Pendragon's Heir

by Suzannah Rowntree

  Blanchefleur said: “I am not trying to save Logres as it is. I am—we are trying to mend it, on the pattern of the City, as it was always intended.”

  “Sarras!” Mordred barked with laughter. “Let me tell you the purpose of Sarras, Blanche. The purpose of Sarras is to persuade people of a better world after they die, to distract them from their pains in this one. Men and women so gulled are easily controlled. And the vision itself, if anyone takes the trouble to examine it, only strengthens the existing order.”

  “I see,” she said. “You have no use for Logres, to save it or to better it. You want to destroy it entirely.”

  “Cleansed by fire,” he breathed. “With a whole new world rising from the ashes.”

  Blanchefleur shivered. “Why, how can you speak of the hypocrisies of Logres? You set Lancelot against the King. You engineered my mother’s trial. If she had burned, it would have been because of you!”

  Mordred’s teeth glinted. “I only did my best to hasten the end. That was surely my office. If Logres was without blame, could it have condemned any lady to such a death? Or gone to war over the question? As it was, Lancelot proved greater than his rivals, and by one act of submission saved the whole crumbling edifice a little longer. I am left to give the final push, but I did not undermine the foundations.”

  “You’re mad.” Blanchefleur cast a despairing glance around the tent. “Agravain, don’t you hear him?”

  Agravain’s face twisted as if in pain. At last he lifted his eyes to her and said, “It’s the only way, lady. God knows it grieves me, but it’s the only way.”

  Blanchefleur stared at him. He flushed red under her eye and after a moment clapped Sir Pertisant on the shoulder. “I need to post sentries.”

  Pertisant glanced at Blanchefleur. “I meant to have my horse shod.”

  They left, followed silently by the other knights of the Table. The tent emptied, leaving Blanchefleur alone with Mordred, with Saunce-Pité, and with Saunce-Pité’s men: scoundrelly-looking fellows, brutish and dull.

  On the grass, Perceval lay motionless.

  Mordred turned back to Blanchefleur with a thin smile. “It shocks you, Blanche. You have listened too long to the voices of priests and dreamers. They’ve brought you to heel. You were not always so easily led.”

  Blanchefleur thought, “I sit here defying you and all the peers of my age, and I am easily led?” But she knew that Mordred did not really object to her being led. After all, he had always tried to lead her down some path or another.

  So she looked back at him in mute scorn, and waited for him to go on.

  “You can be stronger than this,” he urged. “Choose your own path. Join me. It’s not too late.”

  “Why should I? You only wish to destroy everything I love.”

  He shook his head, more serious now, the mockery past. “No. No, Blanche. Burn out the rot, yes. But you believe in justice, don’t you? In freedom? Knowledge? Progress?”

  “Of course I do. All those things.”

  “Then join me. Make them happen,” he pleaded. “You know that Logres can’t go on as it is now. Can it?”

  “No, I know, but—”

  “Listen.” Mordred reached out and took both her hands in his. “Haven’t I been honest with you? I asked you once before to join me. I’m not the monster you think me. I don’t want to kill you or use you; I want to show you the possible. Marry me, Blanche.”

  Blanchefleur shook her head. “My father made a deed. I won’t inherit unless I marry Perceval. Otherwise, the throne of Logres is left vacant pending a decision by the Great Council.”

  He laughed. “Do you really think I would let a piece of parchment stand between us?”

  He could do it, too, she thought, once again awed by his cool temerity. This time the jolt was stronger. She swallowed and whispered, “You mean you want to seize my father’s throne.”

  “The mistakes of his generation resulted in feud and war. How many second chances should we allow men like Gawain?” He laughed, low. “They need you to show them the way. I know you can do it. You’ve seen how high mankind can climb once the shackles of ignorance are broken. You and I have stood on the threshold of a new world. With your help, I can bring that new world to Logres.”

  It was all fraud, of course. But what else was there? Death?

  He pulled her closer and dropped his head to her ear. “The old ideals don’t work. You’ve tried them, haven’t you? And look where they’ve left you.”

  If she married Mordred—her heart skittered like a mayfly—if she married Mordred, then at least he would no longer try to kill her. Might she have some influence over him? Could she temper his rule with mercy to those he conquered?

  He seemed to guess what she was thinking, because he went on, even more softly. “I offer you no cold compact, Blanche. Since I first saw you I meant to have you, and have you I shall, or go mad. Don’t tempt me too far—don’t refuse me. Bend a little. See how far I might be willing to bend in return.”

  She was horribly conscious of his breath against her neck, of his hands gripping her arms above the elbow. Why not drive a bargain, she thought, to distract herself. After all, she would have given him Cornwall. What was that, if not a compromise? And what else could she do for Logres now that the shadow knife had failed them? When Mordred ruled Britain, would every woman and child of Logres who suffered under his hand rise to curse her for rejecting, or bless her for taking, this one last chance to speak for them?

  The counsel of despair.

  “Perceval.” She croaked his name like an invocation.

  “Forget him. I don’t mean to share you, Blanche. Not with him. Not with anyone. Not after waiting this long.”

  “No,” she objected, and her voice was a little stronger. It wasn’t just that she was going to marry Perceval, it was something he had said—long ago, just on the boundary of memory—

  Mordred ignored her. “Make your choice,” he murmured, and bent his head and pressed his lips to her neck below the ear. At that touch, what remained of her willpower came loose and floated away and she watched it go without a great deal of concern.

  For Logres. She did this for Logres. And yes, even for Perceval—that was a comfort, knowing that Mordred would spare him for her sake, even if she never saw him again. Not that he would understand. He would say—he would say—

  He would say that a thing that could not be done without dishonour was not worth doing. That the citizens of heaven never had to choose between two evils.

  But that meant he and she would die, now, in the usurper’s camp, far from any help.

  As Nerys had done.

  She had no words. The thoughts in her mind were too tangled and too unsure of themselves. All that came to her was a sudden certainty that she had to refuse his offer, and at once, before she had the chance to straighten herself out again.

  She lifted her eyes to Mordred’s face. He was watching her with something like a smile on his lips, calm and confident and cruel. She sighed for sheer weariness, tugged a languid hand out of his grasp, and hit him across the face with her open palm.

  The sound in the breathless quiet of the tent was like the crack of a whip, and Mordred flinched back, lifting a hand to his cheek. For a moment he blinked at her in blank amazement. “You refuse?”

  She lifted her hand again and this time he caught her wrist and twisted it savagely. The pain cleared the last fogs from her mind and she cringed away from him. “I’ll die before I join you!”

  “You’re mad.”

  “Like all the sons of Sarras.”

  “I don’t want to kill you.”

  She laughed at him and began to feel the heat of his anger beating on her face again. “You’ll find a way around it.”

  Over on the grass near the door, Perceval stirred and grunted and lay still again. Mordred glanced at him and laughed spitefully. “What a shame he missed that little comedy.”

  The jibe cut deeper still than her own self-reproach. Tw
ice now since she entered the pavilion, Mordred had justly shamed her for breaking faith. Her cheeks flamed.

  “God help me,” she said, very quietly.

  “Well,” he said, watching her face as if enjoying her reaction, “I am a reasonable man. It might be amusing to try force, but I am too busy for such games, and I will be wanting a more tractable wife.” He paused. “It’s getting dark. Light the lamps, one of you.”

  One of Saunce-Pité’s men moved to obey, and there was the grind and spark of steel and flint.

  Mordred said, “I have said I prefer not to kill you. There is another way.” He held up the elf-key from the table. “Take the swain—with my blessing!—and I’ll send you both back to cosy little England in the reign of good Queen Victoria. That should suit your squeamish tastes nicely.” His voice lost its mocking tone. “Only promise to stay there. I’ll have it in writing. Logres is mine. Do you understand? All of Britain is mine. You will renounce every right you have. You will hail me undisputed king and lord. Then you can go, you can live in peace and you can never see Logres again.”

  Blanchefleur blinked at him, distracted for a moment from her resolve. He would let them go, just like that? So easily?

  But—the price. God help her, the price!

  She paused to remember the sweet smells of home, the silver hills slumbering in the moonlight. Perceval would like Gloucestershire. He might miss the trumpets, the clash of arms, the tourneys in sunlit meadows. But he had always spoken so longingly of peace and long life and an escape from the havoc of war and wounds.

  She was sorry, for his sake, to refuse. But having refused Mordred’s last offer, how could she accept this one?

  “It won’t do,” she told Mordred.

  “I’m not sure you understand—”

  “No, I do,” she interrupted gently. “I can’t trade Logres to you in exchange for my life. It isn’t mine to give away.”

  “I’ve—”

  She interrupted him. “That’s the difference between you and me, Mordred. I hold Logres of Heaven. You would hold it of yourself, vice-gerent of no higher authority. Fickle. Capricious. Pitiless. You would crush us all, small and great, on the wheel of your own notions, because you would not yield to the kind laws of Sarras.”

  “And those laws?”

  “Tell us not to burn down a house before a better can be built. Tell us not to despise the day of small beginnings, or consider ourselves less fallible than our fathers.”

  For a moment they looked at each other in the most perfect enmity Blanchefleur had ever known. At last Mordred said, “I’ve given you two eminently reasonable choices. There are no more. I don’t wish to be known throughout Britain as the man who slew the chosen heirs, but believe me, Blanche, that’s what I will do if I must.”

  She smiled. “My name is Blanchefleur. And if that’s my last poor revenge to you, Mordred, I’ll die gladly.”

  He sat rubbing his chin, looking at her through narrowed and puzzled eyes. By the door, Perceval moved again and pushed himself up to his elbow. At that a smile once again curved Mordred’s lips. He looked up at the fellow who had lit the lamps. “Bring one of those closer,” he said, beckoning. “I want to see her face.”

  The man unhooked a lamp and lowered it to the table between them. Mordred was still smiling. Without taking his eyes from Blanchefleur’s face, he said, “Breunis.”

  Saunce-Pité moved into the little circle of light. “Sire?”

  “Take the Knight of Wales out. And remove his head.”

  “Sire.”

  Saunce-Pité turned away, gesturing to his men. Blanchefleur leapt to her feet with a strangled wail, then clapped her hand over her mouth.

  Mordred lifted a finger. Stillness fell once again upon the pavilion. Mordred cocked his eyebrow at Blanchefleur.

  She knew, as plainly as if he had said the words, that it lay in her power to save Perceval.

  Abandon Logres and go back, into Gloucestershire? Escape Mordred—live at peace—die old, surrounded by children and grandchildren.

  What could resistance profit them now? The kingdom was already lost, wasn’t it? What dishonour lay in retreat?

  But it wasn’t just retreat. It was cession. It was an oath of submission to Mordred, and she had no business in giving him what he wanted without fighting for it.

  Blanchefleur turned to Perceval. He was awake now, he had heard everything. While he was unconscious, someone had lashed his hands behind his back, and now they had pulled him to his feet, keeping a tight grip on his arms. He smiled at her in greeting, and he shook his head.

  To protect Logres, Perceval had already abandoned the peace and comfort of his mother’s home. And he had always been ready to die.

  Blanchefleur dropped her hand from her mouth, turned a perfectly expressionless face to Mordred, and sank down into her chair, folding her hands in her lap.

  Mordred looked at her for a long second. Then he shrugged and waved to Saunce-Pité.

  Blanchefleur did not even turn her head to see him dragged out. When the sound of their feet had died away, she realised she was holding her breath. She forced herself to go on breathing soundlessly, counting each breath, straining to hear—something.

  Mordred sat in front of her, fingers steepled, watching her. It was full dark in the pavilion now, and the light shone on his narrow pale face, so that it shone like a mad moon in some faraway sky. She avoided it, choosing instead to look at the darkness three inches to the right of his head.

  Breathe in. Breathe out. Oh, Perceval!

  It had only been a moment since she had last seen his face—but this choking panic was clouding her memory, as if years had already gone by. Suddenly she could not even remember the colour of his eyes.

  “Sarras,” she thought. Only a little longer, and the comradeship they had once shared would go on.

  Breathe in. Breathe out. Easier now. Only a little longer.

  Footsteps outside, coming nearer. Saunce-Pité entered, ducking for the flap of the tent. His shadow loomed huge on the pavilion wall.

  Mordred said, “Is it done?”

  Saunce-Pité nodded.

  Mordred looked at Blanchefleur. “It is not yet too late—for you.”

  She stood up. “That makes no difference.”

  “Well,” said Mordred, and pulled his chair to the table and took up a quill.

  Sir Breunis took Blanchefleur by the elbow. She went without wasting a backward glance at Mordred, almost pulling the outlaw after her in her eagerness to escape, for she half feared that if she remained a moment longer, she would fling herself at Mordred’s feet and beg to accept one or the other of his offers. Outside, the afterglow of sunset still hung in the eastern sky, giving them enough light to see. Blanchefleur remembered that there was no sun in Sarras. She would miss the familiar stars.

  Sir Breunis led her out of the camp, toward the forest. Three men stood gathered there beneath the trees. One of them turned to her and took her other elbow.

  She looked at the ground by their feet, searching for what must be lying there. Her lips stumbled over the words.

  “Where is he? Where’s Perceval?”

  “Here, love.”

  She looked up at the man by her side with swift, speechless joy.

  He passed his arm around her as her knees went weak for shock, and looked over her head at Saunce-Pité.

  “How can we thank you?” asked Perceval.

  “Drop a word in the King’s ear for me,” said the outlaw with an anxious kind of geniality. “Tell him I’m no murderer, nor thief neither if I could get the chance, except that Mordred has been sitting in my valley for two years carrying on his little war with the world under my banner. I’ll be Mordred’s dupe no longer, and now I’ve taken my chance to give the King a return on the favour he did me a while ago, it’s off to Ireland for me tonight.”

  Blanchefleur stared at him wordlessly. At the edge of hearing, a horse shifted and gave a soft snort.

  “Well, off with
you,” said Sir Breunis.

  39

  I knew

  That some such tale would be

  For all these years she grew more fair,

  More sweet her low sweet speeches were,

  More long and heavy grew her hair,

  Not such as other women wear;

  But ever as I looked on her

  Her face seemed fierce and thin.

  Swinburne

  BLANCHEFLEUR DID NOT SPEAK, OR EVEN think, for the first three miles of their journey. Perceval was there. She could smell him and could feel the steel rings on his shoulders chafing against her cheek. And Mordred was left behind somewhere, in the night, in the trees. That was enough.

  Perceval, finding a road, had held their horse to a steady canter, but now he let it drop into a trot. Blanchefleur shifted to a more comfortable position, and said, “I’m not sorry.”

  Perceval’s voice found its way to her through the dark. “For what?”

  “He thought I would run away to save our lives. I’d do it again.”

  “Of course,” Perceval said, his tone blank as if he did not quite understand her. Perhaps it had not even occurred to him that the choice could have been different.

  She smiled in the dark. “Where are we going?”

  “Trinovant. Only fifteen miles. We can make it by morning.”

  “We told Morgan and Branwen to wait for us.”

  “It is too late to find them now. Let them make their own way.”

  “I wonder if Mother is with them. I don’t think Mordred recaptured her. If he did, he made no sign of it to me.”

  “Good. We will think of them all as safe.”

  The horse jogged on. Blanchefleur said conversationally, “Saunce-Pité.”