She was not a goddess and he was not a saint. And he needed her more now than ever before. He closed his eyes and the window went blank. From far away, a mighty gong sounded and the tower shook with its resonance.
He felt Palomides and Galahad tug gently at his arms, bringing him to his feet. He saw with alarm that there was a door in the formerly blank east wall. It was of carved and polished ivory. A locked bolt of gold was drawn across it. In Galahad’s hand was a golden key.
“Do you hear it, Father?” the boy asked softly.
Lancelot shook his head.
“It’s time for us to go, my friend.” Palomides put his arm on Lancelot’s shoulder. There were tears streaming down his face. “Please, when you get back, tell King Arthur that I never found such honor or honesty in any man as I found in him. He led me to this night. I have no words for my gratitude.”
“But, Palomides, I’m not going back. I’m going with you!”
“You can’t, Father.” Galahad was weeping, too, but for those he loved who must be left behind. “Not this way. You must return to tell them that the quest is ended. You must help my mother, Guinevere. She will understand but not accept this. It hurt so much to leave her when I knew she would need me, so you have to be with her, instead. I love you both, and I promise that I always will. Father, I’m sorry. They won’t let you through the portal, not yet. Please, say farewell without grief.”
Lancelot swallowed. “I can’t. I will miss you both too much. But I understand now how foolish I have been in my search. I only marvel that I was allowed to come this far.”
“God loves his fools, too,” Palomides laughed. “Or why else would we be here? Now, come, Galahad. It’s time.”
Galahad inserted the key in the bolt. The lock fell open and Palomides lifted the golden bar. The door opened inward and they entered.
Timidly, Lancelot approached. Instead of the drop outside the tower, he saw a large, clear room, with vaulted ceiling and stone floor. It was empty except for an altar at the far end. On the altar was the Grail, still covered with its crimson cloth. Taking hands, Palomides and Galahad moved toward it.
From behind the altar came a voice.
“In wisdom and innocence, joined by selflessness and love, you have come to me. Therefore come forward and partake of my reward and be with me from this day forth, welcome in my mansions.”
The light from the Grail increased and a form appeared. The brightness was too great for Lancelot to make it out. As the two knights reached the altar, the cloth was removed and a blinding radiance filled the room. Lancelot was thrown back by the force. It pierced not only his eyes, but his whole body. There was a roaring in his ears and a great trembling in his limbs. It enveloped him a moment and then, suddenly, was gone, leaving Lancelot alone in the dark tower, shaking and blind.
Chapter Fourteen
“Gawain! Psst! Gawain!” Risa beckoned from the doorway of Guinevere’s tower. Gawain looked about for a few seconds until he noticed her hand curling out of the shadows.
“Risa! How nice,” he said as he slipped through the door. He gave her a semi-passionate kiss for old times’ sake. “We haven’t done this in years.”
She pushed him away, but fondly. He had been one of the best of her lovers.
“Never mind that. I need to talk to you about Modred. Can we meet somewhere?”
“Without everyone knowing? I doubt it. That’s the only bad thing about being back at Camelot; there’s no private corner for an assignation.”
He leaned against the doorpost, smiling as if chatting, but his mind had gone cold serious. He had found out from Risa long ago why she continued to let Modred into her bed.
“Have you discovered something?” he asked her.
“I can’t tell you here, but yes, I think so. Oh, Gawain, how can I make them believe me?”
“I don’t know. It frightens me how Modred has wound himself around Arthur. Even Guinevere likes him. We have to find some certain proof. He has to be made harmless. But now is not the time to go to Arthur with suspicions and no proof. With the news coming back from the Grail knights, he won’t be willing to hear anything about treachery at his own table.”
Risa nodded. With spring had come rumors, then messengers, then slowly, some of the Grail-seekers themselves. Tired, worn, jaded by what they had seen and done, they were no longer the brilliant, gleaming knights of Camelot.
Sagremore had tried to stop a feud between two families over their sheep and found both sides turned against him. They hadn’t wanted justice. They had wanted victory and the annihilation of their enemy. He had been attacked in his bed and his horse and armour stolen. They had dumped him, unconscious, by the roadside, where he lay all morning as nervous travelers averted their eyes from his body. He was finally recognized by a trader who cared for him in the hope of a reward from Arthur. Sagremore now sat always with his back to the wall, watching, his hand never far from his knife.
The Irish knights, Cunorix and Ebicatos, returned with tales of monsters in the North and a tree of hanged men, tortured and left by the local lord to die and rot in the rain and wind.
“There were dragons in the waters and bansidhs leering from the smoke. Giants roam the countryside, stealing children to eat and maidens to ravish. They laugh at Arthur’s laws. We spent our time in combat and never saw breath of the Grail."
But everyone knows how the Irish tell tales.
Perredur came back, but would tell no one what had happened to him. A month later, his wife took their children and returned to her father. When her family pleaded to know why, she answered only that she could not live with what looked out of his eyes.
Others were dead or had wandered out of Britain, obsessed with the search. And no one had heard anything of Lancelot, Percival, Palomides, and Galahad.
It was not a time to bring bad tidings to Arthur, especially if they were about his new favorite.
Gawain put his arm around Risa and tilted her face so that he could see clearly the lines around her eyes and mouth. She grimaced and turned away.
“Risa,” he said softly. “Bolt your door tonight.”
“Dear friend, I wish so dreadfully that I could. But he has some plan for my Lady Guinevere and I must discover it before he can harm her more. Watch out for her, Gawain.”
“You know how little use I am, Risa. But I promise that anything that can be done by day, I will do. We can’t let my baby brother destroy all that Arthur has built.”
After he left her, he went in search of Gaheris. Agravaine was still at Tintagel and Gareth was no use where Guinevere was concerned, but this was a family matter and he needed to talk with one of his brothers.
He found Gaheris in the scriptorium, deep in conversation with Father Antonius.
“So, you see,” Gaheris summed up. “If there is no dual nature in the personification of Christ, then the sacrifice would have no meaning. He must be primarily man, not god.”
The priest shook his head firmly. “Certainly the gods of my childhood were more human than I in their tastes and foibles. But that is why it seems essential to me that Christianity divorce itself from any claims of the flesh, particularly in the godhead.”
Gawain yawned. He wondered how long this would go on. Father Antonius heard him and yawned in response. He looked up.
“Oh! Sir Gawain! Were you looking for me or your brother?”
“Gaheris, if you don’t mind. Although I would be delighted to eat with you this noon and discuss your views on transubstantiation. ”
Father Antonius blinked and then laughed. “Don’t worry, Sir Gawain. I never discuss religion when I’m eating. I’ll see you then. Good-bye, Sir Gaheris.”
Gaheris stood politely until the priest had left the room.
“Couldn’t you wait? I had almost got him to admit I was right.”
“It didn’t sound that way to me. Anyway, you know you’ll just be at the same arguments tomorrow. I have to talk with you now.”
Gaheris sighed
. “If you’ve come to me about Modred again, don’t bother. I think you’re imagining it. Arthur seems to have made a real change in him. He’s a lot nicer than he was at home.”
“But what about all those rumors about Guinevere? That she’s practicing witchcraft to stay young and that she’s responsible for Arthur’s not going out and conquering the clans?”
“What about them? I haven’t heard Modred say anything against her. And you must admit that she doesn’t age. She looks as young as Aunt Morgause and we know that she doesn’t look that way naturally. Maybe there’s something to it.”
Gawain let loose a sharp expletive which hit Gaheris squarely in the jaw.
“All this theology has turned your brain to mush, boy. Guinevere doesn’t care if Arthur battles the clans, the Irish, the Saxons, or the whole damned Roman army, if that’s what he wants. And, until Galahad comes back, I don’t think she’d even notice if the war came to the walls of Camelot, as long as it didn’t get in the way of her view of the road. And as for her looks, well, nothing wicked ever wore a face like that. Witchcraft! The whole thing is mad!”
Gaheris gathered up his sheets of vellum and put away the ink, quills, and sand. Apart from his own nonviolent nature, he knew better than to pit himself against his older brother.
“You know more about her than I do, of course, and you’re probably right. But there is something going on here, and it’s the Queen that people are wondering about.”
“Idiots! Modred’s behind it. And I’ll wager that Aunt Morgause is behind him. Satan smiled the day she was born and she must have given him some good laughs since then. How can you even think Guinevere could traffic with evil?”
He stormed out, breathing in the sun-warmed air in an attempt to expel the cold fear that was building in him. What kind of spell were they weaving that even Gaheris felt its power?
Now that they were back at Camelot, Guinevere was too busy to realize the change in the people around her. Lydia was in childbed again and her tasks needed doing. Even after more than twenty years, Guinevere still knew little about the day to day running of the King’s household. But she tried to appear is if she did. Letitia, having been raised to be a stolid Roman matron, was ready to organize cooks, potboys, weavers, woodsmen, washwomen, and scrubbing drudges into a smooth unit and really did most of the planning and checking, but she deferred to her aunt in public. Privately, Guinevere longed to return the whole mess to Lydia and go back to her books and quiet evenings. But she was grateful that, at least, she was too occupied to worry so constantly about Galahad. In the bustle of the kitchens and the laundry, she sometimes even lost the gnawing hurt of Lancelot’s rejection.
Being out among the people of Camelot helped their attitude toward her, too.
“Poor thing,” the third cook whispered to the laundress. “She doesn’t know a roasting spit from a pot hook, but she’s trying.”
“And her that worried about little Sir Galahad, too,” the laundress clucked. “I do think she’s lost color this past year, and weight, too. Her bones stick out right through her robes.”
“That’s so. I’ll see to it that she gets an egg and honey-mead posset tonight. With those lords from Armorica coming again, we can’t have the Queen looking like a starved rabbit.”
• • •
Modred went to spend a few weeks with his aunt, Morgause. She gave him a tongue-lashing about letting sentiment get in the way of destiny and reported that Meleagant, Ligessauc Longhand, Gerontius of Dumnonia, and Fergus of the Dal Riada would join with him if there were a valid excuse to set against Arthur.
“But you had better be sure that Meleagant lives long enough, because his son, Sir Dyfnwal, is committed to Arthur. Cissa of the Saxons will only continue as he has done so far. He will harry anyone other than traders within his lands and keep those on his borders from coming to Arthur’s aid. But beware of him! Like Maelgwn, he will be more than willing to wait while you do the work and then sweep in and conquer the victor while he is still weak.”
“There will be no chance of that, dear Morgause, if you keep to your work.”
“I can only do so much, Modred,” she snapped. “You seem to think that the daemons and old ones are like dogs to be whistled for. I was able to poison the air in London so that men’s minds were set on trails of suspicion. But that took skill and time. And I couldn’t work with nothing. There was already envy there and resentment, carefully disguised. I only gave it form. You must do some work, yourself. Start collecting your bishops and saints. We should let the Christians do the hardest part. That will save our strength for . . . better things.”
Modred reached across the thick, lush velvet and pulled her against him.
“They say that the exercise of absolute power is the greatest physical arousal there is. That’s why the emperors soon became jaded by the usual offerings. But I wonder how it would be if the two were combined.”
She stretched her arms over her head, reaching toward the ceiling, seeing beyond it to the culmination of her striving. Her breath came more quickly. Modred gave a short laugh.
“Exactly, my dear. Just what I had in mind.”
• • •
The hills were emerald with the first leaves of summer. Guinevere’s roses had unfolded in the morning sunshine and released their perfume into the air of Camelot. Wildflowers scattered themselves throughout the grass and bees skittered among them, too busy to be bothered with stinging. Lydia was up again and the new baby could be heard protesting her absence at frequent intervals.
“Come out and look, Arthur!” Guinevere called from the balcony. “You’d think the world had been made afresh last night. Forget those Armoricans and come riding with me today. They only want you to give them soldiers. I don’t remember them sending any to you when you needed help.”
“Hush, my dear!” Arthur came out and gently laid his fingers across her mouth. “They sent me no aid because I asked for none. But, in the past twenty years, hundreds of their sons and daughters have come back to Britain and settled the empty towns and villas that their fathers abandoned. It’s only right that we give what help we can now that those Merovingian Franks are snapping at their lands. They might not need help if we hadn’t taken so many of their youth.”
“They were glad enough to be rid of younger sons then,” Guinevere sniffed. “And you know how many of them just came back to dig up the coins their ancestors buried when they fled.”
“Guinevere.” He looked at her and she smiled sheepishly.
“You’re such a nice person, Arthur. I don’t know how you do it. Now, will you be even nicer and come riding with me?
“I can’t, my dear. But I’ll get plenty of riding in the next few days. I’ve promised to accompany our guests on their way back to London, at least for the first day or two. On the way back, we’ll do a little hunting. I’ve a craving for the taste of wild boar.”
“Very well. I’ll see if Gawain wants to go riding, or Brisane or one of the other ladies. But don’t spend all day in that dark hall. Days such as these are too rare to waste.”
Brisane was being fitted for a new pair of shoes, and the other ladies were occupied for the good of their families, their bodies, their souls, or all three. It occurred to Guinevere that they often were, recently. So Gawain and Guinevere set out alone through the maze to the gate of Camelot and down the road to the West.
“Guinevere, wouldn’t you like to go the other way for a change?” Gawain asked. “You’ve been up this road as far as time allows every clear day for weeks.”
She gave him her most innocent glance. “Don’t you like this road?”
“As well as any other, I suppose. But you don’t fool me. This is the road they went down when they left and someday, you think, you’ll find them coming home again.”
He said it in a kindly voice, but it brought tears to her throat all the same.
“Are you laughing at me for my foolishness?”
“No, dear Auntie. I’m weeping with y
ou for your steadfast hope.”
“There must be news of them someday; they can’t have . . . oh, Gawain! Look! Look!”
They had reached the top of a hill. Below the road twisted as it followed the river Cam. Gawain shielded his eyes and tried to see what made Guinevere sit as if frozen, her arm locked outstretched. There was no one on the road but an old man, probably a priest on his way from Llanylltud Fawr. Odd horse for such a man to be riding, probably given him by some grateful lord whose sins he had absolved. Funny, he thought he’d seen that horse before, and the way the rider sat him . . .
“Gawain! Can’t you see him? Please, tell me he’s really there!”
“I see a man in hermit’s robes riding a white horse. Is that . . .”
But he didn’t get a chance to finish. She had dug her heels hard into the horse’s flank and was galloping down the hill, screeching at the top of her lungs.
“Lancelot! Lancelot!”
Gawain started after her.
Guinevere Evermore Page 15
