“Drink that and then tell us what you mean,” he said sternly and Gareth remembered that Arthur was a warrior even more than a king. He gulped down the contents of the cup.
“Lancelot can’t find the Grail because she is holding him away from it. Illtud told him that until he renounces everything of the earth, he will never be pure enough to find it. So he’s staying the winter at Llanylltud Fawr, doing penance for his sins, he says. Then he’s going out to seek the Grail and, whatever he finds, he’s never coming back. It’s all your doing, Guinevere. He has nothing to repent of, nothing! You seduced him and now he’s sitting naked in the snow and living on crusts to pay for it! You drove him mad once before, wasn’t that enough? Now you’ve driven him away forever! He doesn’t dare even look at you again! How can you sit there and . . .”
It was Arthur who hit him, but only because the other men were too far away. The chair tipped over and Gareth lay sprawled on the floor, weeping out his anger and grief. If only Lancelot had let him stay. He wouldn’t have minded the cold or the long hours of prayer or even the dismal food. But Lancelot listened only to Illtud, now. He had no need of insignificant Gareth. He had spoken so kindly, telling him to go on with the search. “I am not worthy, yet. I should not keep you from the quest because of my sinfulness.” As if Gareth cared a damn about the Grail!
Cei and Constantine lifted him up and dragged him from the room. He could see that Guinevere had still not even looked at him. What did she care? She had a husband. She could have a hundred other men. She had only taken Lancelot because he was the best of them all, and she had destroyed him.
Guinevere still stared into the fire, now broken by her tears into a million searing points. She felt Risa’s arms go about her, gently urging her to rise. She was too numb to do more than succumb to the pressure. Her mind was whirling. She looked to Arthur.
“Is it true?” she whispered. “Do you believe I have done this?”
“Never,” he answered firmly. But she noticed the second of hesitation. It stabbed her with a suddenness that nearly felled her.
“Risa, will you help me prepare for bed?” she asked. “I think I will say good night now.”
They all stood as she left and then looked at one another. There seemed nothing safe to say. Constantine took Letitia’s hand. She leaned against him, burying her face in the folds of his tunic. Lydia and Cei went to either side of Arthur, as if to protect him. Modred stood by the table, apart from the others, watching through narrowed eyes. It was as if the gods had planned it all for him. Now he only had to be wise enough to take what they offered and shape it to his own ends.
• • •
The floor in Guinevere’s room was warm. It was an old building, with hypocausts at the corners to send hot air under the buildings. Ordinarily, she luxuriated in the heat, unknown at either Camelot or Caerleon, but tonight it stifled her. She sat at the dressing table as Risa combed and braided her hair for the night. With great effort, she managed to hold still, all but her hands, which cupped each other over and over as if something precious were contained in them and in danger of slipping away.
Risa combed slowly, watching the pure gold of Guinevere’s hair glitter in the lamplight. That Gareth! Always needing to blame someone when he couldn’t have his own way.
“You mustn’t believe him, my Lady, dear,” she emphasized with a tug on the braid she was plaiting. “Lancelot may be overly zealous in his search for God, but he could never abandon you and King Arthur for it. He’ll be back in the summer, just as he said.”
“No.” Guinevere dropped the word into her hands. “Something is wrong in the world. Everything is coming undone. I’ve felt it ever since we came to London. He won’t come back.”
Risa said no more as she finished the braids. She was worried. Guinevere was right about something being amiss. There were rumors crawling around London, tales with distorted faces that whispered lies about Guinevere, lies just close enough to the truth to make them believable.
“My poor lady,” Risa thought. “What’s she ever done but be beautiful and innocent and fall in love with a man not her husband? As if they’ve had more than a night or two together in fifteen long years! And now they’re saying she lured Sir Lancelot with black magic and holds Arthur captive with it, too. If she were anyone but the Queen no one would care at all. I’ve had five children by three different men.” She paused and counted on her fingers. “Three? Yes, I’m sure Liagh is Cheldric’s, too. And there was hardly a raised eyebrow about the court. It’s that Modred’s doing! I know it, even if they won’t believe me. He wants me to meet him again tonight, and won’t I work on him until he tells me what he has planned to hurt my dear Guinevere!”
Her resolve comforted her and she finished her work briskly and left. Guinevere remained on her stool, staring into the hand mirror and wondering wistfully why people didn’t seem to like her anymore.
• • •
Percival was not having the quest he expected with Palomides and Galahad. Like Gareth, he had hoped for a dragon or hideous monster to slay, thereby winning the praise of the people and the glory of the heavens. At least they could have ridden heroically through the countryside, armour shining and plumes waving, as Lancelot had when Percival first saw him. At the very least they could be actively searching for the Grail, grimly following up every slender trail and clue.
So why was he out in the autumn wind, with only his tunic and trews on, straddling the point of a decrepit old hut, owned by an even more decrepit old man, waiting for Palomides to toss up fresh thatch bundles to mend the roof? From below, he could hear Galahad’s laughter as he slipped in the mud, sending the reeds flying. The old man grumbled and Galahad laughed again.
“Have patience with me, Father! I’ll learn this craft yet and we’ll have you dry and warm for the winter, won’t we, Palomides?”
“For certain!” Palomides grinned at the boy’s filthy clothes. “Another day or two, at most, and we’ll be finished. If we had not had your good teaching, Father, we would still be wondering how such thin pieces of stem could hold off the rain and snow. Our thanks to you!”
Percival shivered. Thanks! Little thanks he would get for slicing his fingers and freezing his rear off up here. How could those two stay so cheerful? From the very beginning they had acted as if they had been just set free. They began by overpaying everywhere for their meals and lodging. And, when the money was gone, they gave away their rings and cloak pins. Then, as it began to grow colder, they gave away their cloaks. And always with delight, as if casting off chains instead of throwing away the most precious things they owned.
When Palomides’ sword broke as he tried to pry up a stone to fix a wall, he and Galahad exchanged a look of excited glee. The shorter lever proved better at dislodging the stone.
“Brilliant!” Galahad cried, and proceeded to break the tip off his sword and continue with the work.
“How can you do this?” Percival asked them one night as the three of them huddled in an abandoned stable eating an inadequate dinner. “We’re going to starve or freeze to death at this rate, and there’s no way we’ll ever find the Grail.”
“But, Percival!” Galahad gestured with his loaf. “We’re getting ready to find it now. In another week or two . . .”
“Or year or two,” Palomides added. They both laughed.
“I’m sorry, lad,” Palomides continued. “Galahad and I are not taking this quest as seriously as we should. I know how important it is, not only for the wounds of the Fisher King and the enchantment on his daughter, but for all the world. And yet, every day we’ve been on this journey, I’ve felt closer and closer to something wonderful. We’re doing what we should be and I’ve never been so happy and contented in all my life.”
Galahad, chewing on the dry bread complacently, nodded his agreement.
“Just think of all the things we’ve learned and all the roofs and walls we’ve mended and wheat harvested between here and Camelot. And since we gave our hors
es to that poor trader we’ve been completely free! Can’t you feel it, Percival?”
“All I can feel is cold, wet, hungry, and thwarted,” Percival burst out. “We have a mission to follow and we’ve done nothing so far. It’s all very well to play at charity, but . . .”
“Charity?” Palomides and Galahad looked at each other. “Do you think we shouldn’t have taken any?”
“It seemed to make those people feel good to give us some food and a place to sleep while we fixed their homes.” Galahad scrunched his face in thought. “I don’t see that there was anything wrong in it. Perhaps he means that we shouldn’t have burdened others with our possessions.”
“No!” Percival shouted. “Can’t you understand?”
Apparently they couldn’t. They settled down into their sodden sleeping spaces as happily as if in their mother’s arms. Percival spent the long night counting the drips as they thunked onto his blanket and wondering why he couldn’t decide to leave these madmen to their delusion.
For the next few days, Palomides and Galahad were eager to defer to Percival’s wishes. When he offered a suggestion for an area to search, they agreed and followed along, almost as if they were humoring him. They continued until he suggested that they stop and then waited for him to make ready to start again. Percival knew that this couldn’t be the right way to go about it and that someone else was sure to discover the castle of the Fisher King long before they did. Yet, slowly, the joy radiated by the other two was beginning to warm him and he could not go out again on his own.
It was a dark afternoon in late winter. They had eaten nothing that day. A sharp wind sliced through them as they made their way along the road. Galahad was shivering and his lips were blue, but he seemed not to notice. Palomides had given the boy his blanket to wrap around his shoulders and now walked with his hands in his armpits in an effort to keep warm. Percival brought up the rear. His father’s sword still hung at his side. In his present state, the weight of it was draining him and he wondered how much longer he would last.
Over the wind, they could hear the roar of an angry river. Percival’s heart sank. They could not ford it; they had no payment for the ferryman, even supposing there was one. He was so worn that he didn’t even realize that tears were sliding down his face, leaving brief trails of warmth on his cheeks.
The other two saw the water before he did. Galahad threw the blanket high in the air, leapt up after it and landed in Palomides’ arms. As Percival approached, they were jumping up and down and hugging each other. The bewildered Percival was swept up in their excitement.
“Is it the castle?” he cried as he struggled to get free enough to see what had set them off.
When he saw it, he blinked several times and then rubbed his eyes.
Sitting calmly upon the raging river, riding gently in place as the current dashed against it, was a delicate boat. It was shaped of dark wood, highly polished and carved. On its deck was a tent of tanned leather and silk and the single sail billowing over it was of bright blue satin. If Percival had known anything about boats, he would have noted that this one had no rudder. At the moment, he was thinking only of how nice it would be to get out of the wind. He wondered if the owner of the boat would let them rest there a while.
Palomides and Galahad were already racing down to the riverbank. The boat lay only a few feet out in the water. They stood admiring it until Percival caught up with them.
“Isn’t she beautiful!” Palomides roared over the wind.
“Better than anything I imagined,” Galahad agreed.
“Wait a minute!” Percival panted. “Is the owner there? Do you think he can hear us if we call?”
“Oh, there’s no one aboard the boat,” Galahad told him. "It’s for us, to go find the Grail in.”
“Galahad!” Percival exploded. “Even I am not that unworldly. We can’t steal a boat, especially one like this. Explain it to him, Palomides.”
“Do you think it will come closer if we ask it?” Palomides wondered.
Percival stared at him. Then he gave up. Better all be mad together than face the loneliness of solitary sanity.
“Boat! Oh, Boat!” he called, feeling a complete idiot. “Will you allow us to sail in you?”
Obligingly, the boat glided in until it was almost touching the bank. Galahad looked at the pristine elegance of it and carefully removed his muddy boots before he stepped aboard. The others followed.
Once they entered the tent, they felt the shifting as the boat began to move. Percival had a second of panic but the sight of a table surrounded by soft cushions and piled high with warm food blotted out any other consideration. The three of them sat down to eat. Before they began, though, Galahad called out to the air.
“Our thanks, kind benefactor. We place ourselves at your disposal and will go wherever your pleasure is to take us.”
They thought then that they heard the sound of small bells and laughter, but it faded quickly and they settled in to the dinner. Afterwards they lay down where they had sat and slept.
• • •
Percival woke first. He could feel the swift flow of the water beneath him. Light the color of autumn grain suffused the tent and warmed his body. He did not want to roll over and get up. This was the most comfortable he had been since they left Camelot. He burrowed farther into the cushions.
“Good morning, Cousin.”
The gentle voice set him bolt upright. Seated on a little stool near the entrance to the tent was a smiling young woman.
“Shall we wait for Sir Galahad and Sir Palomides to awaken before we eat, or are you too hungry to wait? It makes no difference. I can summon more hot food for them later.”
“N-n-no,” Percival managed. “I can wait. Who . . . who are you? How did you get here?”
The woman laughed. “I was sent for all of you, Sir Percival. I am Claris, the daughter of your father’s elder brother. Cundrie is my aunt. Your companions, by their deeds and by the love in their hearts, have proved themselves worthy of the Grail and, by staying by them, you have earned your patrimony. Therefore, I shall take you all to the castle of our grandfather, the Fisher King.”
Chapter Thirteen
Lancelot of the Lake, son of King Ban of Banoit, adopted child of the rarest lady of fantasy and the most illustrious knight of the Round Table, lay in his hut at Llanylltud Fawr and tried not to think of the woman he loved. He had starved his body, frozen it, beaten it, allowed it to become crusted with filth and grime. But his mind was cheating. Whenever he let it free from perpetual prayer, it thought of Guinevere. And his tired, battered, emaciated flesh would respond with longing. He pounded his fists against the wall. Would nothing but death release him?
St. Illtud paused in his evening rounds. Poor Sir Lancelot! He set his jaw. This wouldn’t do any longer. He was demoralizing the boys. It irked him considerably to admit defeat, but it was obvious that the traditional methods of rendering the body subservient to the spirit were not going to work here. He squared his stooped shoulders and went to the hut.
Lancelot stood respectfully as Illtud entered. The saint stepped back a pace. This was definitely not the odor of sanctity.
“My son,” he said sadly. “I have meditated long on your problem and I have come to the sorry conclusion that you cannot remain at Llanylltud Fawr. You have done everything I have told you. You have been an obedient student, St. Anthony and St. Simon would be proud of you. But your inner turmoil is just too strong.” He coughed repeatedly as Lancelot moved closer. “As I was saying, too strong to be in close contact with the young minds and souls entrusted to my care. In short, you are frightening the little ones.”
Lancelot sank down, his head nearly resting on his knees. His worn voice, even more than his appearance, smote the old man.
“What am I to do, then? Where am I to go?”
“Perhaps your salvation lies out in the world after all, my son. We must have faith that there is a reason for everything. You may find when you return t
o Camelot that you no longer have any feeling for the Queen but that of friendship.”
He stopped as Lancelot’s eyes fixed his.
“Perhaps not. But you must continue. If you remain as you are here, you cannot hope to live much longer and that will not help you. You will have died for love, not religion. Please, Sir Lancelot, go back! Take up the search for the Grail again. Your suffering may have been enough to earn it. If you no longer have the heart for that, might you consider going back to your father’s land?"
“Banoit? I don’t even remember where it is, only that Meleagant’s father, Claudas, conquered it long ago, when he killed my father.”
“One of the young men here is named Bors. He says that he is connected to your family in some way. He has told me that there is a fortress in the mountains of Banoit that has lain abandoned since your father died. There are those who would be joyful if his son came back to it. Bors has offered to accompany you there. He has no vocation for the priesthood. He has been promised to the daughter of an old friend and is eager to go home and begin the secular life. Shall I tell him you will go?”
“Yes.” A little more strongly, “Yes. I would like to see Banoit. I wonder if there is anyone still alive who remembers my father. But first I suppose I should wash and trim my nails and beard.”
Illtud clapped his hands. “Good! I mean, I’m sorry I couldn’t help you, but there is more than one path to salvation. You may find yours in Banoit. Now, it’s not the regular night for bathing, but I’m sure that we can arrange something for you. I’ll send Father Eulogius to shave you and cut your hair. No, no, he won’t mind at all. He does all our tonsuring. His great-grandfather was barber to the proconsul. No, it’s not too late. He’ll still be praying in the church. Don’t worry about anything, Sir Lancelot. I feel we’ve failed you here. We can, at least, help prepare you to return to the world.”
Guinevere Evermore Page 13
