He’s standing right behind me. I gesture for him to move back, then rise to a crouch, holding Agravaine at arm’s length. “If I let you go, will you get up and walk away?” He lies there, still laughing. “Will you, Agrin?”
“Yes.”
“All right… No, Lamorak, stand clear…” I step aside myself, still holding on. Agravaine cheats. “I’m letting go… now.”
I’m not quite quick enough. As I let go, Agravaine rolls, and kicks me above the knee. He’s laughing as he walks away. “Brother Gaheris. What an idiot.”
Lamorak pulls me to my feet again. I’m resigned, but he’s white-faced, and trembling. “Why do you let him talk to you like that?”
I’m going to limp for an hour or two. Still Agravaine’s black eye will last for days. “He’s my brother. Forget it.”
“But he treats you like… like…” Lamorak stops, stuck for a word. “And Sir Gawain, last night…”
“Older brothers” privilege.”
“You don’t act like that with Sir Gareth.”
“Gareth doesn’t need it.”
“And you do?”
“Probably.”
For a moment, Lamorak glares, angry less with Agravaine than with me. Then without another word, he turns and walks away.
It’s late – midnight or after – when the knock comes at my door.
Evan lies in heavy sleep across the hearth: I too should be sleeping, but I can’t. An hour-long lecture from Gawain, followed by reproaches from Gareth and a tearful interlude with Luned have cut up my rest. It’s with resignation that I roll off the bed, and answer the door. If I’m really lucky, it’s Agravaine, back for another round.
Lamorak stands outside, swaying. His clothes are stained, and his face is bruised and blotchy. Blood runs down over one hand, and drips on the floor. He links at me, owl-like. There’s enough alcohol on his breath to floor a donkey. He takes a pace forward, then stops. “Did I wake you?”
“No.” I don’t know what to say, caught here framed in my own doorway. His hair is falling into his eyes: he pushes it back, smearing blood across his face. The effect is grotesque.
“Can I come in?”
He’ll wake Evan. “No, Lamorak. It’s late.”
“But I want to.” He looks perplexed. “Please, Gaheris.”
“No.”
His face crumples, child-like. Tears spill over from the snake eyes. He’s drunk and he’s maudlin. Holy Saints. I could wake Evan myself, and have him fetch Aglovale… “You don’t like me. No one does. No one wants me round here.”
“Lamorak…”
“You don’t want me.” His voice is rising: someone is going to be disturbed, and Gaheris of Orkney will take the blame again. “All right, you can come in. But only for a minute or two.”
Evan is bound to wake up: I can’t let him see Lamorak in this condition… I steer Lamorak into the window embrasure, then go and shake Evan awake. It won’t be the first time. There’s a girl, from the laundry who visits me sometimes. Evan looks up blearily, and I pull him to his feet. “Go and sleep in the dormitory. I’ve got a visitor.” As I speak, I’m bundling his bedding into his arms. “Go on. Come back in the morning.”
Luckily for me, he’s more than half-asleep still, and doesn’t bother me with questions. I shut the door behind him, and turn back to Lamorak.
“So. What’s the matter?” He’s sitting on the window sill, looking woebegone. I shall have to do something about that hand. There are bandages somewhere… “What did you do to yourself, anyway? You haven’t been fighting?”
“No…” He doesn’t sound certain.
“Did you break something? Fall over?” He shakes his head to both. I find clean linen at the bottom of a chest, and start pouring water into a basin. “What, then? You do remember?”
“Yes.” He’s barely audible. The water’s cold, but it’ll have to do.
“Want to tell me?” It’s too dark in here for cleaning wounds. I light the candles. “Come and sit down over here.”
He’s trailing blood everywhere. Something else to take care of. He sits down on the edge of my bed, and looks at me, plaintively. The blood is from a deep cut in his right forearm. It’s dirty now, but it was made by something clean; a knife, perhaps, rather than a stake, or a potsherd. He winces as I start to wash it. “Well then?”
“Percevale…”
“Percevale did this?”
“No.” For a moment, Lamorak sounds almost scornful. Then “He doesn’t care enough. He said…”
“Yes?”
“He said it’s all my fault.”
Families. Sometimes I wonder what would happen if they were simply abolished. “What’s all your fault?”
“This morning. You fighting with Sir Agravaine.”
“He’s daft, then. Agravaine and I are always falling out about something. We’ve been doing it all our lives.”
“Yes, but…” He rubs his uninjured hand across his face. “It was because I… Percevale thinks… Lady Luned…”
It takes me a moment or two to work out what he’s trying to say. I put a hand on his shoulder, and look into the snake eyes. “It had nothing to do with any compliments you may have paid to Luned. Agravaine and I don’t need a reason to argue. We just get under one another’s skin. Don’t you ever fall out with your brothers?” Was I ever this young? It doesn’t seem likely. When I was sixteen we were at war, and Gawain and I were fighting for Arthur against the five kings. Fighting against our own father, Lot, who died in that war at the hand of one of our allies. So Orkney: to fight each other over one thing, then close ranks after the event. Agravaine stayed out of that one, left on Orkney to guard our mother and two youngest brothers. He wasn’t there when Lot fell, at Pellinore’s hand, or Balin’s or God alone knows who. But he remembered, and worked on Gawain, until the latter had no choice but to seek vengeance.
Agrin never forgives or lets go.
No point in telling Lamorak about that. He’s too young to remember my father at all, or much about his own, and his older brothers are peaceful men.
I wish Gawain had let Pellinor alone, all the same.
“My brothers and I…. Aglovale’s too old, and Percevale’s too… Percevale.”
Well, when it comes to it, I seldom quarrel with Gareth. “I expect it’s the red hair that does it, then. All my family have terrible tempers. Especially when it’s raining.” That makes him smile. “So. About this cut?”
He looks uncomfortable. “I did it.”
“You cut yourself? Why, in God’s name?”
“To even things out. I hurt you, this morning.” His eyes begin to fill. He’s less sober than I’d begun to hope. I’ve finished cleaning the cut, and am tying off the bandage. “I’m sorry, Gaheris.”
“There’s nothing to be sorry for.” I pour some more water into a cup, and hand it to him. “Now, drink that. It’ll help clear your head.”
Obediently, he drinks. I start to clean his blood from my floor. He says, softly “My family isn’t like yours. We’re not… close.”
“There’s something to be said for that.”
“It’s lonely.” There’s silence: in the hearth, a log falls. “What’s it like, having brothers like yours?”
“Very noisy, usually.”
“I wish I was one of you.”
“Do you?” I look across at him. “You might not like it. Our mother… “
He interrupts me. “Gareth. I wish I was Gareth.”
“The second-best knight in the world? It’s a fair ambition.
“No.” Again, he’s scornful. “I could be close to you. And no one would mind.”
I don’t like where this is heading. It happens sometimes that one of the squires or knights” candidate gets to following one of the senior knights. Lancelot, most often, or Bedwyr. Never me. I don’t know what to do with this. I say, “Gareth and I aren’t so close. I was away to serve Arthur while he was still in the nursery, like you and Aglovale. You should be goi
ng back to your room, now, Lamorak.”
He ignores me. He’s pulled his legs up onto my bed and is sitting with his chin on his knees. “You remember the Chester court? Eight years ago?”
“Not specifically.”
“It was midsummer. Mother brought to court for the first time. I was eight years old.” His eyes are far away, seeing something outside the room. “It was… I don’t know. Another world. There was a tourney. You took the prize.”
Now I remember. “Lancelot was away, and Gareth still home in Lothian, and Gawain was so hungover he couldn’t ride straight. It was no big achievement. I was just lucky.”
“It was everything.” Lamorak’s voice is fierce. “You’re so fair to everyone but yourself!”
“We all get our moment, I suppose.”
“Don’t…” His voice cracks suddenly, and he hides his face on his knees. Muffled, he says, “You don’t understand.”
“No.” I put the basin back down on its stand, and go to sit beside him. “When I was your age, I worshipped my brother Gawain. He seemed… I don’t know, he was so…”
“It’s not like that.” I’m startled by his vehemence. Startled, and a little afraid. After a moment, he raises his head again, and smiles. It’s weak, but a smile, all the same. “I think I drink too much.”
“It’s possible.”
“Will it always be like this?”
“What?”
“I don’t know. Life.”
“Who knows? You might ask Bishop Dyfrig.”
“Yes… Gaheris, may I ask you something? A… boon.”
I’m going to regret this. Gawain will lecture and Agravaine will shout. I should say no, but he’s giving me the spaniel face again. “I don’t know. What is it?”
“At Christmas, I’m to be knighted. Will you stand sponsor for me?”
“That’s your brother’s place.”
“Aglovale won’t mind.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure of that.”
“Please, Gaheris.”
“It’s not that simple. Protocol…”
“I could petition the king.”
“No, Lamorak, listen…”
“And you’ll train with me? I mean to be the third best knight in the world, after Lancelot and you.”
“You mean Gareth.”
“Do I?”
Two
It’s a fortnight or so later that Kay starts one of his ‘improving’ conversations after dinner. It’s one of those fascinating issues: the ideal of knighthood. What makes a knight, and why. What qualities he should display. Which of the current knights show which qualities, and which, if any, reach the ideal. The queen has retired, but the king my uncle remains at table, listening. I’m not really paying attention: I nurse my ale, and stare into the fire. I’m warm, well-fed, and comfortable. Agravaine has let me alone for the past five days entire. Lamorak hasn’t wept on me once. Even the weather’s improved: the only cloud is my mother’s imminent arrival. We’ve drawn lots for that, and it’s Gawain who’s to be the sacrificial host. To Agrin’s irritation, and Gareth and my silent relief.
That’s not one of the knightly virtues Kay suggests, filial devotion. Saints be thanked. I’ve enough shortcomings already. His trainees toss the words between them, each anxious to shine, and win the king’s approval. There are six of them, due to be knighted at Christmas: quiet Astamore; merry Patrise; Gereint, who’s a distant cousin of mine; Amran, oldest of Bedwyr’s sons; Osian the poet; and Lamorak. He’s unusually quiet, for once, watching his companions.
A handful of the older knights remain, though not all are listening. Bedwyr sits in a corner, smiling as his son, blushing, defends the role of loyalty in a knight’s code. Beside him, Lancelot leans on the mantle. Percevale has already held forth for fifteen minutes or more on the need for piety. Lucan the butler cut him off, with a comment on hospitality which made the trainees laugh, and Kay turn his eyes to heaven. The room is blessedly clear of Orkneys, unless one counts my first cousin Ywain, who looks to be asleep.
“But what’s more important,” asks Osian, “loyalty to one’s liege, or to God?”
“It’s the same thing,” says Amran, shocked. “The king is God’s anointed!”
“But if your liege is a duke, say, not the king?” Kay suggests.
“Well, a duke is the king’s servant, so…”
“And if he goes into rebellion?”
“You stand by your king!”
“Not your liege-lord? Even though you’ve sworn a holy oath to uphold him?”
“If he’s betrayed his own oath…” Amran looks at his father for help: Bedwyr smiles, and opens his hands. “Well, God can see into all men’s hearts, which might…”
“It becomes a matter of conscience,” I say quickly. Amran looks relieved. Arthur glances across at me, and smiles. “You have to do what you feel is right.”
Kay catches my eye, wickedly. “Whatever the cost? Even at the expense of betraying a kinsman?”
So Gawain chose our uncle over our father. I was his squire back then and I followed him for love and honour. Before I can do more than pull a wry face at Kay, Percevale says firmly “God is the highest liege a man may have.”
“That’s why a knight absolutely has to…”
“What about courtesy?” puts in Kay, who isn’t famed for possessing it. Percevale subsides with a grin, and the discussion veers off on this new tangent.
I top up my ale, and go back to staring at the fire. Perhaps this is why we do it all, for these quiet evenings. Patrise has taken firm hold of the conversation, and is about demonstrating, point by point, that Lancelot is the highest flower attainable by chivalry, and a paragon of all knightly virtues, to boot. Gereint keeps trying to interrupt him with an obscure comment about Tristan, of all people. I’m fervently grateful for the absence of Agravaine. He’d be unlikely to be able to resist the chance to drop hints about loyalty to queens.
“… and Sir Lancelot’s honourable, too. His word…”
“Yes, but about Tristan…”
“Shut up, Gereint. Everyone knows that Sir Lancelot’s word is as good as a Bible oath. He…”
“This is complete hypocrisy!” The voice is Lamorak’s. Lancelot straightens ups, and looks at him speculatively. “You’re all sitting here, talking as if he isn’t here, praising him to the stars, and he hasn’t even blushed!”
“Lamorak…” Kay begins.
Lamorak ignores him. “If he’s so good, and noble, and… and so all-round perfect, then…”
“Lamorak… “
“No, Kay, let him talk,” Lancelot says quietly. I wish Gawain was here, suddenly, or that Ywain would wake up.
“Well, you’d think he’d at least have the grace to look embarrassed!”
Lancelot looks startled. He was, I suspect, expecting something else. Kay chokes on his drink, and has to be thumped on the back by Lucan. There’s a silence. Lamorak hesitates, then takes a deep breath. “I’ll tell you what makes a true knight.”
“Oh, will you?” says Kay, gasping.
“We’ve been talking round it, all evening.” Lamorak sounds defensive. “Courtesy, and altruism, and being merciful, and loyal, and all that… But it’s not just having those qualities, is it? It’s how you have them.” Percevale has been frowning; abruptly his face clears, and he looks at his brother with a curious intensity. “The way you make it sound, a knight spends all his time thinking about himself. Doing all those fine things just to show off how noble and knightly he is. Like a competition, or something. Instead of doing them… naturally. Doing them because they’re right, and because it serves other people, not to show off, or to beat someone, or to be best all the time.”
“Humility, you mean?” says Bedwyr.
“Yes. That’s it. And if you start thinking about how things look, or how good you are compared with others, wanting to be top, then you haven’t got it, have you? And it doesn’t matter if you are the best warrior, or the most courteous, or anything, be
cause you’re doing it all for the wrong reason. You’re doing it for yourself. And, in the same way, it wouldn’t matter if you’re not the best warrior, or whatever, as long as you’re doing what you do for the right reasons. Because you believe in the ideal, not in yourself.”
There’s another silence. Then Percevale says “But God grants skill to His chosen. When a knight acts for Him, then He rewards His servant with excellence, for God’s greater glory. And since only God can confer excellence, then…”
“No!” Lamorak glares at his brother. “That’s just arrogance. Assuming God favours you just because you happen to be good at thumping people! Assuming someone’s better spiritually simply because of feats of arms!”
“Amen to that,” Lancelot says, softly.
My uncle the king looks at Lamorak, thoughtfully. “That’s a very high ideal of knighthood. But is it possible? Do you think a man can be so selfless?”
“He can try, sire.” Lamorak hesitates, then looks at me. Suddenly, I’ve got a very bad feeling about this.
“And I know someone who does. Without thinking about how it looks, or how good he is, or making comparisons. Just being… who he is.”
I’m quite close to the door. Perhaps I can leave without attracting too much attention… Behind me, Kay says “Well, Lamorak, enlighten us. Who is this paragon?”
I wish I was faster on my feet. I still don’t have my hand on the latch as Lamorak says, scornfully, “Gaheris, of course.”
Of course.
“He’s kind, and courteous, and always ready to help others – like you, Amran – and he never makes an issue out of his own abilities, but praises other people, and he doesn’t try to be top, or to show other people up, and you all make fun of him, and tease him, and he doesn’t even mind…”
All eyes have turned to me. My face feels as hot as the fire, and my pulse is pounding. If the floor would only open up. Lamorak pursues his theme relentlessly, “And he’s loyal, and honourable, and…”
My mouth is too dry to interrupt. Some-one says “Gaheris?” and some-one else answers “Surely not...”
I find my voice, at last. “Lamorak means Gareth. Don’t you? It was a slip of the tongue.”
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