“Bishop, I am not accusing you of slandering the King,” Modred snapped with impatience. “I seek your guidance. You spoke of the danger of our becoming contaminated by the old ways, of Christians falling back into pagan sorcery.”
“Ah! Yes. That is another matter. Do you know that there are still women who make small sacrifices to the Mother Goddess in the hope of conceiving? We had the old temple to her torn down, of course, years ago, but they make little altars in their homes. And, just last month, there was a man whom I was certain was a devout Christian. We caught him and some of his friends in the church, the old temple to Mithras, you know, trying to dig out some idols that had been buried under the floor. There were statues of Mithras, Minerva, Serapis, and Mercury, and even a sacred knife, used to slaughter the sacrificial bulls. I buried them all again, put the stones back and reconsecrated the spot with the strongest of prayers. Eventually, those pagan gods will be so steeped in Christian presence that their power will be completely ended.”
Modred tried not to show his contempt. “Dreadful! And what did you do to the men?”
“I chastised them very strongly and we prayed together all night. Then I ordered them to give fifty chickens and three bags of pepper each to the church as atonement for their backsliding. I was really very outraged.”
Also low on pepper, Modred thought. He schooled his face to concern. “But, my Lord Bishop, what would you do if you thought someone were using the powers of the old gods to insinuate themselves into the governing of Britain, perhaps even trying to lead us all back into the darkness of those pagan times?”
He opened his eyes wide and looked pleadingly at the old man, the image of tortured uncertainty.
Dubricius ran his tongue in and out of a tooth socket. It had been pulled only recently and was still tender. It made him think before he spoke.
“That would be a very serious accusation, young man,” he said slowly. “Do you have reason to believe that someone close to King Arthur is trafficking with the Old Ones for the purpose of evil? That is a very important distinction.”
Modred bit his lip and hesitated. “I . . . I don’t know. There are things about the court that I don’t understand. Perhaps it is nothing, but I could never live with myself if something happened and I had done nothing to prevent it.”
“Do you have any proof of your fears?”
“No, not yet.” Modred was annoyed. He had expected the old man to be panting after the heretic with little urging. He would have to contrive to get St. Caradoc down here and some of the other militant bishops.
“Then, my son, there is little we can do. If you can bring me some evidence of sorcery, then I could convene a synod of the few bishops left in Britain and some of the other saints of the church. We would then have the perpetrator brought to trial. But it is a very grave accusation. You must have proof.”
“What would be the penalty for malignant witchcraft?”
Dubricius brushed up against the writing table. The paper and vellum crackled at his touch. He jumped away from it.
“It would be treason against the state as well as the church, if the old magic were invoked to aid the enemies of the King. The penalty for treason is always death.”
Modred drew his breath in sharply. Dubricius assumed his reaction to be shock and patted his shoulder.
“So you see, Sir Modred, you must be very sure before you make any accusations.”
“Yes, I understand. I may be mistaken, anyway. It all seems so impossible, and yet . . . I will continue my vigilance. I only hope I can be strong enough.”
“The Lord will protect you.”
“Thank you. I will remember that, Sir.”
After he left, Dubricius tried to go back to his work. But he couldn’t get the matter out of his mind. The poor boy! He was so upset. It must be someone he was fond of, but who? Not Sir Cei, certainly. Now, who else was close to Arthur? Sir Gawain and Sir Lancelot were both unusual men, but, in the case of Lancelot at least, Dubricius was sure of his religious fervor. And Gawain was Modred’s own brother! Was there anyone else who could influence the King? I really don’t know the people of the court that well, he mused. This winter I’ll have to spend more time with them. Have a few talks with Father Antonius, too. Nice boy, though I was rather surprised when he decided to stay on at school and be ordained. I always thought he had such a rare talent for handling pigs.
Modred was not really disappointed by his first encounter with the bishop. These things had to be done slowly. It might be a year or more before he could set the final trap. But the seed had been planted. Perhaps, if Dubricius asked him about it later, he could feign reluctance, make it appear that he was too noble to betray a friend. He had to stay in the background as much as possible or Arthur’s anger would ruin his chances. It was essential that the King continue to need him.
Arthur wasn’t working when Modred entered. He was sitting at the window, watching the river flow beneath. He must have known the step, for he spoke without turning.
“Do you think, Modred, that the Tamesa cares whose land she flows through? Are the Saxons less pleasing to her than we are? They used to throw bronze statues into the river as offerings, sometimes even living men. Do you think she is upset that we have stopped propitiating her?”
“Uncle, I don’t think what we do matters to the river at all,” he laughed. “And neither do you. The gray weather is making you morose. Let me send for some spiced apples to elevate the choler in your blood.”
That broke the mood. Arthur laughed, too. “No, no. I don’t need any such remedies. I was really wondering if the Grail had been found yet and sulking like a baby because I couldn’t go look for it, myself. I thought coming to London would take my mind off it, but it still rankles to be left out of such an adventure. But you have nothing holding you here. Why didn’t you go?”
“I prefered to stay with you, Sir.” Modred was surprised at the mixed truth of the statement. He sternly repressed any liking for Arthur, but his emotion kept slipping loose.
“You needn’t be so formal with me, Modred. None of your brothers are, not even Gareth, who used to jump when anyone even cleared his throat. You’re not so much younger that you have to treat me like a patriarch, I hope. I don’t remember, exactly. How old are you?”
“I was born in April of your seventeenth year, Sir.”
“What an odd way to put it! Yes, that was just before I became leader of the armies. I didn’t know, then, that I was the son of Uther Pendragon. And Merlin had me prove myself by pulling Excalibur out of the stone. I yanked that sword out a hundred times, I think, with great, strapping men straining themselves dry to get it out in between times. It took all afternoon before everyone was convinced. It must have been more than a year later before Merlin gave me the scabbard and told me he had arranged the whole trial in the first place.”
“I don’t remember Merlin.” And a good thing he isn’t around now. “He must have been a very skillful wizard.”
“I don’t know. They say he did magic for my father, Uther Pendragon, but he was certainly chary enough of it with me.” Arthur smiled at his memories. “He made rainbows, you know, with sunlight and pieces of glass. Except for the night he moved the Round Table into the hall, they were the closest he ever came to wizardry at Camelot. I wonder where he went.”
Arthur looked at his hands as the cold light from the window struck them. They were growing spotted by age. He tried to fight his depression. After all, he had done a tremendous amount of work in his day. There were those who insisted that it was only the power of his name that even now held the invaders at bay. But what use was it if the peace lasted only for his lifetime? What would become of Britain when he wa. gone?
“If only I had had a son,” he murmured.
For a moment, he had forgotten that Modred was there and was startled when the young man knelt at his side, gripping at his hands as if Modred were drowning and Arthur were the shore.
“What would you say if I tol
d you that you do have a son?”
Arthur tried to release him. “I would probably laugh, nephew. I have been ridiculously faithful to my wife. No one could convince me of what I haven’t done.”
Modred was shaking. “This is just part of the plan,” he insisted to himself. “It means nothing to me!”
“There was another time, Arthur, before Guinevere. My mother told me. You stayed with St. Docca your sixteenth summer. Merlin left you there to be educated. But sometimes you became bored and wandered off on your own, into the hills. You met her there, she said, many times.”
Arthur tore away, pushing the chair over as he backed off.
“How could she tell you that! I didn’t know she was my sister, Modred! I was very lonely and she was just a nice woman who was lonely, too. That’s all!”
“That’s not all! I am what came of your loneliness!”
Arthur stared at him with dropped jaw and frozen eyes. “I don’t believe it. Morgan lied to you. You know as well as anyone what she was like. There must have been dozens of men for her that summer.”
“How dare you!” Modred raised his fist to strike. Arthur’s hand automatically went to his knife belt. Then he drew it away. Modred lowered his hand.
“I’m sorry.” Arthur’s voice was quiet. “She was your mother. But what you’re telling me cannot be true! It was bad enough to learn she was my sister. Do you know how I’ve suffered for my unwitting sin?”
“You!” Modred choked. “Do you know how I have suffered for your sin? To know my father and not be able to name him? At least here, alone, you could acknowledge me. What have I done that you should deny me? I was not an accomplice to my conception. Look at me!”
He moved to the window. The winter clouds diffused the light so that it was clean and sharp, etching his features clearly.
“Look at my face, Arthur, and tell me again that I’m lying! Look at my hands, at the cut of my nose. It’s not from Morgan that these come. They are in your image, my Lord. You may close your eyes but they are still the same color as mine. I am your only begotten son!”
Slowly, Arthur moved toward him. He looked at Modred a long time.
“Yes, yes,” faintly. “I can see it. It’s true. Oh, my son! I’m so sorry. She never told me. For your sake, as well as my own, I can’t give you the place of honor you should have. I’m sorry! But here, now, I do own you mine. Modred!”
He reached out and clasped Modred in his arms.
With disgust, Modred thought, “Good lord! The old man’s crying.”
Then, with horror, he realized that he was, too.
• • •
“You’re very quiet tonight, Arthur.” Guinevere was washing her face in almond milk. “Did anything go wrong today? You haven’t heard anything about Galahad, have you?”
“No, nothing from any of the Grail knights yet. I was just thinking. I’m growing older. There’s no one now prepared to follow me as king. I should be training someone to take my place. I shouldn’t think I’ll live forever.”
“I don’t see why not.” Guinevere rinsed her face and groped for a towel. “I can’t imagine us dying!”
He looked at her, damp curls about her face. She was as young and beautiful as she had been on their wedding night. Old? How could he be with a wife like that? He laughed, putting aside until tomorrow his fear and his thoughts of Modred. He picked Guinevere up by the waist and swung her around and around until they fell dizzily to the bed.
“I can’t imagine our dying either, my love. I don’t think we ever will!”
Chapter Eleven
“This ought to be the right road to Llanylltud Fawr,” Lancelot grumbled. “If ‘road’ is the word for it. The hermit was very clear about it.”
“If you mean throwing rocks at us and yelling ‘Just follow the trail, you idiots!’ was clear, then I guess so.” Gareth rubbed his shoulder. He couldn’t duck as quickly as Lancelot.
As if to confirm this, a branch slapped him in the face as they picked their way down the overgrown path.
“We’ll probably get there and find a wide, Roman highway running up to the gate, just to the left of this rabbit track,” Gareth complained. “You can be sure that all those lords and bishops don’t come this way when they visit their children there. Do you really think St. Illtud can tell us anything about the Grail?”
Lancelot took out his sword to slash through a tangle of morning glories, looked at the frail petals and changed his mind. He wormed his way around them, instead.
“Father Antonius said St. Illtud had books which mentioned it. That could help us. He also knows more about the world than most of the saints. He was a soldier under Uther Pendragon and then Arthur before he decided to forsake earthly satisfaction. Anyway, we have to start somewhere.”
It was an unarguable statement. But Gareth wished they could find a better road. He was beginning to feel like a wild man of the woods, with leaves and bark sticking to his hair and skin.
“Gareth, do you hear that?” Lancelot stopped and looked around. Gareth cocked his head.
“The wind in the trees . . . Wait, is that someone singing?”
It might have been; it was a kind of high, irregular keening, really. It could have been a bird or cat, but there seemed to be words to it. Gareth shuddered. It was the sort of sound one of his Aunt Morgause’s creatures would make. He tried to decide which direction the noise was coming from, with the firm intention of going the other way, when he remembered that he was a knight.
“It’s coming from over here.” Lancelot’s voice sounded somewhere to his right. “And here’s a footpath. This way, Gareth!”
Gareth tied his horse next to Lancelot’s and followed him. The singing surrounded him, and with every step he grew more terrified. But he had vowed never to desert Lancelot, whatever happened, and this promise kept him moving.
They rounded a bend and Lancelot stopped, causing Gareth to stumble into him. He righted himself and made to draw his sword when he realized that Lancelot was laughing. He looked around his friend’s shoulder.
There was a tiny clearing that contained a proportionally small daub-and-wattle hut. Outside the hut was a large dome oven. From the oven protruded the clothed legs and bottom of a woman. And, from the woman, echoing through the stone, came the noise.
Lancelot rushed forward and dragged her out. Her arms appeared, waving a scrubbing brush and ineffectually trying to hit out at her rescuer. Lancelot set her gently on the ground.
“I’ve nothing for you to steal, young man, not even virtue.” She scowled at the tall knight. “And I warn you, if you’re the sort who takes delight in tormenting an old woman, I’d make poor sport. And I can still scratch and gouge with the best!”
She backed off a step and lifted her clawed hands in defiance.
Gareth was choking on his laughter. This old stick-figure of a woman facing up to the greatest warrior in Britain was too much for him. But Lancelot’s face was grave. He bowed to the woman.
“I beg your pardon, Lady. We thought you were in need of our help. I did not mean to insult you with my touch.”
The woman inspected Lancelot warily, then lowered her arms.
“I daresay that from a man like you, it would be no insult. Ah! If I were only fifty again. Well, it’s not about to happen in this life. So, what brings two men from Arthur’s court to travel on this end-of-everything road?”
“You know of Arthur?” Gareth doubted she knew her own name.
“Know of him! I wiped his bottom before he learned what a privy was for! Such a howling, red-headed baby he was. There was never any doubt who sired him! Don’t pretend you believe me. I see it in your faces you think I’m lying. It’s all one to me. I suppose you’ve come to see that bastard husband of mine, Illtud. Well, you’ve taken the wrong road, but I’ll put you on the right one. Come along!”
She started back up the path but the two men stood in the clearing, rooted by surprise.
“Lady, wait!” Lancelot called.
“Please, could we have a cup of water before we go? I have some figs in my pack I would be honored to have you share.”
She turned around with a grin and came back.
“You don’t fool me with your figs. You want to hear my story. Go on! Go and get them and you’ll hear it. The more as know about old Illtud, the better, as far as I’m concerned.”
She settled herself on a tree stump and waited while Lancelot fetched the fruit and Gareth the water. When they were all seated she tore off a piece of fig and popped it into her mouth, where it squished from side to side on her toothless gums throughout her tale.
“Illtud was a soldier when I married him, a fine lad in Uther’s army, and I was a servant to the Queen Igraine. Poor, dear lady. When the baby was born, Master Merlin had it put about that he had died at birth and the tiny thing was taken from his own sad mother and given to me to suckle until he could be spirited away. I had lost my own child in the usual way, a fever and then a fit. I kept him hidden six long months while Illtud was off fighting. Then Merlin came for him, and it wasn’t until years later, when I saw Arthur again, at the head of his soldiers, that I knew what had happened to him.
“But you wanted to know about Illtud, didn’t you?”
Gareth was still trying to digest the first part of the tale but Lancelot nodded.
“We only know of him because of his school. I had heard he was a soldier from Armorica but I know little else of his history.”
The fig switched sides again. The woman continued.
Guinevere Evermore Page 11
