Ruins of Camelot

by G. Norman Lippert

  Rhyss's grave was bright with sunlight, carpeted with leaves so that the fresh dirt was gratefully hidden. Her headstone was a simple obelisk, carved only with her name and a single short phrase: "aged eighteen years".

  "I wish you were here, Rhyss," Gabriella said quietly. The wind gusted, rattling the dead leaves and batting her words away. She sighed. "I'm lonely. I rarely see Constance any more now that school is done and I've married. Besides, it was always you who… who…"

  She stopped, unsure how to finish the statement. The words eluded her. Rhyss would have known somehow, even without any explanation. Perhaps that was what Gabriella missed the most, that bosom friendship that seemed to go beyond words and reason. She remembered the night of Rhyss's death, remembered first thinking that it had been Constance who had arisen from her bedchamber and discovered the lurking Goethe. Sometimes (though she hated herself for it), she wished she had been right.

  "Rhyss," she said, looking up at the hard autumn sky. "Rhyss, it all seems so empty without you, especially with Darrick away. No matter what was happening, you were always so funny. So amused. It was almost as if you were immune to it all. I need some of that now. I hate that you had to go away. I hate… I hate that they took you…"

  Tears welled in her eyes, blurring the sky and the cemetery all around. As always, Gabriella resented the tears. She swiped at them and felt that familiar blend of misery and anger spreading inside her. She glanced around the graveyard, her face settling into a hard frown, and spied something leaning against a nearby tree: a rusty spade, its wooden handle worn smooth with use. She set off towards it, first at a stroll, shaking her head, and then falling into a resolute stride. She snatched up the spade as she passed the tree and quickened her pace, heading towards the rear of the cemetery, the part beyond the hallowed earth of the cathedral.

  "You bastard," she seethed through gritted teeth, tears still trembling in her eyes. "Why? How could you do such a thing?"

  She reached the nearest of the apostate graves. It was still fresh, partly covered with its own scatter of dead leaves. There was no headstone, no way to know if it was the grave of Barth or Goethe. It made no difference. She hefted the spade over her head like an axe and brought it down as hard as she could, pounding the fresh dirt hard enough to make the handle vibrate painfully in her fists.

  "You hideous bastard!" she shouted, giving vent to her rage. Tears ran down her face, hot in the cooling breeze. "You horrible, hateful blot of human rubbish! I hate you! Death is too good for you! Come back so I can kill you all over again! You took her from me! She was a hundred times better than you, a thousand times more beautiful than any cur like you could ever know, and you took her away! You murdered her, you beast! You murdered her!"

  She beat the dirt of the grave over and over again as she shouted. The carpet of dead leaves scattered beneath the onslaught. The spade scarred and tore at the earth as Gabriella swung it. Finally, exhausted and sweating, she dropped the spade and fell to her hands and knees, panting, her face wet with tears. The baby fluttered inside her, as if alarmed at the rush of emotion and activity.

  "You took her from me," she breathed harshly. The strength fled her, and she fell back onto her haunches, cradling her face in her hands. She sobbed, suddenly and deeply, because she realised that she was not, in fact, talking about Rhyss. The death of her best friend was merely the catalyst, opening a much older, much more deeply buried lament of loss.

  The tears racked her body, and this time, she let them come. She wailed to herself helplessly, like a baby. Finally, after several minutes, she pushed herself upright. Feeling hollow and washed out, she looked back over the cemetery, towards the larger gravestones that lined the front.

  "She was my mother…," she said weakly, speaking no longer to the unmarked graves and rustling dead leaves, speaking in a voice that only she and God could hear. "She was my mother… and You took her from me."

  Chapter 4

  Gabriella had fully expected the baby to wait until his father's return. There was no rationale for it apart from a deep hope and a sense of the way things ought to be. Unfortunately, as she was quickly learning, life rarely corresponded to what was expected from it.

  She began feeling the unmistakable signs of labour at breakfast a week before the Army's predicted return. The pangs were faint but regular. When Sigrid suggested she retire to the chamber designated as the lying-in room, located conveniently on the main floor, Gabriella declined.

  "It's nothing," she announced, pushing herself out of her chair. "The midwife predicted there might be false signs that the baby was ready. Come, let us take our walk as usual."

  Sigrid agreed but kept a sharp eye on Gabriella. They had barely entered the covered bridge that led into the rose garden when the first hard spasm struck. Gabriella bent forwards and clutched the bridge railing, pressing a hand to her belly.

  "Princess," Sigrid said, grabbing her elbow, "it is time."

  "It's not," Gabriella insisted faintly, still bent over. "It cannot be."

  "It certainly can. Guard! Help Her Highness back to the castle. Quickly."

  Gabriella felt practically carried along, supported on one side by Sigrid, on the other by Treynor, the guard who had been accompanying her since she'd been a child. His short beard bristled as he frowned, full of solemn purpose.

  "One would think, Treynor," Gabriella commented between spasms, "that it was your own daughter preparing to give birth."

  Treynor glanced at her as they whisked her into the castle, his face etched with concern and surprise. "You are the Princess, Your Highness," he answered seriously. "You are the Kingdom's daughter."

  The lying-in room was a spacious bed chamber near the entrance hall. A fire burnt in the hearth despite the morning's warmth. The midwife, a woman named Alianor, was already there, her forearms bare and scrubbed in preparation. She met Gabriella at the door, apparently already aware of her state.

  "Leave her," she said to Treynor. "Have Daphne bring us a pot of water from the kitchens. Sigrid, place it on the fire when it arrives."

  Gently, Alianor led Gabriella to the bed, which was luxuriously made with the best linens and a carefully arranged stack of down pillows.

  "Up you go," she instructed Gabriella, helping her onto the wooden steps next to the bed as if she were a young child. "You just settle yourself right there on the bed, that's a lass. How much time between birth pains?" This last, she addressed to Sigrid.

  "Twenty breaths. Perhaps a bit more," Sigrid replied, rolling up her own sleeves. "Coming quicker each time."

  The two women moved busily about the bed, adjusting the coverlet and pillows and arranging Gabriella into the proper position.

  "It's too early," Gabriella said, shaking her head. "He cannot come so soon."

  "That decision is between God and your baby, dear," Alianor replied. "All we can do is play along. Ready?"

  Gabriella frowned. Her face was already glistening with the heat of the room and the exertion of the spasms. "Ready for what?"

  "Why, to push, my dear. Your time of breeding is nearly done. The baby will soon enter the world."

  Gabriella shook her head again and opened her mouth to protest, but another birth pain struck, tensing her belly and drawing her chin towards her knees.

  "Unngh!" she groaned helplessly. "It hurts!"

  "Of course it does, Princess," Sigrid smiled, suddenly beside her and taking her hand. "Nothing good comes without pain. But you can withstand it. It is what mothers do."

  Gabriella nodded, realising there was no way to stop what was happening. The spasms came quicker, harder.

  "Push, Princess! Push!" Alianor commanded, preparing to receive the baby when it came.

  Gabriella pushed. Sweat sprang out on her brow and trickled into her eyes. The pain was monumental, dampened only by the knowledge that it would all be over soon, in the next few minutes, one way or another.

  "Something is wrong," Sigrid said softly, almost to herself. She let go of Ga
briella's hand as the young woman flopped back against her pillows, panting in the respite between birth pains. Sigrid moved next to Alianor.

  "What is it?" she asked in a low voice.

  Alianor touched Gabriella's belly, felt it with her palms. "Breech perhaps," she answered quickly. "More likely the cord is wrapped around the child."

  "What's wrong?" Gabriella breathed, barely hearing. "What's happening with my baby?"

  "Hush, child," Alianor instructed. "Don't you worry."

  With that, she pushed on the side of Gabriella's distended belly, using both hands, as if attempting to shift the baby inside by brute force. Gabriella let out a cry of alarm.

  "He's moving!" she exclaimed fearfully. "You're making him move! What's wrong?"

  Alianor shook her head. She, too, was sweating. Curls of hair had come loose from her bonnet and stuck to her forehead.

  Gabriella lunged forwards again as another spasm took hold of her.

  "Push now, daughter," Alianor said hoarsely. "Push as hard as you can."

  The world went grey around Gabriella as she tensed every muscle in her body. She clenched both her eyes and her teeth. The tension gripped her belly for what seemed an eternity, and then, finally, it faded.

  "The baby wants to come," Alianor said, arming sweat from her brow. "Something is keeping it. There's nothing we can do now but pray and hope."

  "You hope," Sigrid answered, moving to the window. In one swift motion, she stripped the curtains back, letting in the breeze and the morning sunlight. "Daphne, open those cupboards by the door. And the drawers of the wardrobe."

  Daphne moved quickly, apparently glad of something to do. "What are we looking for, Miss?"

  "We're not looking for anything," Sigrid answered evenly. "Just open them. Open everything you can find. Treynor!"

  The door cracked ajar immediately. "Yes, Sigrid?" the man answered from without.

  "Send a guard out to the courtyard. Instruct him to fire a single red-feathered arrow into the air."

  To his credit, Treynor did not question this order. "One arrow only?"

  "Yes. Just make sure he does not accidentally kill any of the stable boys. We do not wish to end one life in the hopes of beginning another."

  The door clunked shut. An instant later, Treynor's muffled voice could be heard relaying the order.

  "Now," Sigrid said, returning to Gabriella's side, "we have done everything we can do. The symbols are in order. The prayers have been said. The rest, Princess, is up to you. Bear your boy child so that his face may greet your husband upon his returning."

  Gabriella nodded weakly. A minute of calm passed. Then the next birth pain began to coil within her, spreading its tentacles around her belly and grabbing hold of her spine. It struck. She pushed.

  "He comes!" Sigrid cried out, squeezing Gabriella's hand. "Do not stop now! Your baby comes!"

  Gabriella felt it. She let out a low wail of exertion and pain. Alianor moved industriously. Finally, after what seemed to be hours, there came a flood of blissful relief, a relaxation that was nearly heaven. And then, out of the hot silence, a tiny voice cried out.

  "Your child is indeed a boy," Alianor announced, her own face flush with relief. She cleaned him quickly and gently with Daphne's help and wrapped him in fresh linen.

  Gabriella held her hands out, weak and exhausted, shaking with spent energy. "Give him to me," she said.

  Alianor laid the child in his mother's arms. He cried for a moment, blinking in awe at the suddenly huge world that surrounded him. Gabriella smiled helplessly at him as she cradled him.

  "He's beautiful," Sigrid announced, laying her hand gently over the boy's brow. "Well done, Gabriella. Well done to both of you."

  Alianor mopped her forehead with a cloth and sighed happily. "What is his name, Your Highness?"

  Gabriella glanced up at the midwife thoughtfully and then looked down at her son. He stopped crying as his cheek pressed against her chest, as if he was listening. Of course he was. He'd been hearing her heart beating for the past nine months. It was the most comforting sound in the world to him.

  "I don't know," she said, and laughed wearily. "I had not decided. It is not a mother's decision alone. His father will help."

  Sigrid accepted this patiently. "What shall we call him until then?"

  Gabriella smiled at her baby. "Call him what he is," she answered. "Call him… the Little Prince."

  "And so," Bishop Tremaine said later that night, his voice echoing in the expanse of the academy cathedral, "we thank You, our Heavenly Father, for the gift of this new life. Even in the midst of our earthly travails, You provide us the proof of Your everlasting promise through rebirth."

  Gabriella cradled the baby in her arms where she stood before the bishop. The Little Prince was asleep, his lips pressed together in a solemn, little bow. She turned back and smiled at her father, who sat on his throne in the front row. He nodded at her, his eyes twinkling, obviously anxious to hold his grandchild again as soon as the ceremony was over. Behind him, a rather surprising amount of people had gathered, forming a reassuring mix of nobles and peasants. They smiled in the dimness, lit only by the rosy light of the sunset, tinted by the stained-glass windows.

  "I am somewhat challenged by this christening ceremony," Tremaine commented wryly, changing his tone of voice, "since a christening ceremony usually requires a name to christen with."

  There was a murmur of congenial laughter. Tremaine beamed indulgently at Gabriella and then touched her baby lightly on the foot.

  "But God our Father does not need us to tell Him the name of this young Prince. As the scriptures proclaim, our Lord has knitted this child even whilst he was still in his mother's womb. His name is already well-known to the hosts of heaven, as are the number of his days and the course of his entire life."

  Gabriella hugged her baby gently, thrilled with the warmth of his small weight and the slow, metronomic rise and fall of his chest. Someone sniffed behind her. She wasn't certain, but she thought it was Professor Toph.

  "And thus, we christen this young Prince with the name his parents will soon choose for him," Tremaine went on. "The name that God Almighty has already writ upon his tiny beating heart. May he live long, bear much fruit, and surpass us all in wisdom, stature, and nobility. Amen."

  The crowd responded in unison, echoing the bishop's final word.

  The front doors of the cathedral were thrown open, letting in the evening breeze and the burnished light of the sunset. Outside, the bells of the tower began to toll, ringing stridently in the clear air. The noise woke the baby, who stirred, stretched out his little fists, and began to cry.

  "Allow me, daughter," the King said, approaching her as the crowd broke apart. "It seems only yesterday that I was calming your infant cries. Let us see if I still know the way."

  Gabriella reluctantly turned her son over to her father and then smiled at the sight of the two of them. All around was the sound of chattering voices, laughter, and shuffling feet as the throng milled towards the wide open doors. Over it all, the bells continued to toll, operated enthusiastically by a pair of young altar boys at the bell pulls.

  "The Little Prince," the King said, tickling the boy beneath his chin. The baby glared up at him solemnly and blew a bubble between his lips. "Name him soon, Gabriella, lest the moniker stick to him for life."

  "We will, Father," she promised, accompanying him into the twilight near the doors. A thought struck her, and she touched his elbow. "Wait for me outside. I've left my cloak at the altar."

  The King nodded, barely listening as he peered happily into the face of his grandson.

  Lightly (much lighter than she could have earlier that morning), Gabriella strode through the emptying cathedral, approaching the altar. Her cloak, looking red as blood in the dimness, lay over the altar, exactly where she had left it. She scooped it up, turned back towards the entrance, and then stopped.

  The last bell tolled, leaving only its echo to roll across the vall
ey into silence. With it, the thrum of voices finally drained out of the cathedral. Near the entrance, standing just outside, were Sigrid and Treynor, talking quietly in the coppery light. Gabriella drew a deep breath and let it out slowly, enjoying, for the moment, the unusual sense of being alone.

  She turned around again and rested her hands upon the altar. The light of the central stained-glass window coloured her features as she stared up at it. On it, King Arthur knelt nobly at the feet of Jesus, who stood in radiant glory with his hands spread, showing the ruby red of his nail wounds.

  "Thank You, Lord, for my boy," she prayed, merely mouthing the words. Her relationship with God, as evidenced by her tantrum in the graveyard only a few days earlier, was far from perfect. He still frightened her nearly as much as He comforted her. But for now, she was grateful, and she felt she should express it. "Thank You… thank You for my Little Prince."

  The cathedral was thick with silence, alive only with the subtle flicker of the candles in the gallery of vaults.

  Gabriella looked at them for a long moment. Slowly, a thoughtful frown deepened her features.

  She left her cloak, rounded the altar carefully without taking her eyes from the candle gallery, and climbed onto the dais. Her movement was slow and deliberate, diminishing, so that she stopped some feet away from one of the alcoves. She stared into its gently glimmering light, her frown deepening, her brow furrowing in silent disbelief.

  Finally, she crept closer, almost as if she were in a dream. She placed her hands on the railing that lined the vault.

  "No." She said the word calmly, just above a whisper.

  Before her, surrounded by the dancing lights of all the other candles, Darrick's candle stood cold, its wick burnt black but utterly, finally, dark.

  "The candles are only symbols, Gabriella," Sigrid assured her that night. "An errant breath of wind might blow one out, or a drop of water from a leak in the cathedral roof might accidentally extinguish it."