The warm sun and the gentle rocking of the enchanted boat did their work, and soon Merlin, weary from so many long journeys, could stay awake no longer. His eyes closed, and he slept, stretched out full-length upon the bottom of the boat.
It seemed as if Merlin had slept centuries, until all the world he had known had passed away. When he awoke, the ship was still, the sail half-furled, and a small boy was standing beside the vessel, staring down at Merlin gravely. The boy’s hair was the white-blond color that seldom lasts beyond early childhood, and he wore a coronet of gold and royal purple.
“Who are you?” the boy asked.
Merlin groaned a little as he sat up. Magic ship or not, the stiffness of age was beginning to touch his bones. “I’m Merlin,” he answered. “The wizard.”
But instead of being impressed at that declaration, the boy laughed. “There aren’t any wizards left,” he scoffed.
“I’m the last of them,” Merlin answered, knowing somehow that it was true. He got to his feet. “And who are you?”
“Galahad,” the boy answered. “My mother is the Lady Elaine and my father is Sir Lancelot.” He stared at Merlin a moment longer, then seemed to remember his manners. “I bid you welcome to Joyous Gard, Merlin the wizard.”
“I thank you, Master Galahad,” Merlin answered absently.
Sir Lancelot must be the good man the Lady of the Lake had sent Merlin here to find. He stepped out of the boat and looked around.
The Lady’s boat had landed on a crescent-shaped beach of glittering white sand. Beyond it, upon the headland, stood Joyous Gard, as beautiful as it had been in his vision.
If only Arthur were here to see it! Lancelot’s castle was everything Arthur had dreamed Camelot would be; a castle forged from the fabric of dreams. Stone carved to seem as light as air and as lacy as sea foam rose up to form towers taller than the tallest tree. Its steep conical roofs were plated in pure gold, and pennons in a thousand colors flew from every spire. If this were a dream of the future, then it was a future that Arthur had helped to create.
“It’s … beautiful,” Merlin whispered.
“Joyous Gard is dedicated to honor and chivalry,” Galahad said proudly. “It is a place where the strong defend the weak.”
“Then it is the place I have searched for all my life,” Merlin said. “Pray take me to your father, Master Galahad.”
Galahad took Merlin through the castle courtyard and led him not to an audience chamber, but toward the forge. Everything Merlin saw in Joyous Gard was bright and clean and airy, and he felt like a revenant, like a dark ghost from a time of blood and battle who had somehow strayed into an era of civilized good fellowship. No one in Joyous Gard even wore armor. It was as if this land had been at peace so long it had forgotten all the arts of war. But when they reached their destination, Merlin saw that one man, at least, was still a warrior.
“There he is,” Galahad said, pointing.
Lancelot was a tall fair man. He was bronze where Arthur was golden, but in Lancelot, Merlin thought he saw a shadow of the man Arthur would become. Lancelot wore a dark tunic trimmed in silver Celtic knotwork, and wide silver bracers that gleamed in the sun. As Merlin approached, Lancelot was holding a sword to the grinding stone, honing its edge as the smith turned the wheel.
He stopped as Merlin and Galahad approached. Striking the sword against an anvil, he held the blade to his ear, gauging its tone.
“What does it say?” Merlin asked.
“It says, ‘I will prove strong and true in battle’—and to be wary of strangers,” Lancelot added, regarding Merlin.
Well, I suppose I do look a bit out of place here, Merlin thought to himself.
“Father,” Galahad said, “this is Merlin.”
At once Lancelot’s manner changed. “Merlin? Ah, well, then. You’re no stranger. I’ve heard of you, and you are certainly welcome to Joyous Gard. Galahad, run and tell the Lady Elaine that we have a special visitor.”
The boy sped off on his errand, his bright hair flashing in the sun.
“Now tell me, Merlin, what brings you to Joyous Gard,” Lancelot said. He flung his arm companionably over Merlin’s shoulder and the two men began to walk toward the main castle keep.
“It is a magnificent place,” Merlin said, still looking around.
“As close to heaven as we could find on earth … though I sometimes wish there were a few more dragons to slay.”
“I cannot offer you dragons, Sir Lancelot, but I can offer you a great adventure,” Merlin said as they crossed from light into shadow. Lancelot was about to reply, when he was distracted by the arrival of the Lady Elaine.
The lady of Joyous Gard wore a silvery gown sewn with pearls, and her rich auburn hair cascaded down her back, swept away from her face by a gold and pearl diadem in the antique style.
“Elaine!” Lancelot said heartily. “Look! Merlin the wizard has come to offer me adventure.”
“Master Merlin.” Like Lancelot, she seemed to know Merlin already, at least by reputation, but unlike her husband, what Elaine knew did not seem to cheer her. She regarded Merlin with troubled eyes. “What sort of adventure brings you to Joyous Gard?”
“I’ve come here to find a man to defend King Arthur in his kingdom. But he must be a good man, pure of heart,” Merlin said.
“You’ve found him,” Elaine answered. Her expression lightened as she crossed to her husband and took his arm. They gazed at each other lovingly. “My Lancelot has slain dragons and overthrown tyrants. He is the best knight in the world, and there is no other that is his match. But it must have been a long journey that brought you here, Master Merlin. Surely you will rest and refresh yourself before you return to Camelot?”
Merlin hesitated. “I fear, Lady, that every hour I am away from Camelot brings disaster closer.”
“Then we will leave at once,” Lancelot said decisively. “But it will take some time to gather together my arms and to saddle Bayard. At least take a cup of wine before we depart.”
“Gladly,” Merlin answered.
Elaine conducted him to the Great Hall and ordered a servant to bring wine and cakes. Lancelot went to see to his equipment, and there was a spring in his step that had been absent before.
“You seem troubled, Lady Elaine,” Merlin said cautiously, when he had gone.
“I shall miss him,” Elaine said simply. “But Lancelot is a valiant heart. He was not made for peace, but for war. If adventure beckons, he must go. It is his nature.”
Merlin wanted to tell Elaine that her husband was in no danger, but he dared not say something which might not be true. As much as Joyous Gard seemed to promise that the defeat of the Old Ways and the triumph of Good would surely come, the land the magic ship had brought him to was not the only future that might befall. And so he drank the wine, when it came, and said nothing.
Much later, long after the knowledge could do him any good, Merlin realized that while Elaine had been right to say that Lancelot had all of knighthood’s virtues, it was also true that the best knight in the world had every one of its failings as well: impatience, temper, and overconfidence. But on this sunny day in Joyous Gard, as Merlin sat drinking sweet wine and listening to the music of the sea through the windows of the Great Hall, that realization was far in the future.
It was nearly an hour before Lancelot returned. He was garbed now all in silvery chain mail that shone like the scales of a fish, and carried under one arm a plumed helm of an unfamiliar design. In his other hand he carried a swordbelt wrapped around a sword and scabbard, and Elaine hurried to him to buckle it about his waist. Merlin could see the name of the sword written on the scabbard: Joyeuse, named for Joyous Gard itself.
“Are you sure this is what you want?” Merlin heard him ask Elaine in a low voice.
“It’s not what I want,” she whispered back. “It’s what you want. I can’t hold you back. It’s your chance for one last great adventure.”
Lancelot smiled and kissed her fondly. “I�
�m ready!” he called to Merlin.
“Then let us be off,” Merlin said.
The servants were already leading Lancelot’s great black warhorse down the beach to the magic ship when Merlin and the others arrived Elaine stood stoically, refusing to weep; young Galahad glanced from one parent to the other, not understanding why his mother was so sad when his father was so happy.
Despite Merlin’s misgivings, the black Bayard stepped daintily into the ship without any trouble. Lancelot followed, and Merlin came last of all. The moment he had clambered into the boat, its sail filled with an unfelt wind and it began to slide gently off the sand. Elaine and Galahad stood upon the shore, waving good-bye.
“Galahad!” Lancelot called. “Protect your mother while I’m away!”
The boy waved harder, but the boat was already too far for his reply to reach them. It sailed swiftly, and soon the mist rose up around them once more.
Merlin had done well to be so hasty in his visit to Joyous Gard. Though the journey seemed to him to have been only a matter of hours, six months time had passed in Britain. When the boat grounded on the shore of the Enchanted Lake and Merlin was able to ask questions of the citizens of nearby villages, he found that it was spring, and the Eastertide tourney that would choose the champion of Britain was about to begin.
As Merlin and Lancelot rode for Camelot, they heard about it in every village they passed, for Arthur had declared there would be a holiday throughout the kingdom while the tourney was fought.
“Everything moves too fast,” Merlin muttered to himself.
“What’s that, Sir Wizard?” Lancelot asked. The knight was in high spirits at the prospect of a tournament.
“Nothing,” Merlin answered. It was enough that Lancelot had come to champion Arthur while Arthur went upon this quest. He did not need to know about Mab, and Mordred, and Morgan, and the whole sordid tangle of the Old Ways that shadowed Arthur’s reign.
CHAPTER NINE
THE THRONE OF CHIVALRY
The opening day of the tourney dawned bright and cloudless. Knights had come from all over Britain, and from as far away as Armorica and the Languedoc, to vie for the honor of becoming Britain’s champion.
The cathedral at Camelot was close to being finished; and Arthur, Guinevere, and all the knights who would fight today had gone there at dawn to hear the Easter Mass read. After Mass, the knights had retreated to their pavilions to arm themselves and prepare for the day’s fighting, while the King conferred with his councilors, making plans for his upcoming quest.
The tourney field had been laid out upon the shore of the lake, and the sun glittered off the surface of the water. When the hour at last arrived for the tourney to begin, the rows of seats that faced the lake along the side of the tourney field were filled with the cream of Britain’s nobility. Their clothing and jewels glittered in the sun like a vast rainbow ocean.
King Arthur was the last to arrive. He had filled out over the last few months, looking now less like a gawky boy and more like an assured, self-confident king. He was dressed all in royal red, his tunic sewn with thin plates of pure gold and his scarlet cloak brilliant with golden interlaced knotwork. The king’s crown had been finished at Christmastide, and it glinted upon his brow like the rays of the sun. He took his place in the stands upon the elaborately painted and carved throne beside his Queen.
Guinevere was dressed as splendidly as he, and standing around the Royal couple were the first nobles of the realm: Sir Boris, Lord Lot, Lord Leodegrance, Sir Hector, and the rest.
Arthur raised his hand, and the knights rode forward to salute him. Here was Gawain, with his brothers Agravain, Gaheris, and Gareth; Arthur’s foster brother Sir Kay; Palomedes the Moor; Accolon of Gaul; the Eireish brothers, Balin and Balan; Bedivere of Wales and his cousin Culhwch; the woman warrior Bradamante; Sir Sagramore and Sir Dinadan of the Round Table; Sir Tristan and Sir Hoel … two hundred dauntless knights, the full flower of chivalry in the West, were gathered upon this field to fight for the honor of Britain.
At Arthur’s signal a trumpet sounded. The knights raised their swords in salute, and the king stood to receive the acclaim.
“My lords, ladies, knights of the realm. I shall leave soon upon a God-given quest for the Holy Grail. Now I seek a champion to protect our country and the honor of our fair Queen while I’m gone!”
“I claim that honor, Sire!” Gawain shouted from the first rank of knights.
“Gawain, I hope you don’t win!” Arthur called back, smiling. “You know I need you with me!”
The crowd laughed, and Arthur resumed his seat. The knights wheeled their mounts and broke ranks, half trotting to one side of the field, half to the other, to wait and prepare for the first charge of the day. Though the swords would be blunted and the lance points would be bare wood, not tipped in bronze, the falls would be real, and the Royal College of Chirurgeons were standing by to minister to the fallen.
“You should have let me compete in the tourney, Sire!” Sir Boris blustered.
“You’re too old, Sir Boris,” Arthur said kindly. The old knight was nearly seventy, and though he still talked a good fight, most of Sir Boris’s great battles these days were conducted at the feast table instead of the field.
“Of course he’s too old,” Sir Hector said, standing at Arthur’s side, “but I’m not!”
Guinevere joined Arthur in the general meriment at Sir Hector’s jest. But beneath her gaiety, her thoughts were grave.
Arthur would be leaving in less than a month’s time, leaving her to rule Britain in his place with the help of his wizard, Merlin—if Merlin ever returned from his latest expedition—and whoever won the tourney today. Despite what Arthur had said, Guinevere hoped it would be her brother Gawain. She knew and loved Gawain. He would protect her and support her decisions unquestioningly.
Though Guinevere had eagerly accepted the New Religion when her father commanded it, her marriage had not been what she had been taught to expect. She was the daughter of a king and a sister to princes. She had thought she knew what it would be to be queen—that at last she would have a place and a life that belonged to her beyond doubt—but Arthur had confused all her expectations. He didn’t even seem to want to be alone with her, let alone help her to get a child to rule after him. Now she was neither wife nor maiden, caught between the two until Arthur achieved the Grail and became a husband to her in truth as well as name.
But though he spoke of his own sin and unworthiness, it seemed to Guinevere that Arthur thought that his queen was the one who was unworthy. That somehow he had looked into her and seen what she had always suspected was there—some flaw, some inadequacy, the thing that had always made her feel like a stranger, even in her own home. Undeserving. Sinful.
I am the daughter of a king, and I have committed no sin! Guinevere thought, her head held high. Her eyes flashed with pride, able to believe for a moment that she was right. She knew the Scriptures. In them the people were commanded to be fruitful and multiply, yet Arthur denied her a child. His was the sin, not hers.
If he did not love her, let him set her aside for another—and the green hills of Britain would run red with the blood her father and brothers would shed for such an insult. Let Uther’s bastard son see what it meant to mock the proud Iceni!
But the flash of temper faded, and the Queen shook her head sadly at her own foolishness. A woman’s place was to submit to her husband, so the New Religion taught. And if Arthur didn’t want her, then surely the fault was hers, and she could see no way to repair it.
How? How had she failed him? No matter how often she asked him, Arthur only spoke of the Grail.
He said everything would be different once he had brought it back to Britain, but he also said the quest could take many years. He did not know what he was asking of her. How could she rule Britain alone for years? The thought of being left all alone at Camelot with a stranger questioning her decisions frightened her. She no longer knew what was right, and she was lea
rning not to expect happiness. Arthur had turned her whole world upside down and made her question every certainty. Arthur had changed everything.
Still smiling automatically, the young Queen’s attention was caught by movement on the field. It was Merlin—he’d come back!
The wizard was walking beside a knight on a black horse, a knight who was wearing armor the like of which Guinevere had never seen. It gleamed like polished silver, and the helm covered the whole of his head, so that nothing of his face could be seen.
Merlin led the stranger knight before the king. The closed helmet that he wore completely covered his face. It was polished brighter than Guinevere’s own mirror, and she could see the sky and the trees reflected in its surface.
“Your Majesty, I wish to vouch for Sir Lancelot of the Lake, who wants to enter the jousts,” Merlin said.
Guinevere darted a look at Arthur. He looked surprised, and the others around them were whispering together, speculating on where Merlin had been and the identity of this newcomer.
“So be it, Merlin,” Arthur said graciously.
The knight rode off to the side of the field, and Merlin made his way into the royal box. Guinevere hoped she didn’t look as dismayed as she felt, but she had always feared Merlin’s power.
As a child, her older brothers had enjoyed frightening her with tales of the wizard Merlin, how he had slain Vortigern with magic and set Prince Uther upon the throne. As Uther had descended deeper into madness, the whole country had suffered. Guinevere’s Iceni kinsmen had clung to the Old Ways longer than most, but even their gods Lugh and Epona could not save them from the Dark Times, and the common people had feared the magic that Queen Mab could wield on behalf of her followers.
When Uther died and Arthur was acknowledged by her father as the true king, Guinevere’s people had discovered a king they could willingly follow, one who replaced the capriciousness of the Old Ways and the demonolatry of Uther with a religion of peace, light, and love. When Guinevere had sworn to the New Religion, she had been certain that the days of darkness and fear were over … until she discovered that the King’s closest adviser was a wizard of the Old Ways.
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