“Sir Balin of the court of Camelot,” Balin answered, as another plaintive shriek came from the tower. “What is that?” he demanded again.
“Sir,” said the older man, putting up his palms. “Please…”
Balin pushed past the man and drew his sword.
He crossed the courtyard to the door of the keep, ignoring the protestations that followed him. Someone was imperiled, by the sound of that agonized wailing.
The keep was modestly decorated, mainly with old arms and hunting trophies. He found the winding stair and followed the painful screams to their origin, a closed door at the highest point, which coincided with where he expected the lit window to be.
A hand restrained his arm from behind. It was the bearded man, his soaked fur mantle flecking rainwater, his bald head shining from the wetting.
“Please, Sir Balin. I beg you to temper yourself for what you will see.”
Balin shrugged the man off and opened the door, ready to attack any half dozen villains within.
He was not prepared for what he saw.
The room was lit by a series of stubby candles in some predetermined, meaningful arrangement. In the center was a bed, where a young man lay naked to the waist, his skin crisscrossed by a series of bleeding, open slashes.
A figure in white bent over him with a dagger.
Balin rushed into the room, but the man behind him threw his arms about his shoulders and arms and checked his advance.
“No, sir knight. No! I beg you! My boy will die if you interfere!”
The figure turned at the interruption and Balin caught his breath, for he knew the face that looked at him like an alabaster sculpture framed in unruly, straw yellow autumn brush. All fight fled from him, and the point of his sword struck the floor as it sagged in his grip.
He had seen this woman before, peering through the hedge of Merlin’s mystic garden. She had been hunched in a meadow, picking herbs. He hadn’t remembered, or perhaps hadn’t seen, the startling quality of her green, bird-like eyes, which were strange in that plain but fine featured face. They fixed directly upon his own, made him shrink inwardly, and blush, as if they knew every rash and amorous fancy that flashed through his glamored mind.
Standing there, the keen dagger held at the ready, the candlelight glowing orange on her pale skin, she was as fearsome as the Lady of The Lake had been, and yet, somehow, more real, immediate, and desirous.
She stared at him, then her green eyes flitted back to her strange work, and it was like the light of divine favor had passed from Balin. He felt lesser and desperate to regain her attention.
She drew up one of her sleeves, revealing dark woad snaking up her arms, like the cursed marks his mother had borne when working her spells. She traced one of the serpentine symbols with the point of the dagger, and let her blood dribble into an iron pan on the bed.
“What evil is this?” Balin whispered.
The man, his lips near Balin’s ear now, replied in a matching hush.
“No evil, sir knight. But the fruit of evil.”
The woman took a clean white linen bandage from the bed and wound it tightly around her wound, then took a second bandage and dipped it in the pan of her own blood.
The boy on the bed screamed again and trembled as the window lit with lightning and thunder shook the room.
The woman took the blood soaked bandage and pressed it to the greatest of the wounds. Before Balin’s eyes, the scarlet drained from the linen until it was snow white again, as though the boy’s wound had sucked the blood from it. She removed the bandage when it was clean, and Balin saw the grievous slash beneath it had closed and was now only an angry scab. She dipped the bandage again and reapplied it to another of the boy’s cuts.
“This is my son,” said the man in Balin’s ear. “He was attacked in the forest by something invisible. After we found him, he could only scream and could neither eat nor drink, and lightning exacerbated his condition. Thank the Lord that the Lady Lorna Maeve was at hand and saved his life. He may only sustain himself on the consecrated host and blest wine. The blood of a noble born maiden is all that can alleviate his suffering. I am beholden to this lady. For many weeks, she has stayed here nursing his terrible malady. The blood of his assailant will cure him entirely, but we do not know who or what did this.”
“It was a knight,” Balin said, appalled and fascinated to see the lady’s blood drain from the bandage again. “An invisible knight, named Sir Garlon.”
The man released him, open mouthed.
“Who told you this?”
“His last victim,” said Balin.
Balin looked again at the woman. She was binding her cuts and straightening from her task. The boy had fallen into an exhausted slumber.
“He will sleep for a while, Count,” said the woman.
“Thank you, my lady,” said the man, whom Balin realized must be Count Oduin. “Please, may I present Sir Balin of the court of Camelot.”
“My lady,” said Balin. “I came here to Meliot for you.”
Lorna frowned, still gathering her bandages, dagger, and pan.
“For me? Do I know you, sir?”
“No,” he said regretfully, “but you knew the one who sent me, I think. It was Sir Herlews le Berbeus.”
She stopped.
“Where is he now?”
“My lady,” said Balin, trying to decide how to best choose his words. “In the forest at the border of Camelot, I saw the invisible knight strike him…”
The pan, dagger, and bandages slammed down on the floor. The boy jerked on the bed, but did not awaken.
She rushed past both of them and took the stairs three at a time.
Balin went to the open window and Count Oduin went with him.
They looked down into the courtyard, where the maid had been left with the horses.
Balin saw her race across the courtyard, go to the second horse, and attack the bindings about the head of the corpse. When the gray face was revealed, Lorna let out a wail that matched the Count’s son in its ragged pain.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The rain fell without mercy the next morning, soaking the churchyard behind Meliot Castle’s chapel and bedeviling the gravediggers who toiled in mud to lay Sir Herlews to rest.
The priest and mourners stood beneath a white canopy held aloft by four servants, and the patter of the drops above Balin’s head was like incessant, mocking applause.
The priest recited Latin as they lowered the good knight into the ground, and Lorna Maeve, in garb of black, watched without expression as the diggers covered her love in clumps of mud.
Balin’s heart ached for her. He longed to comfort her, to thaw the mourning frost that had settled on her spirit. He knew he was stricken by her, knew it unseemly to so pine for a woman grieving, yet he could not help himself. All his previous worries, his dark thoughts of Arthur and Merlin, Safir and Brulen, had departed from his mind. He had lain awake in the guest chamber of Meliot, wondering solely about her. He was convinced that his meeting her again after that long-ago glance was not happenstance, but a sign of Providence.
He had knelt before the High Queen of Albion and encountered princesses and enchantresses and miraculous maidens, women whose bearing and beauty were as undeniable as they were renowned. But this Lady Lorna Maeve alone had taken root in his heart. He knew she was a pagan, knew it a hopeless sin to love her, and yet here he was, with a hollow space in her outline carved into his heart.
He re-dedicated his quest to find this Garlon. He would do it to avenge Herlews, yes, and to bring a godless villain to God’s justice. But he would also achieve this to mend and so perhaps to win the heart of Lorna Maeve.
Sir Herlews had been well regarded, and the servants of Meliot wept for him, as their master eulogized his life.
“He was the best knight I have ever known,” said Count Oduin. “A strong man-at-arms, and yet never hesitant to lay down those arms in emulation of our Lord, Jesus Christ. He knew the secret of knig
hthood that eludes many a proven warrior; that the soul is the sword and armor, not the meager steel that encloses the transient flesh, not the keen yard that may fall from the mailed fist. It is the soul that must be polished and tempered to shine and cut. The heart of Sir Herlews shone so very brightly, that this dark earth we lay over him cannot douse it. It bursts forth like a shoot and illuminates the hearts of all who knew and loved him.”
When the last spade had disgorged its load of mud, the Count motioned for Balin to accompany him back to the keep.
They left the servants and the awning behind with Lorna Maeve, who did not stir from the melancholy graveside.
As Balin left the churchyard behind Count Oduin, a young tonsured acolyte in a hermit’s habit stepped from behind a moss covered tomb and called him.
“Sir Balin!”
Balin stopped and looked at the boy. He did not know him. How could he?
“Why do you stray so far from Camelot?” said the boy. He had bright, steely eyes, strangely familiar.
“Who are you?” he asked sharply.
“A loyal knight should not stray so far from his king,” said the boy, backing away.
Balin advanced on him. Something in the boy’s manner of speech raised his hackles. The eyes that looked out at him, it was as if they did not belong in that face.
“We do not take leave of those we love,” said the boy, retreating further back behind the tomb. His voice was familiar too. High and yet husky. Not a boy’s at all. “Do you not love your king?”
Balin lunged to grab him, and the boy slipped behind the tomb.
Balin turned the corner and saw nothing but the tail end of a small white mouse disappearing through a hole under the churchyard wall.
He shivered, looked all around, skin prickling. He crossed himself and fled the haunted place.
***
In the dry warmth of the dining hall, Count Oduin broke bread and the maid poured wine, which Balin gratefully drank to calm himself. What had he encountered in the graveyard? A ghost? A fey spirit? Some damned enchanter or enchantress he knew nothing of? The words about Arthur filled him with dread. It knew of the curse of his sword, whatever it was, and wanted him back at Arthur’s side.
“Do you fancy a game of gwydbwyll?” the nobleman asked, producing a richly stained teakwood box.
Balin agreed readily, eager to have his mind off the thing in the graveyard. The Count laid out a polished marble board with playing pieces of mahogany and holly wood, much like the one Sir Claellus had taught him and Brulen to play on at Sewingshields.
“You’re a fine speaker, my lord,” said Balin, as they began. “Any man would be honored to be so well eulogized.”
“You embarrass me, Sir Balin,” the Count replied graciously. Then the nobleman cleared his throat and eyed him as though he were about to deliver an executioner’s blow. “You will pardon me…but I fear you are preparing to embarrass yourself as well.”
“My lord?” Balin asked.
“With the Lady Lorna Maeve,” Count Oduin whispered, raising his eyebrows. “She is a lovely woman, and attraction comes naturally to a man, but in the very wake of her lover’s death…you must tread carefully, sir.”
Balin stiffened and blushed. Was he so obvious? He shook his head as if ridding himself of the accusation.
“You’re mistaken, Count,” he said hurriedly.
“As you say,” Count Oduin said, though there was a smile behind his eyes Balin didn’t like.
“Tell me of this Sir Garlon,” Balin said, making the first move on the board hastily, to change the subject.
“The only Garlon I know is brother to King Pellam of Lystenoyse,” said the nobleman, going immediately on the attack with his draughts.
“What do you know of him?”
“He is of legendarily foul temperament. Though Pellam and his brother Pellinore are devout Christians and Pellam is the last of the holy Fisher Kings and master of the Templeise, Garlon is the worst sort of bloodthirsty pagan. He is a backstabber and a ruiner of women. It’s said he was once the paramour of the Queen of Norgales, and though it was never proven, some say he betrayed his brother to King Agrippe and aided in the invasion of Lystenoyse, only joining with his brothers when Pellinore arrived to turn the battle.”
Balin shuddered at his memory of the Queen of Norgales.
“He is certainly the one,” Balin whispered, mounting a bold counterattack. “How can I find him?”
“In spite of his brother’s villainy, King Pellam is goodhearted to a fault and keeps his brother close by at Castle Carbonek.”
“Direct me to this castle, then,” said Balin.
Count Oduin smiled, halting Balin’s advance with a deft maneuver of his mahogany men.
“You do not know Carbonek, Sir Balin?”
“Should I?”
“You have heard of the Sangreal surely?”
He frowned, staring at the board and its arrangement, which had become ill favored to his victory.
“I don’t know that word.”
“But you know of Joseph of Arimathea.”
“Of course.” Brother Gallet had told him all about Joseph of Arimathea. “Joseph lent his tomb to Christ after the crucifixion. He was chosen by the Messiah to bring the word of God to Albion. He and his followers spread the Gospel through all the kingdoms.”
“The Gospel wasn’t the only treasure Joseph and his followers brought to Albion,” said Count Oduin, settling in. “These are sacred matters, Sir Balin. A sacred, hidden history. Pellam is the latest of a blessed lineage, The Fisher Kings, entrusted with an immensely important duty. The pagans in the days of Agrestes were sinful, base creatures, firmly entrenched in this material, perceptible world. They would never have accepted the word of God had Joseph not provided them with proof of the miracle of Christ.”
“I knew that he was a miracle worker…”
“More than that. Joseph housed the body of our Lord in his own tomb, yes. He was also the owner of the Cenacle, the upper room where Christ and his disciples observed The Last Supper. A wealthy man, he was a secret supporter of Jesus. He bore to Albion two sacred relics from Palestine. The spear of the centurion Longinus, which pierced the side of Jesus while He hung on the cross, and the cup of the Last Supper, the Holy Grail, with which Joseph caught His blood.”
Count Oduin called for more wine and smiled indulgently. He knew he had won their game and now was toying with Balin.
“Please forgive me if I go on. The lore of the Fisher Kings is something of a hobby for me. Where was I?”
“Two treasures,” Balin murmured, leaning on his fists and wishing he could take back his last three turns.
“Two treasures, yes! The Holy Grail. The tales of Joseph and the Grail are myriad. At Rock Castle, for instance, he found the Saracen lord, Argon, had been mauled to death by a lion. He used the Grail to raise him from the dead in Jesus’ name. When Argon’s brother Matagran learned of this, he thought Joseph a necromancer and attacked him. His sword pierced the thigh of Joseph, but Joseph broke the blade and removed it. The Grail healed Joseph’s wound. Both brothers converted to Christianity.
“The Grail is not only miraculous, it can be a terrible curse upon the evil hearted. The pagan King Agrestes invited Joseph and his people to bring it to Camelot, where he professed to accept Christ. Once Joseph and his wife and son departed, Agrestes treacherously slew several of his followers and fixed them to the Black Cross. He filled the Grail with mead and drank from it at a feast. It drove him horrifically mad. He murdered his queen and sons in their beds before consuming the flesh from his own hands and leaping into the hearth fire.”
Balin narrowed his eyes, the game forgotten in the face of that sobering tale.
“Do you know the stories of Joseph’s miraculous table?” Count Oduin asked, sipping his wine.
“I know that it became the Round Table,” said Balin. “I have seen it in King Arthur’s hall.”
“There is one seat which cannot be fill
ed. The Siege Perilous.”
Balin leaned forward, eager to hear of this.
“I was told that a knight who sat in it and was deemed unworthy was burned with holy fire.”
“That is the seat of Bron. He married Enygeus, the sister of Joseph of Arimathea. Once, when preaching the Gospel to the pagans of the Outer Isles, Bron caused a great fish to beach and so fed thousands. Ever after, he was called The Fisher. Bron’s son, Alan, used the Grail to cure King Kalafes of Lystenoyse of leprosy, and so Kalafes built Carbonek for him. Alan and his brother Joshua built the Palace Adventurous within Carbonek to house the Sangreal. Joshua married the daughter of Kalafes and thus established the line of Fisher Kings, giving over stewardship to his own son, Amandap, who established the Templeise Order, elite knights sworn to give their lives in the guarding of the Sangreal. That is why King Agrippe invaded Pellam in his time. Agrippe and his vile queen were charged by Satan with destroying the Sangreal.”
Balin was impressed, but part of this holy pedigree irked him as much as losing this game. King Pellam may well be descended from Joseph of Arimathea and be the keeper of the treasures of God, but what of his brothers? Pellinore or his son Lamorak had murdered King Lot, and Sir Garlon was a traitorous madman who used the dark arts.
“You see,” Count Oduin went on, “getting into Carbonek is no small matter. It is a miraculous place and cannot be simply visited. It is impossible to find by all who would seek it.”
“How can that be?”
“The miracle of the Palace Adventurous,” Count Oduin said. “In King Amandap’s time, the wizard Tanabos enchanted the place at the King’s request. No man may come to it who seeks it out but by the permission of the Fisher King, and no weapon may pass across its threshold.”
“Then Garlon is unassailable,” said Balin. “He rides out invisible, and then hides under his brother’s protection. Yet, there must be some way.”
“There is a way into the castle. A way I have no doubt was provided by God as it coincides with your coming and the revelation of this villain’s identity.”
“What way?”
“The Queen of Lystenoyse has recently given birth to a daughter, Helizabel. King Pellam has declared fifteen days of celebration at Carbonek and invited the titled nobles to attend the feasting. The invitation has also been extended to knights, should they attend with their ladies.”
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