“Oh, yes,” she said as calmly as if continuing an older conversation, “I wrote to you about Elaine, but received no satisfactory answer. So, I brought her with me. We should settle this soon. Elaine, give Arthur the baby.”
Holding the baby even more tightly, Elaine crept forward.
“He is not going to hurt it, my dear. Just show him,” Morgause coaxed. She added to Arthur, “We want you to see how much he resembles his father. There really should be no doubt about it, especially under the circumstances. Poor Elaine has been much wronged. Look at them both. Then I want you to see that your Sir Lancelot legally recognizes his son.”
Cups were set down carefully and whining children hushed as Arthur took the bundle into his arms. Before looking at it, he gestured for Lancelot to stand beside him.
Lancelot held out his arms. “I will hold him, Arthur, so that you may see us together and judge.”
“It won’t make any difference,” Arthur muttered. “No child that age can name his sire.” But he gave Lancelot the baby.
Gingerly Lancelot lifted the blanket from over Galahad’s face. Being moved from arm to arm had caused him to stir and he yawned mightily and woke. He stared in solemn wisdom at Lancelot for a full minute while the hall held its collective breath and then Galahad opened his mouth and gave a resonant belch.
Lancelot broke into laughter and everyone else joined him. Her cheeks flaming, Elaine rushed to take him back.
“He fell asleep as I fed him,” she explained, “and he usually needs to—”
Lancelot gave her a hard stare that stopped her chatter. He looked from her to the baby and back again. Then he shook his head.
“How could this wonder have come from such as you?” he said in disgust.
She recoiled as if struck and snatched Galahad away. Morgause’s face had shown no emotion during the episode. She turned to Lancelot.
“Do you deny the child, sir?” she asked.
The laughter halted. Gawain leaned forward. Couldn’t someone keep Lancelot from speaking? “Don’t!” he pleaded silently.
Lancelot drew himself up. “I do not deny him, Lady.” He spoke so firmly that even Morgause was astonished and somewhat daunted. “But I do deny that woman. You and she bewitched me and I will not acknowledge her. You say this is my son. Then give him to me. I will see that he is raised far away from your evil.”
Morgause rose in her chair, ready to fly at Lancelot. Her nails seemed to grow longer as they reached for his face. Lancelot watched her without interest. As she lunged at him, he caught her and spun her around, into the arms of Agravaine and Gareth.
“There, Aunt Morgause,” Agravaine soothed. “You’re in Arthur’s court now. Please don’t embarrass the family here. Gareth, perhaps our aunt would like to go to her room. The journey was a long one and she must be tired.”
Gareth took her arm with a frightened smile. Morgause swore under her breath at them, but allowed herself to be escorted away. Elaine and the guards, who hadn’t moved at all, went after them. Quickly the hall emptied as people decided to take their discussions of the matter elsewhere. When they had gone, Arthur exhaled in relief and motioned Lancelot to sit beside him. He poured himself some more wine.
“Do you really think the boy is yours?”
“Yes.” Lancelot could not get over his amazement. “He has my chin, I think.”
“The cleft is unmistakable. But that is not proof.”
“There is more. I was afraid to look at him at first; I could not stand to see my features blended with that woman’s. But, Arthur, he shows no sign of her. Do you think it could be possible? It might be her punishment. God would not let a child suffer for its mother’s wickedness.”
“I don’t know, Lancelot. Theology is beyond me. You could ask the bishop when you see him again. It doesn’t sound likely.”
“I want to get him away from Morgause. How can I do that?”
“I could offer to take him on as a fosterling, but not for some time yet. He is not even weaned. I take it you will not marry Elaine.”
Lancelot pounded his fist on the table. “Never. That’s what they want. Would you foster him?”
“Gladly, if Guinevere doesn’t object. Do you want me to ask her?”
Their eyes met for a moment and Lancelot’s dropped.
“Thank you, Arthur. But Galahad is my son. I will have to ask her myself.”
“Wait, then. She is not well now. You know how this will hurt her?”
“Arthur?” He could not read the King’s face. “Yes, I know. I will be very careful of her.”
“I expect you to be. She is my wife and I love her.”
When Arthur had gone, Lancelot eased himself onto a bench. His knees were shaking. Had Arthur just told him to stay away from Guinevere or given him permission to be near her? What had he said? He pondered it all afternoon before he was forced to conclude that Arthur had simply told him that the decision was his own. He was not to hurt Guinevere, but how was he to keep from hurting Arthur?
Contrary to Risa’s prediction, Guinevere did not recover at once. Her fever left soon, but she stayed in bed. Risa, who had to bring her meals and untangle her hair, soon grew tired of it.
“Are you going to keep Christmas from your bedroom?” she demanded one day. “You mean to hide in here until the woman and her baby are gone, don’t you?”
“Don’t be silly,” Guinevere snapped. “Can’t you see that I’m sick?”
Risa had long since abandoned any pretense of servile behavior with her mistress. They had been together too long for that.
“I see it very well and you won’t get any better until you face up to it. Lancelot has claimed the child, not the mother. She means nothing to him. And it shouldn’t matter to you in any case. How do you think Arthur feels? He’s had to eat all of his meals with that awful sister of his. It’s time for you to stop this moping and think about him for a change.”
“Risa!” Guinevere screamed, throwing a cushion at her. “Get out of here! Leave me alone! Don’t come back until I send for you!”
By herself, Guinevere wept into her pillow and admitted that Risa was right. She could not face Elaine, who had at least had Lancelot, however she had got him. But most of all, she did not want to see the child. They didn’t understand. It was not just that Lancelot had fathered him—although that didn’t make the situation any easier—but that he had done so without even trying, without even a modicum of love or caring. She could not bear it: the pity, the stares, the renewed whispers. She yanked the pillow over her head. She was being a coward. What must Arthur be feeling? Everyone, it seemed, had a son but them. What was wrong? If neither love nor perseverance nor honesty were needed to produce offspring, why had this been denied them?
Finally, she got up and dressed. She had to be sure. Perhaps Arthur had been right the first time and this infant was the product of a liaison of Elaine’s that had nothing to do with Lancelot. It was nothing but a hoax. The sun was almost gone for the day and everyone would be in the hall eating. Arthur had wanted to put Morgause and Elaine far from them, but the only rooms appropriate to their station were beneath hers. This was the only time she might get in unseen. She had to try.
At the top of the stairs she waited while the nurse spoke a minute with one of the serving women.
“He’s sleeping at last, poor love. I must have walked that room for hours. Teething again, you know. He’s quite worn out now. I’m going to get myself a bite. Coming along?”
Guinevere held her breath as the two women gossiped down the hall. Then she silently slipped into the room.
In the center, elevated like an altar, stood the crib. There was no sound from within it. Was the baby there at all? Guinevere panicked. Was he dead? She forgot her hesitation and rushed over to be sure that the child still breathed. The blanket had slipped over his face, so that only the tip of a finger and a wisp of golden hair shone in the lamplight. She stopped cold, both wanting and fearing to lift the cover. At last her
hand inched toward him. Her fingers were hovering above his head when he suddenly jerked in his sleep, his arms flailing in powerless self-defense. His eyes opened wide and he stared at her in uncaring wonder. Guinevere fought the sob in her throat.
“Oh my Lord,” she whispered. A terrible ache filled her soul. “He has Lancelot’s own eyes, his chin! It must be; it is his son.”
She wanted to hate this monster, this intrusion, this flaunting of her emptiness. She wanted to throw him from her. She leaned above him. But he was beautiful, radiant, a golden star blazing at noon. Every irrational part of her begged her to take him in her arms. She bent closer and breathlessly stroked his cheek. It was silky and warm. She waited in fear. He would shriek at her, a stranger. They would hear him and find her there. They might accuse her of trying to hurt him or, even worse, divine her reason for being with him and pity her. But she could not stop herself. With infinite gentleness she gathered him up against her body and pressed her lips to the hollow of his neck. She startled him and he stiffened. She very softly kissed the tip of his tiny nose. A length of her hair fell across his face and he laughed and pulled at it in delight. His tugging reached to her heart as something inside her crumpled and she began to cry hopelessly and steadily.
“You are nothing of Elaine,” she told him fiercely. “Nothing. She may have carried you, borne you. But there is no part of her in your soul. Her dark, weak, sallow body was a clay pot, unfit to hold you. You are my child, Lancelot’s and mine. It was his love for me that conceived you. You have my hair, my skin, and I claim you for my own. However long that woman keeps you, she may never mark your sunlit spirit. Oh, Galahad! You must come to love me, for I am truly your mother!”
Her tears streamed down. Galahad loosed his hold on the tress and reached up to explore the drops falling from her face to his. He grimaced at the bitter taste and tried to brush them away. His fingernail scratched the skin beneath her eye and she flinched in pain. That frightened him. His face screwed up and his mouth opened wide as he began to wail.
Guinevere was terror-stricken. She had to get away before someone came. But what if something were wrong with him? Had she hurt him? He must never be hurt. With a convulsive wrench, she drew the baby from her and, holding him at arm’s length, carefully set him back in the crib. His cries were reaching a crescendo as she fled from the room. She had barely reached her own door before she heard quick steps coming in answer to the cries.
She pressed her cheek against her door and waited until she heard the noise stop, to be replaced by the clucking inanities of the nurse. Then, shaken and numb, she collapsed onto her bed and sobbed until nothing remained in her but a parched, aching darkness.
She knew when Arthur came in> when Risa was called to bring cool, damp cloths to wipe her face and hands. But she didn’t open her eyes. In the morning she would face it, think it out, make a decision. For tonight she wanted to lie close to Arthur, knowing that, with all the distance between them, this was one grief which only he could share.
• • •
Agravaine had been watching his aunt’s behavior with increasing consternation. During Guinevere’s illness, she had almost usurped her role at court. Morgause could be delightfully charming when it pleased her and there was no question that she was beautiful. She already had a cortege of knights who stumbled over each other to serve her. What was she trying to do? It worried him enough that, for the first time since they had joined Arthur’s service, he called his brothers together for a family meeting. In the old days he and Gawain had made the decisions and then informed “the young ones,” Gaheris, Gareth, and later Modred, of what they would do. It was hard for Agravaine to remember that the "young ones” were grown now and not obliged to listen to him. Well, he would have to find a way to make them listen. In this matter they had to present a united front.
When they had gathered, Gawain sitting on the windowsill and Gareth and Gaheris side by side on cushions on the floor, Agravaine rose, cleared his throat a few times and, at signs of impatience from his brothers, began.
“I have called you all here on a very serious matter which I feel we must discuss thoroughly.”
Gareth shifted on his cushion. “Aunt Morgause is up to something and you think we should do something about it. Can’t you get to the point? I have a lady waiting for me.”
There was a burst of laughter from Gawain. “You! If you do, I’ll bet it’s only because she wants you to take a note to Modred.”
“What would you know about it?” Gareth bristled. “The last time a woman sent you a note, you were too sleepy to read it!”
Gawain flushed angrily and started toward his brother. Gareth had been asking for a lesson lately. Agravaine intervened.
“Stop it, Gawain. We’re not in the nursery anymore. Damn it, man! This is serious.”
Gaheris had been leaning against the wall, eyes closed. Now he sat up.
“It is serious. Morgause has always hated Arthur. We all know that. Why is she staying so long and being so nice to him?”
They all stared at him. It was the longest speech they had ever heard him make.
“Right. That is the question.” Agravaine was trying to regain control of the meeting. “May I presume that none of us shares her feelings?”
“Of course we don’t, Agravaine,” Gawain sighed. “Don’t be so pompous.”
“What about Modred?” Gareth interjected.
“He isn’t here.” Agravaine ground his teeth. “Does anyone want to send for him?”
No one did.
“All right, then. The question is, what do we do about Aunt Morgause? Someday we are going to be asked to take sides in this. I know we have all sworn loyalty to Arthur, but—”
“But what if we have to choose between hurting him or Mother?” Gaheris finished.
“I don’t want to hurt either of them,” Gareth said plaintively. “Can’t we just stay neutral?”
Gawain pounded his hand into his fist carefully. “No, we can’t, Gareth. We know too much of what might happen. We’ve all seen Aunt Morgause in action.”
They shuddered in unison.
“I agree.” Agravaine gave a curt nod. “We have to let Arthur know that we are on his side and we ought to prove it by finding out what our dear aunt’s plans are before she unleashes them.”
Gareth shook his head. “I suppose you are right. But I would just as soon Aunt Morgause never found out about us.”
“You don’t still think she can turn you into a toad, do you?” Gawain sneered.
Gareth shrugged. “I don’t want to put it to the test, that’s all.”
Gawain turned to Agravaine. “I told you we shouldn’t have included them in this. They’re too young.”
Gaheris spoke up again. “I wish you would stop referring to Gareth and me as ‘them.’ I have an opinion, too.”
“Well, Gaheris,” Agravaine asked, “what is it?”
“I think we have no choice but to stay with Arthur and fight for him if we must. Aunt Morgause and Mother want to do more than hurt Arthur. They mean to destroy him.”
All four were silent then, trying to gauge how deep an ancient hatred might reach. In their hearts they were forced to admit that Gaheris spoke the truth. They had always known it.
Gawain spoke for them all. “If I must decide where my allegiance lies, even if it means thwarting Mother, I choose to stand with Arthur.”
They made a pact to do so, swearing as they had done when children. No one hesitated, but Gareth took his oath quickly, glancing over his shoulder at the closed door behind them as if expecting to be discovered and punished.
• • •
Guinevere was able to come downstairs again for the Christmas observance and the midwinter festival that went with it. Arthur and Lancelot seemed to have an unspoken pact to protect her from Elaine, although neither one could have said why they thought she needed protection. If anything, Elaine was the one being attacked—not by Guinevere, who simply acted as if she did not
exist, but by the court, a fickle audience at best. Guinevere’s reputation for goodness was restored by her obviously wholehearted willingness to take the child Galahad as a fosterling. It was better than what Elaine deserved, they all agreed.
Elaine did not see it that way. When told of Arthur’s generous offer, she cried and wailed and took to carrying Galahad with her everywhere, as if afraid he would be snatched away from her if she should put him down. She pleaded with Morgause to take her home.
“Haven’t you any spine at all?” Morgause scolded. “Are you going to let them chase you away? I said we would stay until after Christmas and we shall. If you will stop sniffling and cooperate, I might think of a way to get Lancelot to come back with us.”
Elaine’s eyes lit up. “Oh, my Lady, are you sure? I will do anything you say. Do you hear that, Galahad? Your father is going to come home with us!”
At Caerleon, where there were dozens of tiny rooms created by the legions for some forgotten purpose, it was easy to have a place of one’s own. Lancelot had a cubicle tucked against one of the long passageways from the council hall to the main living quarters. He enjoyed having the place, however small. Here he could continue his private devotions without embarrassing anyone. He could pace all night, wrangling with his conscience, and bother no one.
It was early Christmas morning when he came to bed, having fasted and watched until midnight. The long, quiet hours had left him calm and chastened, able to see his suffering in perspective. He felt more at peace with himself than he ever had. The hour was so late that he did not bother to light a candle in his room. He dropped off his long robe and unbelted his tunic. Then he sat down on the bed to pull off his boots.
There was a yelp and the bed moved under him. He was caught off balance and thudded to the floor, one boot half off.
The Chessboard Queen Page 31
