“He was trained in Armorica, but came to Britain as a young man. He was a fine soldier, and in my ignorance I thought he was a good husband, too. Didn’t he get me with child in our first month? Such a fool I was!
“After Uther died and before Arthur, Illtud fought for whoever would pay. He went back to Armorica for a while. It was there he turned Christian.” She spat out the husk of the fig. “I’d like to wring the neck of the man who converted him.”
“Lady!”
“Don’t take that tone with me, young man. I know what I say. At first he was content to give away our property and have me tilling the fields like a common slave. That was shameful enough. Then one day, he just decided to leave the court at Caerleon with a few of his friends and wander into the mountains in search of true enlightenment and ‘Christian’ denial. Well, I was a good wife. I set out with him. The very first night, though, I learned just what he had decided to deny himself. In the middle of the night, mind you, he wakes me up and tells me to get him some water. So, simpleton that I was, I went. When I got back, he was rolled up tight as an oyster in the blankets and wouldn’t let me back in! Called me filth and temptation and ordered me to leave him! There I was, alone on the edge of nowhere in the dark, wearing nothing but my shift. He relented enough to allow me to stay the night at the edge of the camp. Then he announced that he was going to live a holy life and devote himself to the contemplation of God and the education of young boys. So, finally, I began to understand. And all that time I had just thought he was a wonderfully faithful husband!”
“Surely you wrong him, Lady,” Lancelot protested. “He may have only come to a realization of the decadence of his old life and wished, though cruelly to you, to be rid of all of it.”
She gave him a contemptuous stare. “So you’re another one of them, are you?”
But one of what she didn’t say.
Gareth was more sympathetic. He had never been ensnared by religious worries.
“Why do you stay here, then, so close to him? Surely there must be somewhere else where they would take you in.”
She looked at him for the first time.
“Goodness, I thought you were his shadow! You can speak, too, can you? Yes, I suppose I could have gone to friends, but I was too proud to show myself after having been treated so badly. I was angry, too. I still am. I vowed to sit on his doorstep and remind him every day of the wrong he’d done me. After a few years, that became too much bother. I felt like a leper at the gates. So, I got a few of his students to build me this hut and I kept bees to make honey for them. Oh, does that irritate the old goat! When they’re sick of dried peas and water, the boys sneak down here for a treat. Poor lads! Some of them are as little as seven when they’re left here. How could a mother do it? If my son had lived, I’d never have let him away from my arm’s reach. So, I give them a little cosseting and some sweets and they’re the better for it. And I do so love to make my Illtud mad!”
She laughed and slapped her thighs. Gareth laughed too.
“It doesn’t sound, Lancelot, as if Saint Illtud will be able to tell you about the Grail, after all,” he said.
But Lancelot was grave. His thoughts were not at the moment on the Grail.
“Lady,” he asked. “After all he did to you, do you still care about St. Illtud?”
She grinned at him. “You think I’m still pining for his love? No, dearie, I still miss the man he once was, or what I thought he was. But, no, the man he is now is nothing to me. I think I even hate him for killing the Illtud I did love. Now do you want to go meet him and find out if he’s as wicked as I said?”
“I only wish to seek information about the Grail,” but Lancelot couldn’t look at her directly.
“Of course, of course.” She got up and motioned for them to follow. “I’ll put you on the right path. It’s not far. If you’re meaning to stay there long, come back and see me. I’ll see that you get some decent food. A grown man will starve on what those boys have to eat.”
They thanked her and, after getting the horses, set off in the direction she pointed. The road became smoother and better-kept and soon they were in sight of the cluster of huts and halls that made up Llanylltud Fawr. From the larger building came the chanting of recitations as the youngest boys struggled with the Old Latin necessary to understand the Gospels and the Commentaries. Older boys were tilling plots of land around the compound and others were running races around the church. If wealthy parents were pouring gifts into the place, it didn’t show.
There was no gate, but a young priest stopped them as they entered the area and directed them first to the stable and then to the hut of the saint.
They were announced by the priest and entered the small building. The only light was from a hole cut in the wall and covered with waxed linen, giving the room a soft, beige tint. Against one curving wall was a narrow straw-mattressed bed covered with a thin blanket. At the foot was a battered wooden chest. The rest of the room was taken up by a large table, overflowing with books, scrolls, and loose vellum. Wedged next to it was a tall writing table and, behind that, sat St. Illtud.
Gareth had not decided what he should expect the saint to look like, between the tales from his former pupils and the story his wife had told. He wasn’t ready for a mild-eyed elderly man, with white hair falling to his shoulders behind the tonsure which went across the top of his head from ear to ear. Illtud was emaciated from long fasting but still straight. He held out his hands to them.
“Sir Lancelot! I am exceedingly pleased to welcome you! Your pilgrimage to the shrine of St. Martin is well known here. It is good to know that a man of strength can also be a man of God!”
Lancelot knelt and kissed the old man’s hand. Gareth waited, as usual, to be noticed. Illtud smiled at him.
“And you, I think, are one of Morgan Le Fay’s sons? Gareth is it? I was there when you and your brother Gaheris were baptized. A very brave thing for you to do, considering your family.”
He had had more to fear from the weather that day, Gareth recalled. Even with the curtains around the font, standing naked in a freezing pool of water while more was poured over one’s head was an insane thing to do in the middle of January. He tried to remember how Gaheris had talked him into it.
But he only mumbled, “Thank you, Sir.”
Illtud continued beaming on them. “I can’t believe that you have come to me for instruction in holy orders. Have you brought a message from my old master, Arthur?”
Lancelot rose. “No, Father, we are on a quest for an object called the Grail. It has an ancient and mysterious past and we are hoping that you can tell us more of what it is and where we can find it. Have you heard of it?”
“Perhaps.” Illtud’s wrinkles drew together in thought. “It sounds familiar; something known but not orthodox. I will have some of my students consult the writings. It’s not Arian, is it? I’ll have none of that sort of heresy in my school!”
“No, Sir. It is British or Irish, we think.” And Lancelot went on to explain about Percival and Cundrie, the Fisher King and the overwhelming experience of the covered Grail.
“Very well. Father Samson!” he called to a man outside. “Please take these knights to a place where they can wash and rest. It may take a few days, Sir Lancelot. I hope you will be content to abide with us that long. Perhaps you and Sir Gareth would enjoy a different, simpler life for a time?”
“Thank you. We would be honored.” Lancelot bowed and they left, following Father Samson to another wattle building, only slightly more comfortably arranged than Illtud’s.
Gareth looked around. “You know T want to help you find the Grail, Lancelot, and this isn’t the worst place I’ve ever slept. But if we have to live on dried pea soup and water for very long, I may gladly disavow that baptism.”
Fortunately for Gareth’s faith, the meal that night contained bread, cheese, eggs, and wine, as well as fish in a sauce of beans and herbs. Illtud sat with them, but ate only a little bread and sipped
a cup of watered ale. He had no information yet on the Grail but was happy to tell them of the school and how it had grown over the years, what fine scholars they had and how many of them had decided to stay on and become priests after the term of education was finished. He said nothing about his life before Llanylltud Fawr, and Gareth, though bursting to ask, found no good point in the conversation to do so.
They prepared for bed in the late summer twilight, the wind in the trees reminding Gareth of the sound of waves on the rocks at Tintagel. He wondered how Agravaine was managing in his effort to reorganize the place and if old Lot had bothered to come back, now that Morgan was gone. Or perhaps Lot had died. Gareth had had no word from him in years, but then, that was no surprise. Not many people thought to send messages to Gareth. He lay down on the straw mattress and reflected that he indeed had known worse. As he fell asleep, he imagined the mighty adventures they would have as soon as St. Illtud found something in his books for Lancelot to follow.
Lancelot lay stiffly on his bed, waiting for Gareth’s breathing to deepen into snores. He listened to the gradual silencing of voices about the school; a short exchange between two of the priests, some muffled laughter from the boy’s hut followed by a sharp admonition; an atonal singing from a man checking the animals for the night. It was so orderly here, so calm. In a place like this, a person might find a kind of peace within himself. A person might even begin to unravel the confusion and discover the true reason for his life.
The stars were out as Lancelot slipped from under the blanket and out of the hut. Inside, Gareth was happily engaged in vanquishing five Saxon warriors and a small dragon.
The glow of the oil lamp by the altar guided him to the tiny church. He slipped in and stood in the darkest corner, his hands raised in submissive, lonely prayer.
When he finished, it was deep into night. The moon was new and the stars glittered on him like splinters of glass. His eyes burned under their gaze, and he nearly tripped over St. Illtud, sitting on the ground by the door.
“I beg your forgiveness, Sir.” Lancelot stepped back. “Would I be intruding, if I sat awhile with you?”
The old man shook his head.
“I have wanted to talk with you for some time, now. We are not so out of the world here that many rumors about Arthur and the people around him have not found their way to our gates. You are mentioned quite frequently, and I have long wanted to meet the man who left the enchanted realm of the Lady of the Lake. It is a place many men would happily trade their souls to visit, they say.”
“I was not suited to the Lake,” Lancelot replied with sadness. “I came searching a salvation which my foster mother cannot understand.”
“So the Lady truly did raise you! How incredible!” Illtud smiled. “And yet, if the gossip is true, you would throw away your hope of salvation in an adulterous love.”
Lancelot froze at the mild voice. He wanted to strike the man. What business was it of his, of anyone’s? He lashed back:
“What kind of salvation did you find, abandoning the woman lawfully bound to you to starve or be enslaved?”
“Ah, I thought you might have met her. I have no doubt that she told you the truth. I did not treat her kindly. At that time I was ablaze with the fervor of my calling and I was harsh with her, as with myself. In order to find God, my son, one must put aside the temptations of the flesh and cast away those things which turn one to this insignificant life.”
“But do you never long for her, not even in the night when there is nothing between the memory of her and your heart? Don’t you ever wake up suddenly, believing you felt her breath on your shoulder and her hair across your body? How can you see God, when she stands before you, so radiant that you are blinded to everything else?”
His voice had risen to a point close to hysteria, and Illtud laid his hands on Lancelot’s shoulders.
“If she keeps you from finding God, then she is evil, and must be ripped from your life as one would cut out a malignant growth! Your lust for this woman has bewitched you! As long as you are too weak to break free of her, you will be stained, no matter what good works you perform or how perfect your devotions may be. If you continue this liaison with your lord’s wife, even in your heart, you will never find the Grail!”
“You do know about the Grail!”
“A little. Enough to know that it will not be revealed to a man who places the desires of his body above his immortal soul.”
“You don’t understand. I did not ask to love her, nor did she seek me out. I have tried for years to destroy what I feel. My journey to Tours, to the shrine of St. Martin, was only one attempt. If I lived a hundred years without even hearing word of her, I would still hold her with me, always in my heart. How can you renounce your own heart?”
Illtud absently patted the hunched shoulder. He knew what he ought to say, but the truth was, he had not found it so hard to cast his wife out. It was no more trouble for him to abstain from sex than from strong drink. And it had been easy to lose the little affection he had for her when she taunted him constantly at his very door. He had more trouble finding the charity to forgive her than the strength to renounce her.
“It has been said, Sir Lancelot, that the more difficult the task, the greater the reward. It appears to me that a great many things come easily to you. You may pride yourself on denying your body rest and sustinance. But these are only outward forms of inward submission. And there is no place for any sort of pride in Our Lord’s house. You must train your thoughts to God or you will be forever shackled to the earth with no more soul than that Lady who raised you. Cast this Guinevere from your life and welcome in the Faith which is greater than all earthly love!”
Slowly, Lancelot raised his head. Tears ran down his cheeks as he gripped St. Illtud’s arms as if they were the only things keeping him from falling into an abyss. Illtud winced, but did not attempt to throw him off. Lancelot’s eyes bored into the old man as he made his vow.
“With your help, good Saint, I will!”
In her elegant room in London, Guinevere cried out in her sleep and clung to Arthur, who held her softly, whispering assurance, all the while knowing her fear was not for him.
Chapter Twelve
Gawain arrived in London well before winter set in. He was the first of the knights to return and had to suffer the indignity of failure as well as the laughter at his misadventure with the sword over the bed and the girl in it. Durriken was already hard at work composing a tale with a rollicking enough meter to convey the outrageous silliness of the episode. Added to this was the undeniable fact that Gawain in the winter was never terribly alert. Even the allure of the city women was not enough to cheer him. Therefore, he spent most of the short afternoon hours sitting with Guinevere, the two of them seated on cushions on the floor, staring at the gray sky and wondering.
“He was well when you left him?” she asked for the thousandth time.
“He was well and eager to be off on the search. He told me he need not send you his love because all he had was left in your keeping,” Gawain replied for the thousandth time.
“Gareth seemed pleased that I was not going with them,” he added.
“Gareth doesn’t like me,” Guinevere said. Her voice was puzzled. Everyone liked her.
“He is a strange man. I don’t understand what he wants. I think he is simply jealous of those who might take something of Lancelot from him.”
“Then he should hate us all—Arthur, you, me, Galahad.”
Gawain shrugged. “Perhaps he does.” He thought a moment. “No, I’m being unfair to him. Gareth really is unhappy with himself. He wants to be a great knight. And, if he can’t be, then he wants his hero to be perfect.”
“Lancelot is perfect. Where do you think Galahad is now? Is he warm and fed and safe? Palomides wouldn’t let anyone hurt him, would he?”
And the pattern of responses started again.
The London winter was not as exciting as Guinevere had planned. Even the pleasure
of arranging the wedding between Constantine and Letitia was not as enjoyable as she had thought. There was something going on which she couldn’t understand. People seemed to edge away from her when she sat by them. Whispers followed her through the corridors. The indulgent smiles which had always greeted her were thinner, as if painted on at the last minute. Only her oldest friends were the same: Cei, Lydia, Risa, and Gawain, of course. There weren’t so many now. Time and the Grail had moved them from her. But why? What was happening? She hurried to the dining hall one evening, late again. The blank stares which greeted her as she entered frightened her. She stumbled as she climbed the dais. Modred caught her by the arm and smiled encouragingly. She took a deep breath and smiled back. At least he was unchanged. Such a nice man! And so good for Arthur! They had been almost inseparable lately.
The first snow was settling on the city that night and Arthur, Cei, and Modred were having a friendly game of dice by the fire, with Constantine watching. Letitia was comparing fabrics for her wedding robes with Risa and Lydia. Guinevere was staring into the flames, longing again for word of Lancelot and Galahad. There was a knock at the door, which she ignored. Someone was always coming to Arthur or Cei for advice. Risa looked up.
“Why, Gareth! What are you doing back?” she cried.
Guinevere froze. She couldn’t find the courage to turn and look. Arthur leapt up.
“You look half-dead, man! What happened to you? Where is Lancelot?”
Gareth dropped into the chair Cei brought. His face was gray with fatigue and his cloak filthy and soaked with melting snow. He bent over and hid his face in his hands.
“Lancelot sent me away!” he said to the floor. “Can I have some wine? I’m so awfully cold.”
“What did you do?” Modred asked. “Run at the first sight of danger?”
Gareth straightened at the sneer.
“I did nothing! It was that Illtud. And even more than St. Illtud, it was her!”
He pointed stiffly at Guinevere, who still hadn’t moved. Arthur brought the wine and gave it to Gareth.
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