised his eyes to Terence's and said, "I have been mourning your departure already, my friend, wishing that I could show you more of our lands and customs. Could I persuade you to be my personal guest here at Athens, Squire Terence?"
Terence hesitated for only a second. If Mordred wasn't returning to England, there was no need for him to do so, either.
"Why, yes," Terence said. "I think I would enjoy that. You don't mind, do you, milord?"
"Only if I end up doing my own cooking," Gawain replied.
Later that night, after the council had broken up, Terence led Gawain apart from the others. It was time for Gawain to know all the questions and doubts that he and Acoriondes had had concerning Mordred. He explained it all carefully, and when he had done, Gawain was silent for a long time. "It seems pretty thin," he said at last. "As you say, every one of your suspicions could be explained away by something completely innocent."
"That's why I haven't said anything to you before," Terence replied. "There's not one thing that counts as real proof. But when you have enough little suspicions, they start to add up."
"Maybe," Gawain said. "Or maybe you're seeing things that aren't really there because you're already suspicious. Like this last notion: What could Mordred possibly have to gain by poisoning Alexander?"
"I know," Terence said with a sigh. "But what does he have to gain from any of this? Nothing I can imagine."
"Hmm," Gawain grunted. "Unless he knows who his father is."
"What?"
"We've all been taking his word for it that he has no idea which knight it was who fathered him. But if he knew it was Arthur, then he'd know he has a claim to the throne. That'd explain why he might stir up a revolt. If he could bring down the king, then he could step into the chaos and claim the kingdom himself. For that matter, it'd explain why he'd want to keep Arthur from forming an alliance with the empire. It's easier to overthrow a weak kingdom than a stable one. Not that I believe this, mind you, but it would make sense."
Terence pondered this. It did make sense, and it would answer many—if not all—of their questions. Mordred sent a messenger to Constantinople as soon as Alexander arrived in England, telling how all the Greek party had been killed in an accident, so as to put an end to diplomatic relations between the two kingdoms. He didn't want Arthur to have powerful friends. Then, when he encountered the messenger, Michael, and realized that his false message would be revealed, he killed Michael and brought him to Camelot with yet another lie, this time hoping to lure Arthur away from England.
Gawain shook his head. "I see what you're thinking, and you might even make it work, but every new step you take, the more far-fetched it sounds. In the end, do you have any solid reason for thinking ill of Mordred? Something more than the fact that you and Guinglain and Acoriondes don't like him?"
"No."
"It isn't like you to get so carried away by feelings, Terence."
Terence shook his head. "It isn't rational, I know. But it isn't feelings, either. There are other ways of knowing than just through reason."
"None that I'm willing to trust so far," Gawain replied. But then he shrugged. "Still, if you want me to stay with you in Athens, I will."
"No," Terence said at once. "You go back to Arthur. Whatever's going on is bigger than just one person, and Arthur's at the center. Watch over him, and watch your own back, while you're at it."
That was where they left matters, and the next day Mordred rode off alone to the northeast while Gawain led the English party northwest at a good pace, hoping to get around the mountains before the snows. Terence watched until both were out of sight, then made his way back to the palace, where he and Dinadan were sharing a spare room in Acoriondes's official chambers. Dinadan was waiting for him as he arrived, with an expression of irrepressible glee in his eyes. "What?" Terence asked warily.
"I'm so glad I stayed," Dinadan said, chuckling. "I did so want to sing at a wedding!"
"What wedding? Who's getting married?" Terence asked.
"The regent, of course: Alis. I shall write a wedding song. Now, let's see, what rhymes with Alis? There's malice and phallus—"
"What are you talking about? We've been here over two weeks, and he's said nothing about getting married."
"He didn't know it until today," Dinadan replied, shaking with suppressed laughter. "It seems that when he got word that Alexander and Cligés had been killed, he decided it was his duty to marry and have a son—to carry on the family line, you understand. So, he sent a messenger off to the Holy Roman Empire to see if there were any spare unmarried females lying about who might be interested."
"The Holy Roman Empire," Terence repeated. "Yes, that would be a useful alliance."
"Well," Dinadan continued, "there hadn't been a reply, and Alis had nearly given up the notion even before we got here. But this morning, while you were seeing off the others, a diplomatic mission arrived from Germany. They'd gone to Constantinople first, which is why they took so long. Alis's offer has been accepted, and he's scheduled to marry a niece of the Holy Roman Emperor. Wedding plans are already under way."
Terence shrugged. "I don't care for arranged marriages like this myself, but I suppose from a policy standpoint, it makes good sense. What's so funny?"
"Wait until you see Alis," Dinadan replied.
A few hours later, Terence understood Dinadan's amusement. Joining Alis, Cligés, and Acoriondes for a midday meal, Terence could hardly believe the pall that hung over the regent. He seemed, in many ways, worse off than he had been at Alexander's funeral. There he had wept freely and openly, but now he just seemed pathetic and hopeless. He picked at his food, muttered to himself, and sighed repeatedly. "Is something troubling the bridegroom?" Terence whispered to Acoriondes.
"I've just spent the whole morning convincing the regent that, having proposed the match himself, he cannot back out. It would be to insult the German emperor."
"Alis doesn't wish to be married now?"
"He never did," Acoriondes replied. "He still loves his wife, who died two years ago. Alis only proposed the match out of duty, because he had no sons to inherit the throne. But of course now that Cligés has shown up alive, the throne already has an heir. So Alis is betrothed for nothing. To a fifteen-year-old girl."
"Fifteen?"
Acoriondes nodded and added, "Alis's youngest daughter is twenty-three."
Terence winced. Fifteen was not an unusual age for a girl to be married. Guinevere had been scarcely older when she married Arthur, and many girls were wed even younger. But a portly, graying widower with adult children, who was still faithful to the memory of his late wife, could hardly be considered a suitable mate for such a child. Alis looked pleadingly across the table at Cligés and asked a plaintive question, to which the young man replied with a forceful negative.
Acoriondes leaned close to Terence. "The regent asked—"
"I think I got it," Terence said.
A serving girl with a freckled face came in to replenish Alis's wine cup, which he had drained very quickly. Alis glanced up at the girl and asked a question. She gave a two-syllable reply, then giggled in embarrassment. Alis closed his eyes, then began swigging back the wine again. Acoriondes whispered, "The regent asked her age."
"And?"
"She's fifteen."
"Ah," Terence said. Alis was probably imagining being married to that inane giggle. "I can see how he might be depressed at the thought of marrying such a child."
Cligés, across the table, leaned toward them. For the first time since his brother's funeral, a trace of a smile flickered across his face. He spoke in halting English. "If my uncle is depressed, think how the girl will feel to see him."
"You could help them both, you know," Acoriondes replied, "by agreeing to take your uncle's place. It would be in the interest of the empire."
"But no!" Cligés replied at once. "I do not wish to marry a child while I am so young myself. Neither am I seeing why I must save my uncle from his own stupid plan."
It was hard to argue with that, as even Acoriondes seemed to acknowledge. He turned to look at Terence. "My friend, I know that I invited you to stay so that I could show you more of my own lands, but I fear that I shall be traveling north with the regent soon. Do you think that you and Sir Dinadan would be willing to travel with me?"
Terence grinned. "For myself, I stayed to further my friendship with you, so it little matters where we go. As for Dinadan, I don't think he'd miss this wedding for the world."
It was not a wedding that anyone present would forget. Alis and his entourage left Athens two days later, heading toward the city of Mainz, where the wedding was to take place. Messengers flew back and forth between the two courts, so that hardly a day of their journey went by without their getting some new information regarding the upcoming ceremony. They compared notes on the correct colors to wear (purple and gold), on how to celebrate the wedding afterward (a ball and a banquet, followed by a tournament the next day), and even the appropriate proportions of Greek wine and German wine. It was agreed to use the two different wines in equal measure, but as Dinadan pointed out, if Alis didn't ease up on his own visits to the wine wagon, they wouldn't have any Greek wine left to share.
By far the most ticklish issue was religion. It seemed that the eastern branch of the church, based in Constantinople, and the western branch, based in Rome, didn't get along, and so the question of whose priest would perform the ceremony became quite a thorny problem.
"It is all supposed to be about a word in the creed," Acoriondes explained to Terence and Dinadan. "The Roman church uses one extra word."
"What word is that?"
"Filioque," Acoriondes replied.
"Oh, right. Of course it would be in Latin," Terence said.
"For shame, Terence," said Dinadan. "You didn't really think that the church would fight over something that people could understand, did you?"
"It means 'and from the Son,'" Acoriondes explained.
"Oh, that helps. Thanks," said Dinadan, his grin growing.
"I think it has to do with the Trinity, and who comes first, and did the Holy Spirit come from..." Acoriondes trailed off. "No, that's not it. It's about whether the Spirit proceeds from the ... from the ... Well, it doesn't really matter. The real issue is something else, anyway."
"What's that?"
"The pope in Rome," Acoriondes said bluntly. "The western Christians call him the Vicar of Christ."
"And what do the eastern Christians call him?" asked Terence.
Acoriondes hesitated. "How to capture the sense of it in English?" he mused. "They call him ... Yes, I think this will do—I heard a kitchen maid say it in England—they call him 'a knob-headed booberkin.' "
Terence chuckled, and Dinadan asked innocently, "And that's not the same thing as Vicar of Christ, right?"
"That would depend on whom you ask," Acoriondes replied gravely.
"So what will the two empires do?" Terence asked.
"The only thing they can do," said Acoriondes. "They have agreed to have two bishops standing side by side, both doing the complete ceremony: one in Greek, one in Latin."
"So we have to do the whole thing twice?" asked Dinadan. "They can't just take turns and each do different bits?"
Acoriondes shook his head. "The thing is, both churches have declared that the other church is false, so both sides say that a
wedding done by the other sort of bishop won't count. The German emperor doesn't care about the doctrinal differences, but he doesn't want to take a chance on the wedding's being declared null. Everyone's finally agreed to this plan, to poor Alis's dismay."
"Yes, I'd noticed he'd perked up a bit lately," Dinadan commented.
Acoriondes nodded. "He thought perhaps they would have to cancel the whole thing because of the religious differences. But the word this morning was that it was settled at last."
"What did Alis do?" asked Terence.
"He said, 'Of all the bloody times for a church to be reasonable! Then he went to the wine wagon."
The wedding was a colossal spectacle, with the Germans and the Greeks each trying to prove their supremacy by the lavishness of their clothing and gifts. By prior agreement, the bride wore a heavily jeweled veil that completely concealed her face—according to Greek custom—while the groom wore ornate and gilded German armor that, as it happened, was too tall for him, and much too tight around the waist. A team of armorers worked all night before the wedding to make it fit. Another diplomatic crisis loomed when the German emperor, Karl, commented the night before the wedding that the bride would have forty-two ladies-in-waiting. Alis, in response to this news, hastily assembled several extra knights and even a few squires, so that he appeared on the wedding day with forty-three groomsmen. At that point, Karl rushed two more ladies out of the crowd, which Alis countered with one more gentleman, leaving them tied at forty-four. Acoriondes breathed a sigh of relief.
But if the German emperor and the Greek regent were in competition, it was nothing to the two bishops. Both wore gorgeous silken robes, embroidered in gold thread: the Roman bishop wore white and the Greek red. Both carried heavy staffs of gold with the ends encrusted with various jewels, and both wore impossibly high, pointy hats, but the Roman bishop's hat was several inches taller than that of his counterpart. Throughout the morning, the Greek bishop kept glancing resentfully up at the other's headgear. Each carried a large book—Bibles, Terence supposed—bound tightly closed in tooled leather, and a small book containing the actual words ofthe wedding ceremony. The Roman bishop wore a golden chain around his waist, from which hung a heavy golden key, to which the bishop drew attention periodically by shaking his hips and making the dangling key sway.
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