During the meal we ascertained that Dame Iblis did not know where her cousin Lancelot might be and had not even heard of his latest disappearance from court, though she took the news, in itself, as no more than a bit of light gossip to sauce her supper. Dame Elaine of Carbonek was dead, Morgan le Fay either dead or quiescent, and what other woman could tempt Du Lac into a prolonged interlude on some island retreat? Clearly, he had not yet grown beyond the stage of riding out in disguise for high-spirited and aimless adventure. We did not tell her of the more serious aspects of the situation until after the meal, when we had sent Gillimer and Lovel to check once more on the horses, and old Dame Cellarer had obligingly fallen into a doze before the fireplace, lending us a measure of artificial privacy.
I did most of the talking, while Mordred twisted floor rushes into poppets and tossed them into the fire.
“So you are searching for either Sir Lancelot to champion the Queen’s Grace, or the Lady of the Lake to tell you who is the real traitor?” said Dame Iblis when she had heard of the Queen’s dinner, the poisoning of Sir Patrise, and Mador de la Porte’s accusation. “Name me off those under suspicion again, my lord Sir Kay.”
“Ironside,” I began, “who has yet to fulfill his old vow against Gawain and Lancelot. Any kinsman of someone slain by Gawain; Astamore, Bagdemagus’ nephew; Pinel, Pellinore’s nephew or possibly bastard; Sir La Cote Male Taile, Dinadan’s brother—”
“It was not brother Gawain who killed the lamented Sir Dinadan, of course,” said Mordred.
“People sometimes confuse the deeds of Gawain’s younger brothers with the intentions of the head of the clan,” I replied. “And, saving your presence, Dame, if any of the rest of us who were there had offered to champion Her Grace, as your kinsman Bors did, the court would have assumed us guilty with no further questions. We can hardly leave out Queen Morgan le Fay, either—”
The prioress waved her hand in a small gesture of impatience. “We do not hear all the news of court and kingdom, but has Dame Morgan ever yet struck at her brother when he himself was not present in the same place?”
I thought for a moment. “Maybe not, but she hates the Queen.”
“I speak as a woman, and one woman’s hatred for another is not such that she would murder at a distance. A woman can so hate a man that she would kill him across the miles, if it were in her power, but not another woman. The Queen of Gorre is far away from Queen Guenevere, and that will be enough to satisfy her enmity.”
“You speak as a holy woman, Dame Prioress,” said Mordred. “I could easily credit my Aunt Morgan with stronger emotions.”
“Then you know little of the strength of women’s emotions, my lord Sir Mordred, even holy women’s. But name me all who were there, not only those whom you think most suspicious.”
I shrugged and refrained from pointing out that one of Morgan’s first accusers had been another woman, Dame Lore. “Gawain and all his brothers; your cousins Sirs Lionel, Bors, Ector de Maris, Blamore and Bleoberis de Ganis; Palomides and his brother Safere; Persant, Brandiles, and the Breton fox Aliduk; Galihud and Galihodin of Surluse; besides the ones I already mentioned. Good men and true, every last man of us—not one in the lot who would commit treachery by poison. Ask anyone. The chief servers were Gouvernail and Dames Lore of Carlisle, Elyzabel, Bragwaine of Ireland, and Senehauz the daughter of Sagramore. Do you want the cooks and pages, too?”
She shook her head. “There was one among you, at least, who would not be above any means of gaining his end. But I do not know what complaint he might have found against poor Sir Patrise.”
“There is a strong feeling,” said Mordred, “that the poison was meant for Gawain.”
“That is possible… Yes, it is possible. In that case, you would know, my lord Sir Mordred, better than I could guess it, what grievance the murderer had.”
“For Ihesu’s sake, Dame!” I said. “If you think you know which of us is the traitor, tell us. Don’t play Merlin’s old trick of shaking your head and dropping cryptic hints so that whatever truth finally comes out, you can smirk and say, ‘I knew it all along.’”
“I do not know who did the deed—I only know one among you who was capable of it.” Her glance flickered to Mordred. “In respect of this present company, I will keep my thoughts to myself, with your leave.”
Mordred caught her glance and held it until she looked away. “Give us your suspicions, madame. A queen’s life may hang in the balance. Which of Gawain’s brothers do you suspect?”
Dame Iblis met his gaze again. “Very well, my lord Sir Mordred. I say that your brother Sir Gaheris is capable of ten such deeds!”
“Gaheris?” Mordred and I said it in almost the same instant. Then Mordred shrugged and sat back, plucking up floor rushes to make another poppet for the fire. “I am a poor Merlin, Dame Prioress. I was prepared to answer you had you named Agravain or myself. I did not expect you to name brother Gaheris.”
“Do you have no defense prepared for Sir Gaheris because you did not expect me to name him,” said the lady, “or because you know him too well?”
I noticed that I had been more or less laid aside in the conversation. It tends to happen unless I shout or insult someone. The insults now seemed to be coming thickly enough, although more subtly than when I deliver them. I decided to stay in the background awhile and see if Dame Iblis would explain her reasoning.
“Gaheris is perhaps the most insistent of us all, even including Gawain, upon justice for rich and poor,” said Mordred. “That, however—”
“Justice!” The lady’s eyes narrowed. “Aye, justice, perhaps—his own kind of justice, according to which Gaheris of Orkney can do no wrong, and therefore, if he sins, it was because others caused him to do so and they, not he, must bear the punishment!”
Her voice woke old Dame Cellarer, who started up. “Eh? Sir Gaheris? Let be, my dame—it’s over and done.”
“Sleep on, Dame Eldwith. ou know the tale, but these noble knights, the companions of my lord Gaheris, apparently do not. It seems he does not always boast of his great deeds and fine justice, even among his kinsmen.” The prioress turned back to us. “How is it noised that my husband met his death, my lords? Mischance in honorable combat? Robbers, perhaps?”
The old nun made a second flutter of protest, but Dame Iblis merely rose and stood staring into the fire, waiting for her to subside. After an appeal to us to “Forgive my lady, Sirs—it’s over and done, over and done,” Dame Cellarer subsided and left the field clear for her prioress, who pressed her palms together, fingers spread, and began.
“I loved my husband, my lords. That may not be fashionable, but I loved my husband, and he returned my love. We had no paramours but one another. Does that shock you? He was quick in his temper and sudden in some of his ways, but he trusted me, as why should he not? Ah, my lords, what sport we had together in our bed! I left nothing in him for any other woman—there was no room in me for any other man.
“We were traveling to one of your King’s tournaments. The prize was some circlet of gold or pearls, and he meant to win it for me.… The first night we found lodging at a hermit’s manor, but the second night we slept in the forest, in our own pavilion. Why should we not? We had slept safely and merrily in our pavilion often enough before, and we were to meet my brothers the next morning at Newcross, only a few hours’ ride away.
“Our squire and damsel both drowsed, perhaps in each other’s arms, and left the pavilion unwatched. It had happened before. But this time one of your knights found us. Not a renegade knight, no Turquine or Breuse Sans Pitie—such a man might have fallen on us with noise and immediate murder—honest, at least, in his villainy. Not even a common thief sneaking about in the dark, to content himself with our jewels and money, and perhaps leave us dead together, both our throats cut in our happy sleep, our blood mingling in one pool. No, the man who found our pavilion was one of Arthur’s noble knights of the Table Round, one of you who are sworn to defend the innocent and bring justi
ce to all, one whose business should have been to ensure our safety. Your brother, my lord Sir Mordred: Sir Gaheris of Orkney.
“We had left food spread on a table. He found it and ate, but he was not satisfied. He found our bed in the darkness, but he did not grope far enough to learn it already held two people; or if he knew we were there, we made no difference to him. He did not awaken us. Is that your courtesy, to creep into bed with host and hostess without disturbing their slumber? Without so much as awakening their servants to make the presence of a newcomer known? Or perhaps Sir Gaheris hoped that during the night, in the confusion of sleep, I would forget on which side of my husband I lay and turn to my unknown guest instead.
“My lord awakened first. He may have groped for me and reached too far, or he may have heard our visitor’s snores. What was he to think? Perhaps he thought it some nightmare. He rose, lit a rushlight, saw another man in bed who was human and no incubus, saw me rolled up close against this other man in my innocent sleep. How was my lord to understand at once that I was innocent?
“He pulled me from the bed to question me. I was newly wakened, confused, scarcely aware of the other man’s presence—able only to see my husband’s hurt and confusion, unable to comprehend it or to answer his question. He struck me.
“Never had he struck me before, my lords, and if he had been given time to understand, he would have implored my pardon and all would have been well. But Sir Gaheris—your noble companion of the Round Table—woke. Sir Gaheris had gone to sleep with his sword beside him—God knows what treachery our guest feared, or why he had not at least put the naked blade between him and me rather than beside the bed—and he caught up his sword and… struck my lord’s beautiful head from his shoulders!”
She was silent for a moment, then gave up the struggle, buried her face in her hands, and began to weep. The old nun stirred, but before she could get up and go to her superior, Dame Iblis had wiped her eyes, blown her nose, and looked up again.
“Forgive me, my lords. It has been long enough… I thought I could speak of it now without… Perhaps I have tried too hard to keep it from my thoughts, so that the wound has stayed fresh beneath the scab.
“Sir Gaheris of Orkney excused his deed by claiming he had seen only a woman ill-treated and was pledged to defend all womankind. Defend! And comfort them, too, in the only way such men as he understand, as if they think a woman’s entire love is for one part of her lord’s body alone, and can be transferred in an hour to any other man who boasts that part! He seemed surprised—surprised—that I should resist him and grieve for my husband… my husband who must have died believing me…
“In the morning Sir Gaheris insisted I ride with him, leaving my lord’s body alone. I had managed to send my damsel and the squire to Newcross for my brothers. They found us shortly after Prime. Oh, aye, your knight of the Round Table is a great champion, and strong to defend a woman against her own brothers—especially with the slope of the land to his advantage. He put his spear through my youngest brother’s body and then, when he had him pinned half-dead to the ground, struck off his helm and held his sword to his throat until he made me swear to call off my other brothers and be his own true leman forever. His leman—the man who had widowed me and an hour later presented his own body for my comfort, now required my vow never to love any other but himself, even after his death!
“I swore—to save my youngest brother, who was hardly more than a boy, knighted only that Epiphany. Sir Gaheris made sure of finding a hermit nearby to nurse him back to life, and my other brothers agreed that the companions of the Round Table were magnanimous and just, that Sir Gaheris was a worthy opponent and would make me a fine protector. Three of my own brothers turned against me, my lords! In that hour I wished that Gaheris had killed me first. The one who was true, my dear Ewald, lying near death, not to be whole again in less than two months; and the hermit leech, this holy man of God who had once been a knight, agreeing that Sir Gaheris of Orkney, having deprived me of my first lord, now owed me protection in my husband’s stead! Cannot God set aside vows extorted by force? Yet this man of God judged that my pledge to Sir Gaheris was binding, and he would not absolve me from it.
“Thank the Holy Mother, we came in the evening to this convent. While my new champion dozed over his ale, I told my story to Dame Abbess. By the time Sir Gaheris woke and wanted me to warm his bed, I had taken the veil. Perhaps he had trapped me into being no man’s paramour but his—if I could ever have wanted another after my dear, murdered lord—but I could at least cheat him of the pleasure he expected from his treachery.”
Dame Iblis paused. I said, “You could have made him bring you to court and appealed to the King.”
“And endured his nightly rapes along the way? And when a holy hermit and three of my own brothers agreed that Sir Gaheris had atoned for his sad mistake, as they called it, and done justice by me, what more could I have expected from the King, Sir Gaheris’ uncle?”
Mordred nodded. “Family loyalty can be a burdensome thing, can it not? Yet our good King Arthur knows how to set it aside at need. And you have cousins high in the King’s favor, my lady. Lancelot, Bors de Ganis, Ector de Maris, Lionel…”
“And Sir Gaheris is brother to Gawain and Gareth, is he not? Is even Sir Lancelot higher in the King’s affection than your brother Sir Gawain?”
“No,” I said. (At one time, before Lancelot came and when Gawain was still a squire in Orkney, I had been highest in Artus’ affection, which no one remembers.) “But you probably wrong Gawain and Gareth, and the King is ready to burn his own wife in the name of justice.”
“I have learned,” said the prioress, “that justice is one thing for men and another for women. If the King’s nephew poisoned those apples, you might save the Queen by proving it—but do you truly think Sir Gaheris would burn in her place? While if you cannot prove certainly that Dame Guenevere is innocent, then God and Holy Mary have mercy on her soul.”
CHAPTER 13
The Tale of Cob the Charcoal Burner
“When thou rest in thy riches, and ride in thy rally,
Have pity on the poor, while thou hast the power,
When bright dames and barons are busy about thee.
As thy body is balmed, and brought on a bier,
They will leave thee full lightly, who now praise thee loudly,
And then nothing helps thee, except holy prayer;
For the prayer of the poor may purchase thy peace.”
—Middle English Metrical Romance
The Adventures of Arthur at the Tarn Wadling
“It would be an interesting situation,” said Mordred, when we were alone. “Lancelot torn between family loyalty to his good kinswoman and his love for Gaheris for Gawain’s sake, the King forced to invent justifications for his nephew, our sweet Gareth torn between Lancelot’s family and his own brothers—though that would give Gareth no pause…”
“Can’t you ever see people as anything else but pawns to maneuver into your ‘interesting situations’?” I said. “The poor dame’s already taken the veil—not even Arthur could change that. Leave her here where she has peace.”
“What, Seneschal? Even if her testimony would help to save our Queen?”
It would not, and Mordred knew it. At least three times the great Lancelot had played exactly the same sort of bloody mummery as Gaheris in somebody else’s pavilion, except that Lancelot had not afterwards tried to make love to the bereaved lady if her lord failed to survive. Dame Iblis’ story explained why she considered Gaheris capable of any villainy, but the incident had nothing to do with the poisoned fruit. I grunted. “Arthur would have no trouble inventing a justification. Dame Iblis was right about that. It would simply be said that Gaheris made a tragic mistake, and Lancelot and his kinsmen couldn’t very well try to avenge their cousin privately without laying Lancelot open to vengeance for the same kind of mistake.”
“But Lancelot would enjoy that, would he not? Unlike some of us, the great hero is
always seeking excuses to fight and increase his glory. Still, it is interesting to learn that Gaheris keeps a secret or two from his own brothers.”
“Hardly a mystery why,” I said. “Gawain would be scandalized.”
“Yes, poor brother Gawain. He would turn red and white to hear it, read Gaheris a morning-long lecture, then have Masses offered for everyone concerned.” Mordred chuckled. “Gaheris had his chance to scold big brother Gawain years ago, when that poor, witless lady ran in front of Gawain’s sword to save her paramour. You remember?”
“Better than you do. You were a baby—I think Morgawse had just gotten you back.” Gawain still wore a lock of the slain woman’s hair, woven into his sword belt as a sign of penance for her death and to remind himself, as if he needed the reminder, to honor all women. A few of us have the grace to show sorrow for our accidents.
Gaheris had been acting as Gawain’s squire when it happened, a self-righteous young prig with no accidents of his own to embarrass him yet.
Mordred yawned, stood up, and stretched. “Gawain would surely have his chance to take revenge for the homily Gaheris gave him that day on the slain lady’s count.”
“Gawain’s interested in justice, not revenge.”
“Justice, revenge—two words for the same thing, as you yourself have remarked on occasion, Sensechal. And did not Dame Iblis herself refer to Gaheris as twisted by an overstrong sense of justice?”
“The lecture Gaheris would have from Gawain,” I remarked, “is nothing to the tongue-lashing Dame Lynette could give her husband if she heard how he tried to set up a permanent concubine for himself.”
“I doubt Dame Lynette would much care. They rarely sleep together, you know. Sometimes I suspect she is grateful to the various paramours who help keep Gaheris out of her bed. For years I’ve expected her to leave him at court and set herself up as a sorceress, like Dame Nimue or Aunt Morgan.” Taking out his dagger, Mordred laid it down with our swords, near the fireplace. “You’ll notice that, unlike my brother who sleeps with his sword at his bedside, I go weaponless to my cell.”
The Idylls of the Queen Page 10
