“The Cornish Queen and her husband’s nephew are never out of touch,” Ettard commented, her childish voice giving the innuendo an ingenuous twist. It caught me by surprise, for I hadn’t realized that royal romance had become common knowledge.
Vinnie handed round a tray of biscuits and sliced cucumbers and scowled at the convent girl, who looked away with a giggle.
“You’re a fine one to talk.” Augusta’s patrician voice cut sharply across the mirth like the bee darting for a new patch of blossoms. “Everyone knows you and Pelleas spend all your time together.”
Ettard blushed but raised her head haughtily. “It is he who seeks me out,” she snapped.
“And you’re no longer pushing him aside. What’s the matter, is he the best you can get, after all?”
“Now just you shush,” Vinnie exclaimed. “Whoever heard of such tattling in front of a Queen?”
The girls settled down after that, and the older women made a point of keeping the conversation on more steady subjects: the state of the crops, the arrival of Byzantine traders at the London docks, and the gradual growth of trade between the Saxon women and their counterparts in the city markets.
“Sometimes I think if it was left to women, we’d have long since settled the difficulties between the tribes,” Enid mused, and I couldn’t help but agree with her.
The men, however, went about it in their own way.
The acceptance of the Saxons’ oaths took two full days. Not all were willing to pledge themselves as Arthur’s men, and those who refused were led to a block a short distance away, where their heads were chopped off unceremoniously.
I winced whenever the sword fell, for while many had died in combat against us, execution was something else again. But the bloodier-minded Celts cheered happily each time a Saxon head rolled, and Arthur’s standing among them rose another notch.
A small but grisly collection began to decorate the wall over the gate, as a warning to any who might plan to cross the Pendragon again.
***
“This thing gets heavier every year,” Arthur muttered, taking off the crown at the end of the first day and looking about for some place to put the golden circle. Our chamber in the Palace was enormous and over the centuries had become the final resting place for wardrobes and linen chests, tables and stools and couches of all kinds. Arthur finally put the crown over the stile of a chair and sank wearily onto the seat.
In the distance the crows quarreled and flapped among the heads, pulling the flesh from the recent dead and squawking in raucous victory over each bloody morsel.
I came round to stand behind my husband, trying to massage the tension out of his shoulders and commiserating on the less noble aspects of being a ruler.
“Part of the job,” he grumbled, rubbing the red mark the crown had left on his temple.
“It’s not always going to be like this,” I murmured.
“That’s up to them.” He spoke curtly, the hard edge of authority cutting off all other comment.
I rested my cheek against the top of his head with a sigh. It was one thing to understand his avoidance of personal emotions, and even to put aside my own desire for support when I was scared or hurt or sad. But this callousness toward those whose lives had become forfeit to our sovereignty was something new. I wondered if empathy and compassion no longer existed for him—if too many wars and too much violence in the effort to bring peace kills the capacity to feel anything afterward.
“Time for bed,” he yawned, leaning forward and away from my embrace. “At least tomorrow will see the last of it; Cei’s feast can’t come too soon for me.”
***
I nodded silently, echoing the sentiments myself.
Chapter XXV
The Lily Maid
I wish Merlin could have seen it; I think he would be pleased,” Arthur commented as we presided over the grand feast.
I slid my hand into my husband’s and gave it a squeeze in agreement.
The cavernous main Hall of the Palace was full of light and color; everywhere you looked there were banners and sconces, flowers and fresh rushes and the bright glint of gold. It was a rich and sumptuous setting for the nobles and warriors who had gathered to do us honor.
The women ranged from the delicate beauty of Isolde to the country bonniness of Pellinore’s young wife. And the Companions were just as diverse. Yet Palomides with his dark, Middle Eastern cast and Gawain, ruddy and high-spirited as they come, were but differing facets of the same jewel. They made the Round Table shimmer like a living tapestry.
In spite of their variety, the Court I now gazed on had come together with one identity; over and above all else, they were the proud followers or allies of King Arthur.
Nimue took her place nearby, and I raised my goblet in a silent toast, glad that she could see the Sorcerer’s dream come true.
When the tables were cleared Dagonet called for Wehha the Swede to come forward, then paraded slowly around the inner circle of the trestles holding up a large serving vessel of silver so that the torchlight glinted off its polished sides.
I caught my breath as I recognized the Anastasius Bowl, that gift the King of the Franks had sent to Arthur years ago. Of all the peoples of East Anglia, Wehha alone had honored his treaty with us and not joined Cerdic’s forces. Arthur intended to reward him well.
“You don’t mind, do you?” my husband asked in a whisper, gesturing toward the treasure he was giving away. I shook my head, thinking that if shiny cold metal would assure a peaceful future, he was welcome to all the silverware in the royal households.
Nonetheless I stared at the tray and wondered what the barbarian would make of its classic elegance. I had a sudden picture of him parading through London preceded by his standard of feathers, strutting along while a slave beat on the big circular dish like a gong. The notion was so funny I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing aloud.
The leader of the Wolfings approached us with great solemnity, one hand holding his drinking horn and the other extended in his particular salute. Hailing Arthur as his equal, he turned to address the assemblage.
“Please to note, not all Federates and newcomers are traitors.” His Latin was oddly cadenced, as though this were a speech learned by rote so as to make the rest of the Fellowship aware that he too was a man of culture. “An honorable immigrant respects the hospitality of his host King, even if his compatriots do not.”
Wehha lifted his horn and after pouring out an oblation for his Gods, toasted the Pendragon and drained the wine. His men were standing at the back of the Hall, and when they began the rhythmic clapping by which these people express approval, Arthur rose and saluted them in return.
I scanned the gathering of Swedes, looking for some sign that Wehha’s wife had grown bold—or curious—enough to attend a feast again, but outside of the warriors the only figure I could make out was Wehha’s son, Wuffa. Too old to be called a child, too young to have been blooded, the boy stood stiff and silent before his father’s men, scowling fiercely during the proceedings.
I wondered why he should be so angry, but a commotion at the end of the hall distracted all of us, and the thought was lost.
A page dodged past the crowd of peasants standing at the door and advanced upon us, breathless from running.
“A boat…a little skiff…with a lady lying across it. There’s neither oarsman nor sail…only a length of fabric trailing in the water…and it moves by itself, as though guided by a God.”
The lad’s teeth were chattering, and his eyes went huge with fright as he told of watching the little boat come floating down the Thames. Its strange, silent cargo was borne along on a steady current, striking fear and awe in all who saw it. Finally a fisherman had found the courage to row out and tow it in to shore.
“It was he who sent me to fetch Your Highness,” the child gulped. “He asked you to hu
rry…said you’d know what it means.”
Arthur turned to Lance, but the lieutenant was as puzzled as the King, and the Hall filled with curious murmuring. I put my hand on Arthur’s sleeve, concerned that such an unnatural event boded ill, but he gave me an encouraging smile and turned to the gathering.
“Something so uncanny is not to be ignored. Whoever wishes to join me at the river may do so.”
Cei called for more torches and within minutes we were trekking through the night to the water’s edge.
The fisherman was just bringing the little vessel alongside the pier and Cei leapt forward to secure the tie-rope. The flickering torchlight alternately hid and revealed a tragic picture, and in the hush the little crowd of onlookers made various signs asking their Gods to protect them from whatever magic was afoot.
A young woman lay across the boat, her face hidden by the loose hair that floated like a shroud on the waters. There was a length of tapestry rumpled under her, the free end of it slipping overboard, undulating in the river like a banner on the wind. It appeared to have been ripped unfinished from its loom, and an elaborate pattern of lilies had been woven in the weft.
A skein of yellow floss tangled about the girl’s wrist caught my eye as they pulled her body into the boat.
“Elaine…”
In death she had the same faraway look as in life, and I stared at her, speechless, shocked by the thought that dreams were all she would ever know of living now.
I pictured her trying to escape that island prison, creeping down to the water’s edge under the cover of darkness—only to slip and fall amid the welter of skiffs tied by the pier.
Bedivere bent down and gently pried a wax tablet from her grasp. “Just one word,” he said softly, peering at the childish scrawl. “Lancelot.”
Beside me the Breton caught his breath as the crowd stirred with sudden interest. Kneeling on the pier beside the boat, Lance slowly took the girl’s cold fingers in his own. The consternation on his face tugged at my heart; pity, sadness, grief, and puzzlement were all reflected there, and I wished there was some way to shield him from the prying, smirking reaction of the courtiers around us.
“No wonder he’s paid no court to others, with a wench like that hidden away at Astolat,” someone quipped, and a ripple of knowing chuckles followed.
“I think,” I cried suddenly, “I’m going to faint. Please, Arthur, take me back to the Palace.”
There was a flurry of reaction as people turned from Lance and rushed to my aid. Arthur, who knows very well that I am not the fainting sort, looked at me in alarm and swung me up in his arms when I went limp beside him. I was tempted to give him a wink, but the gesture would have been lost in the press of people and uncertain light, so I just closed my eyes and let him lead us all away from the quay.
All, that is, save Lancelot.
The Breton didn’t return to the Hall that evening but saw to the laying-out and Christian burial of the girl who had so thoroughly woven his presence into the web of her own fantasy. It struck me as a dear and tender thing to do.
But when he didn’t come to Court the following day I began to wonder if the rumors that had risen about the pair were based on substance after all. Not, I told myself firmly, that it was any of my business; Lancelot was a grown man, with all the needs and desires of any Champion, and if he chose to hold trysts with the Lily Maid, that was up to him.
The idea didn’t set well, however, and I was snappish with my women when they brought the subject up at tea.
“He’s not the sort to play on a young girl’s infatuation,” I declared, knowing even as I said it that I sounded dreadfully righteous.
More important, I told myself, he’s not the sort to dally with her and then look on me the way he had. Or at least, the way I thought he had. The old question of how much was real and how much my own imagination rose to haunt me again, and I tossed fitfully that night, unable to say any longer where the truth lay.
Fortunately Arthur didn’t notice my restlessness, but too little sleep made me cross and distracted the next day, and the constant gossip grated on my nerves. So when Pelleas asked if he might accompany me for a stroll in the gardens, I was more than pleased to accept.
In spite of the efforts at restoration, the Park was still half-wild, harboring secret comers where shrines and statues lay hidden by rampant greenery. It made for an air of sanctuary, and I breathed in the greenness as I listened to the young horseman’s plea.
“Now that the King has promised me holdings of my own, I’ve been thinking…I mean, maybe…the Lady Ettard might look on me more favorably. As a husband, that is,” he added hastily.
“Have you discussed it with her?” I inquired, watching a red squirrel whisk out of sight at our approach.
“Oh no, Your Highness. But perhaps…if you could talk with her…encourage her a little…” Pelleas stammered out his request with earnest sincerity. “I promise to take good care of her. I never really had a family, you know, what with being orphaned and poor. But now that I’m becoming a man of substance I can take proper care of a wife and children.”
We’d reached the end of the garden, and I thought we might sit on the white marble bench, but Pelleas was unaware of anything but his dream and automatically turned back toward the fountain.
“I’ve loved her since the first day I came to Court, Your Highness. I’m but a country lout in comparison with the fine lords and ladies here—and sometimes I pinch myself, thinking it must all be a dream and I’ll wake up back in the stable after all, and the Lady Ettard too far above me to even know my name. But with a house and steading of my own I have something real to offer her…more than just my devotion…and if you could put in a good word for me…”
Pelleas looked over at me shyly, like a child, and I wanted to tell him that love doesn’t require material props to give it value. But there was something so touchingly hopeful about the lad, I couldn’t bring myself to dampen his ardor.
So I stopped at the fountain to gather herbs for the kitchen and promised to speak with Ettard at the next opportunity.
***
The convent girl sighed and put down the shift she was mending when I brought up the young man’s request.
“How like him to ask someone else to plead his case for him,” she complained. “Really, one wonders if he has any backbone at all.”
“He just lacks self-confidence,” I admonished her gently. “You could make a world of difference in that.”
“Oh, I know he’d treat me well enough; he’s never crude and boorish like the other Champions, and he’s already Christian.” She frowned at the fabric that lay in her lap. “That’s important, now that I’ve become a convert.”
The declaration startled me, for it must have happened while I was away.
“It makes it doubly difficult,” she went on, “what with most of the Companions expecting a ready tumble in the hay…why, they have no respect for a virgin at all, and want to take my honor without even offering a wedding ring.”
“Virgin?” I sputtered, distinctly remembering Ettard’s tale of rape at the hands of the Saxons. Surely she didn’t believe baptism would give her a new body as well as a reborn spirit?
“But of course, M’lady. I am, after all, a woman of worth now, and must protect myself. And Pelleas has always seen that; it’s what makes him a trustworthy companion. Still,” she added wistfully, “he isn’t nearly as powerful as some of the other Champions are, and I’d surely never stare off into space dreaming of Pelleas as Isolde dreams of Tristan.”
“Well,” I concluded, “it’s an honest offer well made, and a good marriage does not require romance to make it work.”
It was the best advice I could think of, given to myself as well as Ettard, for sometimes even I envied the romantic cloud that surrounded Isolde and her lover.
***
Lancelo
t returned to Court several days later, quietly and without being announced. I’d gone to the Park in the morning to pick some flowers and came across the lieutenant sitting in contemplation under the willow tree.
“Good morning, M’lady.” He smiled wanly, his voice as distant as his expression when I planted myself in front of him.
I stared at him closely, looking for some sign that he was grieving for the death of his beloved. I found a man saddened but not sorrowing and the testiness that had been building in me evaporated. I asked quietly, “Are you all right?”
He nodded slowly and making room on the bench, gestured for me to join him. When I did, he reached into my bouquet and extracting a lily, stared at it thoughtfully as he began to talk.
“Where do you draw the line of responsibility, Gwen? How you treat people…isn’t that truly the mark of what sort of human you are? Pelagius says we could all become as enlightened as the Christ if we were willing to take responsibility for our actions. Not that that teaching lasted very long,” he added, slowly turning the flower between thumb and forefinger. “The Roman Christians branded him a heretic and now preach St. Augustine’s theory of Divine Grace instead.”
Philosophy was not something I spent time thinking about, and I stole another look at the Breton, trying to fathom what this had to do with whether or not he and Elaine had been lovers.
He knit his brows, completely absorbed in the idea he was pursuing. “You can’t live by another person’s dream, particularly if it goes against your own nature.” He sighed and shook his head slightly. “That would be as hollow as trying to live for another. We have so little time, surely we should cherish the chance to grow and flower in our own ways and allow others the same freedom…Oh, God, Gwen, I never meant to be the cause of her death!”
The words burst from him with a sob, and he bowed his head to his hands while the tears streamed unchecked down his cheeks.
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