The Heir of Logres

by Suzannah Rowntree

  It was near sunset when they came to the bare ridge called Camlann. In the valley on the eastern side, in the woods by the stream they found bodies and weapons littering the ground, but no sign of living men. The battle on foot must have fled away to north and east.

  On the ridge itself, there was a heavy smell, like blood, on the air. Dead men, dead horses, and live birds covered the ground. At first Blanchefleur thought she would try not to look. But then she saw a shield that she recognised, and then faces swam into focus. There was Sir Kay. There was that amusing young traitor she had met at Joyeuse Gard, Pertisant. There was Agravain.

  There was Cavall the wolf-hound, sleeping the endless sleep upon a headless body in silver and sable.

  One thing was certain. Not a soul was left here alive.

  Heilyn pointed south, where the ridge ran downhill into forest. “There is a chapel down there which may shelter our folk from the wind, if any are left.”

  They went down into the trees and found the place. Sir Lucan was lying by the doorstep in a pool of blood and entrails, dead. Inside the half-ruined stone building they found the King stretched out on the flagstones. Nearby, to Blanchefleur’s inexpressible relief, she saw Perceval slumped against the wall, holding a torn scrap of surcoat to a gash on his leg and cradling something round and bloody under his other arm.

  He looked up at them and croaked, “The King…”

  Guinevere went down on her knees and took the Pendragon’s hand. His head had been horribly wounded, and there was a scrap of silk tied around his head to keep the blood out of his eyes.

  “Lady,” breathed the King.

  “Hush, be still,” Guinevere begged him, her eyes filling with tears. Blanchefleur sat where she could hold the King’s other hand and said to Perceval, “Is no one else left?”

  “Only Bedivere.”

  “And Mordred?”

  “The King killed him,” said Perceval. He smiled sweetly, like a shaft of spring light. “See!” And he lifted up the severed head he had cradled under his arm.

  There came a footstep on the threshold, and Sir Bedivere entered, moving stiffly, as if in pain. His eyes rose to the newcomers in greeting, and then he went down on his knees by the King. “My lord.”

  The King’s eyelids flickered. “Bedivere? Tell me what you saw.”

  “I threw the sword Excalibur into the water, sire. And a hand and an arm came up, and caught the sword Excalibur, and took it into the water.”

  “Yes,” the King breathed. “That is how it was when the sword came to me from the Lady of the Lake.” He blinked and focused on the Queen. “What, lady, do you weep?”

  “I do.”

  “Not for me,” he began, but stumbled over the words. When he spoke again, his voice was stronger and more urgent. “I have waited too long, and time grows short. Help me.”

  “Where?” Guinevere asked.

  “The river—down to the river.”

  With Bedivere supporting the King on one side and Heilyn on the other, they all straggled out of the chapel and down the western slope of the ridge. Fog shrouded their view on all sides. At last they came to the river, which with the mist hiding its further bank seemed like the shore of a pale sea. There in the water a black barge waited, with black-clad queens within. Nimue, the Lady of the Lake was there, and Queen Morgawse the mother of Gawain, and Morgan the Queen of Gore in the robes of a nun.

  Perceval was walking with Blanchefleur, limping from his wound, still carrying Mordred’s head. When he saw Morgan he hesitated, and then splashed out to the barge.

  “Lady,” he said, “this is rightfully yours. The shadow blade worked, but not as we thought. We are grateful.”

  He handed it over almost shyly, as if unsure how it would be received. But Morgan took it without a tremor, and if she felt grief at the sight of her son, she showed no sign. Only she turned in her seat, lifted the head in both her hands, and cast it out into the river. When she turned back to Perceval, she said, “I also am grateful.”

  He bowed to her and returned to the shore.

  The Lady of the Lake spoke. “Sir King, are you ready?”

  Guinevere looked at her uncomprehendingly, and turned to the King. “You are leaving us?”

  “In Avalon there is a cure for this wound.”

  “A cure.” Blanchefleur felt the taste of hope. “Then you’ll come back to us one day.”

  “One day. There is yet work for me in Logres.”

  His voice faded into weakness. Heilyn said, “Quick,” and the three knights lifted him into the barge, where a place was prepared for him to lie. To Blanchefleur’s surprise, there were tears running down Morgan’s cheeks as she received his head in her lap and helped the others cover him with blankets. “Alas, brother! Too long you have waited, and the wound in your head is grown cold.”

  Blanchefleur tried to stem her own tears, but as she splashed into the water and leaned over the gunwhale to grip the King’s hand, they spilled over. “Father! Father!” she cried. “How long?”

  A smile touched his lips. “Lady of Logres. Tarry not for me, dearheart. Farewell.”

  She lifted his hand and kissed it. “Farewell!” There was no time for more, Nimue was running up the sail, and the Queen had still to say her goodbyes. She turned to where her mother stood motionless on the riverbank.

  Guinevere spoke in a grey and dreary voice. “My heart is a small and shrivelled thing, my lord, and it has never loved you as dearly as you deserve. But such as it is, all of it goes with you.”

  The King opened his mouth, but his strength was fading and only a whisper fell from his lips. Blanchefleur bent and caught it, and she laughed through her tears, and turned and ran to her mother. Then for the first time she dared to throw her arms around the Queen of Logres, and kiss her cheek, and whisper those words in her ear.

  Guinevere’s arms tightened around her with a sobbing laugh. “Godspeed, my dear daughter, better than seven sons.” And then she was gone, splashing through the shallows, climbing into the boat. The barge drew away on the river and went into the mist, and the High King of Britain departed.

  14

  Be glad thou sleeper and thy sorrow offcast.

  I am the gate to all good adventure.

  Lewis

  IT WAS AROUND NOON THE NEXT day, and the sun was shining through the parchment-covered windows of Lydaneg’s little guest-house with a dull-gold glow that reminded Blanchefleur of the sky in Sarras, when a knock came on the door. She pulled a tunic over her smock and cracked the door open far enough to see Branwen.

  Branwen grinned knowingly, but all she said was, “Sir Ector is here to see you, and Sir Lancelot is with him.”

  “Oh, my. Give me a moment, Branwen, and we’ll see them.”

  She shut the door and turned to Perceval, who was sitting before the fire finishing a breakfast of porridge and apple. “Did you hear?”

  “I did.” He half-rose from his chair, winced as the wound in his thigh caught him, and subsided. “Blanchefleur, I’m sorry—”

  “I’ll get it.” After the battle his clothes had been so hopeless that one of the monks had loaned him a threadbare woollen tunic. Blanchefleur handed it to him together with a belt, pinned her hair up and then whisked around the room, hiding dirty dishes and bundling muddy clothes and boots into dim corners until Perceval complained, “Don’t move so fast. You make my eyes tired.”

  She straightened the bedcovers with a snap and said, “Why not close them?”

  “I had rather look at you. You might try wafting.”

  There was another knock, and at their call Sir Ector came in followed by Sir Lancelot and Sir Bors.

  “Good morning,” Blanchefleur said. “Grandfather! You’re back!”

  He paused inside the door with suddenly wide eyes. Perceval caught Blanchefleur’s hand and bowed from the waist. “Sirs. My wife.”

  She kicked a foot back to curtsey. “The Abbot married us last night.”

  “Ah!”

 
; “We thought of leaving it a day or two, but with so many gone in the battle, it seemed best to marry at once. Won’t you sit down?” Blanchefleur gestured to the low bench by the fire. “I can send someone for wine.”

  Lancelot shook his head. “We’ll not stay long. Only tell us what happened to the King. Some say he is dead. Bedivere tells us he went to Avalon, but we wondered if it was the fever speaking.”

  “It is the truth. The King was wounded killing Mordred,” Perceval said. “We met Nimue on the river—I think it was foretold to the King once, long ago—we met Nimue on the river, and she took him to Avalon.”

  “Then Mordred is dead?”

  “Yes.”

  Blanchefleur said: “We know now what Mordred was so afraid of. After I cut his shadow, he was furious. He hid it well, but he knew then that he could be killed.”

  Sir Ector said, “So the battle was won.”

  “But there is no Round Table left, no Camelot.” Sir Bors spoke. “What next?”

  “We haven’t quite decided,” said Blanchefleur.

  Perceval grinned. “The marriage was the first thing.”

  Sir Lancelot said, “I would have come sooner, but word spread quickly that a usurper had taken Camelot. First a party of Saxons landed on the Deva, and then our way was blocked in Powys by the Knight of the Dolorous Tower. There are other tales of war in Cameliard and Listinoise.”

  Sir Ector looked at Perceval. “If you mean to take the throne of Britain, sir, there is no time to lose.”

  Perceval nodded. Blanchefleur saw the strain in his face and her throat tightened. It was too heavy a burden, she thought, so soon after a battle in which he had lost so much.

  “Won’t you tell us what happened in your part of the battle, Grandfather?”

  “We fought until the afternoon,” Sir Ector told her, “and then the man commanding them under the device of the Silver Dragon was slain. They turned and fled north. I gathered our foot and pursued them all the way into the arms of Lancelot’s host.”

  Lancelot nodded. “The Silver Dragon will trouble us no longer, neither he nor his men.”

  Perceval glanced up at Blanchefleur and smiled. They would explain about the Silver Dragon another day, or leave it to Sir Ector to tell that strange story. He looked to Sir Ector. “Caerleon is the nearest stronghold. We will ride there and call Logres to council.” He nodded to Lancelot and Bors. “Friends, are you with us?”

  Lancelot bowed. “Sir, to the end.”

  “Bors?”

  The quiet knight shook his head. “I am called to Brittany. King Ban my father is dying and I am chosen heir.”

  For a moment they stared at each other, the heir of Britain and the heir of Brittany, both Grail Knights. At last Perceval put out his hand. “We will lack your counsel, brother.” He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes for a moment. “Caerleon, then.”

  “Caerleon.” Lancelot touched Sir Ector’s arm. “We will leave you to rest.” But at the door he paused and looked back and asked, “And the Queen?”

  Blanchefleur felt an unexpected stab of pity. The waste of it, to give all that love and service, and to see it come to this. If he had never known the Queen, if he had loved Elaine and been content, how much heartache and destruction might have been avoided?

  “She also went to Avalon.”

  “I see,” he said, and closed the door behind him.

  Blanchefleur retrieved an apple from the chest where she had tucked it, and sat cross-legged on the mat before the hearth. “Do you think he will find some happiness, now that Mother is gone?”

  Perceval’s words echoed her thoughts. “Certainly he would never have found it while she lived in Logres.”

  Blanchefleur tugged the silver moonstone ring from her third finger. They had exchanged rings again at the wedding, for the golden ring of Gawain had never fitted her terribly well, and after having worn it for so long on her forefinger, it felt a fitting piece of herself to give to Perceval.

  “I can’t think why I gave it up to you so readily, that morning in the pavilion,” she said, holding the silver ring out to the light that filtered through the window. “I must have been in a fit of the sulks.”

  Perceval laughed.

  “Guinevera casta vera. There it was, shouting at me all the time.”

  “And you never believed it.”

  She slid it back onto her finger. “No.”

  Perceval eased himself out of his chair and lowered himself to the floor beside her, where he tangled his hand into the hair at the nape of her neck, kissed her long and sleepily, and then lay down with his head settled in her lap. His eyes drifted shut.

  “What do you think, Blanchefleur, of this kingdom we have inherited?”

  “I like it. Do let’s keep it.”

  His brow wrinkled. “In all earnest.”

  She tucked her hair behind her ear and said, “In all earnest, I feel I should be terrified. But I am not.”

  He laughed and cracked an eye open. “Why are you not terrified, Lady of Logres?”

  She gave a little sigh. “Because…”

  Because of a hundred things. Because Perceval had lived when all the chivalry of Logres went down in ruins. Because Sir Breunis had spared them at the end of every hope. Because an inexplicable impulse had held her back from agreeing when Simon Corbin first asked to marry her. Because although she had used the shadow knife amiss, the shadow knife had worked.

  She smiled.

  “How can I be afraid? All the awful mistakes we’ve made, and yet here we are. Still standing.”

  Perceval grinned and closed his eyes again. “And Logres also.”

  S.D.G.

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  The Great Houses of Britain

  † - Knight of the Round Table

  THE PENDRAGONS

  Uther Pendragon (deceased): The first High King of Britain.

  Igerne (deceased): Wife of (1) Gorlois, Duke of Tintagel, to whom she bore two daughters, Morgawse and Morgan, and (2) Uther Pendragon, to whom she bore a son, Arthur.

  † Arthur Pendragon: The High King of Britain, son of Uther Pendragon and Igerne.

  Guinevere: Daughter of King Leodigrance of Cameliard, wife of Arthur, mother of Blanchefleur.

  Blanchefleur: Daughter of Guinevere and, at least officially, the heir of Arthur Pendragon.

  THE HOUSE OF ORKNEY

  King Lot of Orkney (deceased): The King of Orkney and husband of Morgawse.

  Morgawse: Half-sister of Arthur. Wife of Lot, to whom she bore four sons. Queen-regent of the isles of Orkney.

  † Gawain: The eldest son of Orkney, husband of Ragnell and father of Perceval.

  Ragnell: A fay of Avalon, wife of Gawain.

  † Perceval: Son of Gawain and Ragnell.

  † Gaheris: The second son of Orkney, husband of Lyonesse.

  Lyonesse: Wife of Gaheris and sister of Lynet.

  † Gareth: The third son of Orkney, husband of Lynet.

  Lynet: Wife of Gareth and sister of Lyonesse.

  † Agravain: The fourth son of Orkney.

  THE HOUSE OF GORE

  King Uriens of Gore: The King of Gore and husband of Morgan.

  Morgan, commonly surnamed le Fay: Half-sister of Arthur. Estranged wife of Uriens, to whom she bore two sons. Queen of Gore.

  † Ywain: The elder son of Gore.

  † Mordred: The younger son of Gore.

  THE HOUSE OF BRITTANY

  King Ban of Brittany: Father of Bors and Ector de Maris. Uncle of Lancelot, Blamor, and Bleoberis.

  † Lancelot of the Lake: Foster son of Nimue. Champion of Guinevere. Father of Galahad.<
br />
  † Galahad: Son of Lancelot and Elaine of Carbonek.

  † Bors: Cousin of Lancelot.

  † Lionel, Blamor, Bleoberis, Ector de Maris: Cousins of Lancelot.

  Author's Note

  Dr George Grant has said of The Song of Roland that it is both entirely fictional, and more truthful than most history books filled with carefully verified facts. “Indeed, its true lies tell us much about ourselves, our world, and the shaping of Western Civilization that we might not otherwise know.”

  One might say the same of the body of legends known today as the Arthurian legendarium, or the Matter of Britain. Today scholars continue to debate the actual existence of the man whose adventures have come down to us in this form. Was there a real Arthur? Was he Roman in origin, or Celtic, or something else? What exactly did he do—unify feuding chieftains, build an army of warriors, or defeat Saxon invaders? About the only thing we can know for certain about the historical Arthur, if there was one, is that all the most well-known stories about him are certainly fictional. He cannot, in the fifth or sixth century, have known anything of the knightly code of chivalry, the technology, or the courtly love tradition that flourished from the twelfth to the fifteenth centuries, during which most of the great medieval Arthurian romances were penned.

  My aim in Pendragon’s Heir is not so much to use the Arthurian legends to construct something new, or to provide a faithful picture of any particular historical time, as it is to go back to the original Middle-English ballads and romances to demonstrate for my generation something of the purpose those original tales might have had for theirs. Accordingly, I have done precious little research into historical or any other kind of fact, for which I can give only a half-hearted apology. My focus has not been on fact and history, but on fiction, philosophy, and ideals; not on what the medievals did, but on what they thought, what they believed, and above anything else what they hoped to leave as a legacy to future generations. I hope that this story, however imperfect, has helped you to understand some of those dreams and ideals, partly because of their beauty, and partly because, to the medievals, those dreams and ideals were more important and more solid than anything else in the world.