"Don't you dare say that! You're insulting your father!" said Olwen, clasping Percy's arms as if he were still a little boy. "Won't you have the sense to stay here with us?"
"Won't you tell me to come back with my shield or on it, like the Spartan mothers?" Percy asked, amazed that she was so little impressed with his courage.
"No!" she exclaimed, her gray eyes flashing as if he were a bad boy. "I didn't bear you to die for King Arthur."
He shook her off. "Oh, mother," he sighed. If his father was hopeless, he couldn't expect his mother to be strong.
"Don't be a fool and die before you've had a chance to live," Illtud chimed in.
"There's nothing glorious about killing,” their father said. “It's just ugly."
Why couldn't he have a noble-hearted family like other young warriors? Percy didn't have much of a temper, but he reckoned that he would be angry if he did. "Don't any of you understand how important it is to fight for a good king and defeat an evil pretender to the throne?"
Olwen changed her face and her voice so they were all sweetness. "Whatever you say, dear. But before you leave for the battle, you should go and see your old fisher king. He's dying alone."
Percy felt a pang of sorrow, but not enough to cool the fire in his blood to be off and fighting for King Arthur. "But why can't one of you go? I have to go to war. Won't you go see the fisher king for me?" he asked Aglovale.
Aglovale shook his head. "I'm too busy looking after the crops. You'll have to go yourself."
"Busy! But you aren't doing anything as important as fighting Mordred!" Percy's voice was becoming shrill. "Won't you go?" he asked his brother.
"No, he's your fisher king. I don't even know him," his brother said with a dismissive gesture.
"Can't you have compassion for a dying man even if you don't know him?" Percy asked, disgusted. "Surely you have enough compassion to go?" he asked his mother.
"I've never met the old man," Olwen said. "You're the one who'll have to go, or he'll die alone."
"What a family. You don't think of me at all," Percy complained, glowering at them. "I might have had a better farewell than this in almost any other family. For all you know, you'll never see me again. I'll go and see the fisher king first, then I'll go to Camlann field, where Mordred waits." He jumped on his horse and rode off through the woods to the river.
The old man's mud-daub hut was much as it had been years before, if a little more dilapidated. The fine smell of fish permeated the air, particularly in the summer heat. Percival took a last breath, then walked inside.
Strange how the holy caer of gold and silver wore this temporal disguise, he thought. It must be because the old man was the fisher king, who guarded a treasure that was worth far more than any earthly jewels.
When he entered, the old man moaned, "Oh, I'm dying. I'm in so much pain. Nobody ever comes to see me." He looked unwell—just as unwell as he had when Percy had first seen him a decade earlier.
"That's terrible," Percy commiserated. How dreadful to be dying. Well, if he went to battle he soon might be dying himself. "What can I do for you? Do you want some water?"
"That would be nice," the old man said. "The best water comes from the spring two miles away."
"I don't have time to go so far," Percy told him.
A few tears dripped from the old man's eyes.
"Don't weep. I'll do it." Percy picked up the rusty old tin pail, which looked even worse than it had when he was a boy, and hastened to get the water. Strange how the sacred vessel's disguise had aged, he thought. He carried it reverently. Perhaps it was even the grail.
When Percy returned, he gave the old man some water. Then he asked, "Is there anything else you want me to do?"
The old man moaned in heartrending fashion. "Stay with me while I die. I don't want to die alone."
"That would be terrible," Percy agreed. He wanted to ask how long it would be, then thought that would sound selfish and not at all soothing, so he sighed and sat down on the dirt floor next to the bed. No one, whether fisher king or fisherman, should have to die alone.
Guinevere wept on a bench in the convent garden. The abbess sat beside her. Ninian stood nearby.
None of them admired the marigolds or the roses. The abbess sent away a novice who had been gathering hyssop for a tincture for sore throats.
"I can't believe she went to fight for the king who nearly murdered me," Guinevere moaned. "Yes, yes, I know she felt she had to for Britain's sake, and God knows Mordred could not hold all parts of the country together, but I don't care anymore. It's all very well to be a queen and think of such things, but all I want now is for her to live—as Anna, Lancelot, or in any other guise, but only to live."
Guinevere felt that her life was all weeping now. She never used to weep, except when Lancelot went away after their fight and when she had heard that Lancelot was seriously ill. And she had wept bitterly only once when she was young, on the day long ago when she first met Lancelot, who found her sobbing in the forest near Camelot because her husband had asked her to lie with Gawaine to give the kingdom an heir.
Guinevere thought of all the times she had wanted to run away, but she had not told Lancelot because she had thought that if they did the king's men would follow and kill her woman warrior.
What if she had been wrong? Guinevere now wondered. Perhaps they had been destined to run away, and how much suffering they would have been spared if they had run and somehow escaped.
Like a river that has been held back and finally bursts through and escapes its banks, the flood of tears overcame and choked her.
Old Ninian stroked her hair and said, "Your Anna will live."
But she did not look into Guinevere's face. The abbess did, and told her, "If Ninian says she'll live, then it must be so. She rarely ventures to tell us what will happen. If she has seen it, then it is so. Anna will need you, my dear, and young Talwyn surely does, so you must regain your strength for them."
Supported by the nuns on either side, Guinevere gradually let her flood ebb.
When Guinevere was calm enough to see the flowers around her, another woman swept into the walled garden.
"Sister, thank the Goddess you are safe," Morgan said. "I had not thought Arthur would dare to injure you. May I embrace you?"
Stunned at seeing Morgan, white-haired but still beautifully regal, Guinevere rose to meet the embrace of the woman she had so wanted when she was a girl.
"Well met. How came you here?" she asked, noting that Morgan's embrace now meant nothing to her. She wanted none but Anna's.
"Some of the women from Avalon found refuge in this place. I have known Ninian ever since my childhood days of study there," Morgan said, exchanging a glance with the old nun. "I am made welcome here, and am glad that you came to this convent. I hear that your sweetheart has gone back to fight with Arthur. Perhaps you can find another here," she added in an ostensibly friendly tone.
"If she lives, she will return to me," Guinevere replied, trembling now more with anger than with fear. She could scarcely believe that she had once been young enough to long for this woman just because of her beauty and regal manner. Those green eyes were not warm like Anna's brown ones.
Ninian, her face like a mask, said quietly, "Perhaps this time we shall go to seek Anna rather than waiting for her to return. When we hear that the battle has ended, we shall take a barge down the river to bring her back."
"And Arthur?" Morgan asked, as if he were the only one who mattered.
Ninian gave her a strange look. "To be sure, we'll take him on the barge, too," in a tone that said they would never see him alive again.
Morgan winced as if struck and inhaled sharply. "No!" she cried out, but she met Ninian's eyes and apparently saw what she feared to see. Her knees buckled under her and she sank to the ground. The abbess put an arm around her.
Guinevere shuddered at the love and hate that Morgan held for the same man and was glad that the person she loved and the one she hate
d were different.
The battle had commenced. Gawaine could see the faces of the young warriors riding towards him. They were all too familiar. He positioned his horse to the right of Arthur's to guard him while he could.
He saw no Saxons. Arthur had moved before the Sea Wolves could join Mordred's forces. Very good. But Maelgon and his men had joined the rebellion, and that king rode near Mordred the cur. At least it didn't appear that any other lesser kings were with Mordred.
The day was fair, warm for battle, and the field was filled with meadowsweet and knapweed. Startled goldfinches flew up and away from the thundering riders.
Sweltering in his chain mail, Gawaine charged to meet the enemy, his old students. He had felt a fierce joy at times when he was fighting Saxons, but now his heart was heavy. There was no time for regrets.
Colles charged him, and Gawaine met the charge with all the power in him. Colles's spear shattered on Gawaine's shield, and he knocked the young man off his horse. The charging horses trampled Colles.
Gods, Gawaine didn't want to see what happened to the young warriors.
Gawaine saw that the others were not attacking him directly. They were waiting until noon, when they believed that his strength would fade, he realized, smiling grimly.
He saw Gaheris riding near Mordred. Gawaine ached to kill Mordred, but he was determined to keep his distance from Gaheris. He wanted to end this day without shedding his brother's blood.
The battle wore on. The sun blazed and Gawaine boiled in his own sweat.
At some distance from him, Arthur attacked Maelgon, who had broken his oath to the High King. Maelgon went down quickly.
Gawaine saw that Bors had been unhorsed, and rode towards him to help. Bors had lost his helmet. Gillimer, fine young Gillimer, held a sword over Bors's head and smashed it down, splitting Bors's skull. There was no time for the pious warrior to say a final prayer.
Yelling wildly, Gawaine shoved his spear into Gillimer's side. The young man's body tumbled from his horse, but Gawaine's pity was all for Bors. Tears stung his eyes.
Clegis's horse drew up against his. The young warrior leapt from his horse and landed behind Gawaine. He tried to slash Gawaine's neck with his sword, but Gawaine's elbow smashed into his stomach. Clegis dropped his sword. Gawaine turned and struggled with Clegis, who recovered enough to fight back. They wrestled, and Gawaine felt the young man's strength push against him. Clegis clawed at Gawaine's throat. With a sudden twist of his body, Gawaine knocked Clegis off his horse. Gawaine's horse Sword, just as angry as he was, stomped on the young warrior, and Gawaine did not stop him, though he ended it quickly. Clegis's once handsome face was destroyed.
Lancelot would be glad they had not taught the young men too much about how a rider might turn on a man who leapt behind him, Gawaine thought, pausing an instant for breath because no warriors crowded around him. And Clegis had doubtless believed that Gawaine would have less strength now that it was after noon.
Like Lancelot, he had killed the men he had taught. The taste of death was in his mouth. There would be no generation to succeed his, it seemed. Except for Galahad and Percy, who thank the gods were not here.
At least he had not killed his brother. He looked around for Gaheris, though he wanted to stay clear of him.
The field was littered with bodies fallen among patches of fragrant meadowsweet and wild mint, whose scent was drowned in the smell of blood. Gawaine rode with Arthur for high ground, to see how many—in truth, how few—warriors still lived. As they rode up to a ridge, they saw Mordred, bending over a body in the muddy ground.
Mordred saw them and called, "Gawaine, your brother's dying. He wants to speak with you."
"Damned Mordred caused his death," Gawaine growled to Arthur, but he pushed his horse to go faster. He thought of the little brother who had tried to follow him everywhere, and forgave him everything.
Gawaine dismounted and went over to his brother.
Mordred stood back to give him space. Gawaine bent over and saw that Gaheris was already dead. He felt a searing pain in his back, and realized that he was killed also. Mother, Lance, Galahad, Galahad, Mother.
"Soft-hearted fool," sneered Mordred, pulling his sword from Gawaine's back.
"Fiend!" Filled with rage, Arthur flung himself off his horse and attacked Mordred.
But the young man had the advantage. After some bitter fighting, he pinned Arthur down on his back, holding him there with a sword through his left arm. Arthur's sword lay on the ground nearby. He gasped with pain.
"Deny paternity now," Mordred jeered. "Yes, I really am your son, but not by the witch. My dam was just some whore you had. She died when I was young. She was a frightened, cringing thing. I scarcely remember her face or her name, and I'm sure you wouldn't. I was raised by panderers, and they taught me all I know. They beat me and raped me and taught me to beat and rape—and kill. They hoped to gain money from me because they knew that I was yours, but I killed them when I was old enough. There was nothing to be gained by saying I was the son of one of the lowest born women you had had, so I thought I might as well say it was the highest born one."
"Holy Cross, what a way to be raised!" Arthur's stomach churned. If he had realized that it was his only son, not a daughter, who was being raised by panderers, he would have spared no effort to find him. "Forgive me, son, and I'll forgive you," he moaned.
"Never." Mordred's voice filled with bitter glee. "Don't waste your pity on me, you'll need it for yourself." He tore the embroidered scabbard from Arthur's body and threw it far. "You've always claimed you won't bleed to death while you wear this. Now you can see that you will. I hate you too much to just kill you outright. I'll cut out your heart, I'll cut off your balls." So intoxicated was he with this talk that he could hardly act on it.
But Arthur was not paralyzed with fear. He knew fighting too well to be without strategies. He whistled, and his horse reared up, about to crush Mordred with its hooves.
Mordred turned in time, pulled his sword out of Arthur's arm, and slashed it into the stallion's stomach. It fell with a cry. But Arthur leapt up, grabbed his sword, and lunged forward to attack his son.
He had the advantage for a few moments, and dealt a blow to Mordred's side. But Mordred managed to pull his sword from the horse's belly and strike a blow to Arthur's chest. Then Mordred collapsed.
Falling to his knees, Arthur looked down and saw that his son was dead. He couldn't bear the sight of Mordred's body, so like his own young self.
The baby boy he had dreamed of had attacked him now. Was there no way to escape fate?
Overwhelmed with pain, Arthur knew that he would die from his wound. He managed to stand and staggered down the hill towards the river until he fell.
Hadn't Mordred been a fine fighter? Hadn't he been brave? But Arthur could not imagine Mordred as a just king. Yet, if he had embraced Mordred, had trained him, could Mordred have learned to be different, to care about the people? If only Mordred had told him his true origins, a more believable story than the one he had devised. But how could Mordred have admitted that his mother had been a whore? If only Mordred were still alive and Arthur could make it up to him. Perhaps, if Mordred had had only a little love, he would have been able to change.
If Morgan had borne him a son, that boy would not have been like Mordred. Morgan. If only he could have kept her beside him. He should have forgiven her for exchanging foolish letters with Guinevere. He longed to see Morgan one more time and tell her he loved her. Tears formed in his eyes.
He grasped his sword and willed it to bring him to Morgan. But he did not move. He muttered enchantments. He begged the sword. He held the sword and called Morgan's name. But the sword's magic failed him. He wept.
Lancelot arrived in chain mail at a field full of corpses. She rode through the sea of bodies, nearly all of whom were warriors she recognized. It seemed that all of the grasses had turned red. There were no Saxon bodies.
Most of them were men she knew. Mos
tly Arthur's men, though not all had fought for him this time. She saw one dead familiar face after another dead familiar face. There were her students. Who had killed whom? Did it matter?
She could not stop for everyone. She wept when saw the bodies of Peredur and Bedwyr, with their sons beside them, but was relieved that she did not see Percy or Galahad. She hoped they had not fought.
She gasped when she saw Bors with his skull split open. Tears streamed down her cheeks and she made the sign of the cross over him. Two of his sons lay nearby.
Not all of the warriors were dead. Some were moaning in their last agonies. A few saw her and called out to her, but she knew there was little she could do for them, and she was searching for someone in particular.
A half mile further, she saw Gawaine's body, high on a ridge. She rode up and saw that he was slumped over his brother's body. A raven inspected the deep wound in Gawaine's back. Lancelot yelled, and the raven flew off with a bit of meat.
Lancelot turned Gawaine over, knelt by him, closed his eyes, wiped the mud from his face, and howled. She knew not how long she keened.
She closed his visor to keep the ravens and crows from taking his eyes and wrapped his body in her cloak to keep them off a while. She had thought she would not care so much if her body fed the crows, but she did mind if her friends' bodies did. She took off his jeweled rings and golden armrings and put them in her pouch to send to his mother, but one ring she put in the bag that she wore around her neck. She knew that if she did not take the fingerrings human scavengers would cut off his fingers for them.
It only took a moment to close Gaheris's visor also. A bird had already taken one of his eyes.
Nothing was worth this sacrifice, she thought. It no longer seemed important to keep Arthur on the throne or Mordred off it. For the first time she understood that every man of the thousands she had seen die, of the many she had killed, save for some friendless few, had meant this much to his kin. For we each have only a few who, in one way or another, are kin to us, she thought. Even Bellangere—unjust and brutal as he was—even Bellangere's rage over losing Sangremore she could understand.
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