“Why not? A family quarrel – a tragic accident. We’re famous for those, the Orkneys. And Mother has never been particularly fond of me.”
“But…”
Oh, God. “Lamorak, think. This is a question of your life. Your life, or my honour. There’s no contest.”
“I can’t let you do this.”
“Why? Do you want to die?”
He stares at me in silence for long moments. Then he says “Yes. If that’s the price of your name.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. This is no time for…”
He interrupts me. “I’m not. It’s the one thing I could never tell you. How I feel about you.”
“Lamorak, I…”
“No, you listen.” Suddenly, he looks older. “I could never find a way to say it… I owe her that, at least.” He looks at the body again, and shivers. “Gaheris – dear Gaheris – I don’t know what you’ve made of me, all these years, but I don’t think of you as my mentor, or my companion-at-arms, or even my hero. It’s quite simple. I love you.”
Safere said… It makes no sense. Not of me. It’s on the tip of my tongue to deny it, but Lamorak shakes his head. “I mean it, Heris. My Gaheris. I’m in love with you. I always have been. And I daresay you now despise me.” The last word is almost inaudible: he looks down, and hides his face in his hands.
I get to my feet. There’s a lot of people I love; my family, friends… No one I love in this sense, no one I love as Gawain did Rhanillt, as Lancelot loves… his lady. As Lamorak loves…
No.
I have to get him out of here. He’s crying again, as if his heart is breaking. Agravaine will try to kill him if any of this gets out. I can at least give him a head start. I owe him that much.
I don’t want to think about this. I have to explain the death, the blood… It’s all his, there’s not a mark on her. I have to explain the violence of it… His blood is on my clothing, too, and my hands, and I am whole. Why would she seek to stab me? What could I have done to her? Or she to me… The idea forms as I look again at Lamorak. Safere’s word for himself, what was it… An insult to any man… All my family are crazy; my father was a maniac, and my mother’s a witch…
Agravaine’s no fool. If Lamorak stays here wounded, he’ll put the pieces together. I go back to Lamorak, and put my hands on his shoulders. He won’t look at me. “Can you stand?” No answer. “Listen, Lamorak; I don’t despise you. I’m even quite fond of you. But right now, I’m trying to save your life, and you have to help me. Lean on me… that’s it...”
Somehow I get him downstairs, and outside, to where Safere’s waiting with two horses. Our eyes meet as we hoist Lamorak onto to one of them, and Safere says “I’m going with him.”
“I’m glad.” I say. “Take him a long way and keep him there.”
“I will.” He doesn’t ask for details. I’m grateful for that.
Lamorak looks back at me as they start to move away, and his lips form my name. I shake my head at him, cautioning silence, and he looks down.
Then I go back to the tower, and I cut off my mother’s head.
It doesn’t work, of course. My mother’s affaire with Lamorak is better renowned than I’d hoped; and too many people draw conclusions from his departure. Some go so far as to accuse him of the murder: one more act in our feuders’ tragedy. And even those who happily credit me with the killing refuse to belief he’s not involved in some way. The favoured story, in the end, has me finding them abed, and slaughtering Margawse in jealous outrage.
No one hazards any comments as to the object of my jealousy, in my hearing, at least. The king of necessity holds an enquiry: his jury of my peers acquit me, finally, complaining of inconclusive evidence. No death, no exile; only the enduring cloud of penance and suspicion. It seems that no one is willing to be quite sure. Sometimes, I catch my uncle watching me, and in his face are pity, and concern. Perhaps Lancelot has told him something. Perhaps he knows me more than I had thought.
I wish I was a better liar.
Not even Agravaine seems to think it worth the trouble of trying to kill me. He avoids me, muttering darkly about Lamorak; and corresponds with Medraut.
Kay stands by me. He doesn’t even say, “I told you so.”
I discover I’m missing Lamorak. There’s no word of him for the longest time, although through Segwarides I learn that Safere, at least, is in Gaul. And after half a year or so, most people cease to speak of it.
Then a red-disguised knight shows up at the royal tourney at Surluse. He carries a blank shield, and keeps his visor down. It’s a game Lancelot has played a hundred times, only Lancelot’s here under his own arms. And Lancelot never wore one of my gloves pinned to his shoulder as a token. Perhaps even with that, he might have got away with it, only Medraut recognises his squire. And then again, perhaps he was expecting it. I have no way of knowing. I know only that my brothers, having once located him, will not readily let him go. Not even Gawain, though he at least speaks of fair combat, and even of royal arbitration.
Nothing I say can change it. The knowledge, the bitterness, is fixed. Lamorak de Galis dishonoured our mother. Lamorak de Galis forced Gaheris” hand. Lamorak de Galis must pay.
I don’t even get a chance to warn him: Agravaine dogs my every step. Lamorak leaves the tourney with the prize in his hand, and a price on his head. He leaves quite alone.
It’s as though he’s courting his death.
Gawain wakes me at dawn, the day after. “Agravaine’s for following Lamorak. You must come, Heris.”
“I can’t.”
“Aye. But you must, all the same.”
“No… Can’t you let it be? Leave him alone?”
“Perhaps I could. But Agrin, now, and Medraut… That’s why you must come. To see it done fairly.”
“Gavin, I can’t.”
His face is kind. “You’re not understanding me. Agrin blames you, as well as Lamorak. If you don’t come willing, he’s for tying you, and bringing you perforce.”
“Gavin… “
“Will you swear to me, on your oath of knight-hood, that Lamorak had no part in our mother’s death?”
“That’s not fair.”
He puts a hand on my shoulder. “Can you swear it?”
Her fault, not his… “Will you let him be, and make sure Agrin and Medraut do, too?” He looks down. “Why, Gavin?”
“Happen it’s the only way they can admit they loved her.”
“And you?”
He sighs.” I am the Eldest.” He knows it’s no answer. There are none, except the old tangle of Orkney pride. Orkney folly. “But you must come.”
“I can’t hurt him.”
“Aye.”
“And I don’t think I can watch.”
“You must.”
I dress, arm myself, and mount in silence. In silence I ride, alongside Gawain, into the forest of Surluse. Don’t look at Agrin. Don’t listen. Don’t think.
I have never known a deeper shame. I cannot bear myself. I cannot bring myself to understand. I cannot even, any longer, hope.
Safere is safely in Gaul. Lamorak must have escaped him and run mad, to come back here.
He hasn’t even tried to run. We find him in a wide clearing some eight miles from Surluse, pavilion pitching in plain sight, serpent-rose flying. He waits before it, fully-armoured save for his helm. As we ride in, he scans us anxiously. Then he sees me, and his face clears. He smiles. I meet his gaze, but cannot hold it for more than a moment. If I were a better man, a stronger one, we would never have come to this.
Gawain rides forward, and salutes him. “I must challenge you. Will you accept?”
“I will.”
“Aye. Well, then…” Gawain sighs. “We’ll fight here. But only you and me. And whichever wins, may give or refuse mercy as he will; and whatever happens then, that’s an end to it, on my honour. No reprisals. Do you agree?”
“Willingly.”
Gawain glares at Agravaine and Medraut. “Do
you mind me? I will not have you breaking my word.”
“As ever, Gavin.” Agravaine says. Medraut simply bows. I can’t speak. My eyes are locked on Lamorak. He’s so calm. He seems so much older.
The squires help them ready themselves. My hands are damp on my reins. I can’t bear this. The hoof-beats on the turf are like thunder, like battle drums. I can’t watch the cut and thrust of sword blows. Lamorak is better than Gavin.
Gavin is my brother.
I’m not watching. I tell myself that, over and over. I am not looking at Medraut as he circles behind Lamorak, a crossbow in his hands. Agravaine seizes my arm, a knife in his hand to ensure I don’t shout out a warning. I call out anyway, and my voice is lost in the volley of blows. Medraut’s hands are white on the trigger. The bolt is silent as it arcs through the air. I press forward and Agrin’s knife is a scarlet pain across my forearm. Time stops.
Then I’m on my knees on the grass, and my hands are bloody, and my face is wet. Lamorak has dragged his helm off, and is lying half against me. We’ve been here before, but this time there’s death in it. Blood trickles from the corner of his mouth, as he tries to speak to me. Somewhere, some world away, I can hear Agravaine laughing.
“Beautiful Gaheris…” There’s a smile for me, though the snake eyes are already dimming. I still can’t speak. My hand finds his, and grips it, tightly. There’s no answering pressure.
I’m sorry.
“Well,” says Agrin, sweetly, “And how do you feel now about murdering Mother?”
Nothing. I feel nothing. Gavin says roughly “Be silent, Agrin, or I’ll make you.”
I look up, at Agrin, at Medraut. “You’ll never live this down. Gavin had given his word.”
“Aye,” says Gawain, and his voice now is smooth as silk. “You swore to me. It was to be a fair fight.”
“You might,” says Medraut, silkily, “have lost.”
“What of it? You’ve shamed me. This is a bad day’s work. This taints us all forever.” Gawain turns his back and stalks away. I have heard that that tone from him only once before in my life, and then it was death for anyone who came in his way.
Medraut just shrugs. He was still a child when Rhanillt died and Gawain lost his centre. Agravaine smiles, and rests a hand on my shoulder. “You see, Heris? You should have let me kill him all those years ago.”
I push him away, leaving bloody marks on his surcoat with my bloody hands. “I wish you’d tried. Perhaps he’d have killed you. Because, God help me, I can’t, and I wish I could.”
Not even Gawain tries to stop me, as I mount up and ride away. Nor does he speak up that evening, when in front of all I take up my sword, and lay it at the feet of Aglovale de Galis.
Coda
High on a tower, high on a hill, two men are standing. One is square-built, iron-haired, solidly mature. The other, the younger, is made imposing only by his height. His countenance is unremarkable. The most common expression in his eyes is puzzlement. They wear that aspect now, puzzled; and a little sad, as they gaze out beyond the battlements, out into the mist, and the distance. He’s the air of a bit- player, an extra, one who has no need to understand the lines, the acts, that fall to him.
Perhaps that’s for the best.
The elder, the remarkable, is watching his face. His own is unreadable. In a quiet voice, he says, now, “I remember a squire, once, who contradicted his king, and rightly. Do you mind it?”
“I do, sire.”
“There are two good knights lost for the sake of one. What changed, Heris?”
“I don’t know, sire. Uncle. Perhaps I never really said it. Perhaps it just grew in the telling.”
“You will leave yourself with nothing.” The king puts his elbows on the parapet, and gazes out at his land. “We all will, if we turn on ourselves from within.”
“You have other knights. Better knights than me.”
“I have many unique men. I did not seat you all at a round table to be quantified by some external scale of ability.” His voice drops. “Have I lost two more good knights, Gaheris, for the sake of one vain woman?”
“You have already lost one.”
“Yes. Poor Lamorak.”
“He came to die so gently. As though he wanted it.”
“Yes. Poor Gaheris, too.” The king is pensive. “What will you do now? Will you leave us?”
“I don’t know. It shall be as you wish it, sire.”
“Will it?” The king sighs. “Will you forgive your brothers, and forget the past, for the sake of one aging man?”
“No, sire.” From the tower, one may see five counties, if the day is clear. “But I will do it anyway.”
“Why, then, Gaheris?”
I turn my back to the wall. “Because Agrin would like it so, if I didn’t.”
Across five counties, the rain starts to fall.
About the Author
Kari Sperring is the author of Living with Ghosts (DAW 2009), (winner of the 2010 Sydney J Bounds Award, shortlisted for the William L Crawford Award and a Tiptree Award Honours’ List book) and The Grass King’s Concubine (DAW 2012). As Kari Maund, she’s an academic mediaeval historian, and author of 5 books and many articles on early Welsh, Irish and Scandinavian history. With Phil Nanson, she is co-author of The Four Musketeers: the true story of d’Artagnan, Porthos, Aramis and Athos. She’s British and lives in Cambridge, England, with her partner Phil and three very determined cats, who guarantee that everything she writes will have been thoroughly sat upon.
Her website is http://www.karisperring .com and you can also find her on Facebook.
Table of Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Coda
About the Author
Serpent Rose Page 8