“Are you sure you did not dream this wonder?”
“No, not at all!” It is another of Galahad’s companions who answers. “We all saw the Sangreal, even the queen. And the court is in uproar because of it. All the knights are determined to quest after it, but as we do not know where King Pelles resides, we have split up and gone our separate ways in search of his ruined kingdom.”
“Even Sir Launcelot?”
Galahad exchanges glances with his companions. “Yes, my lady, even Sir Launcelot. The queen begged him not to go; in fact, she begged all of us to stay and wait on the king. The king himself asked us not to venture forth, for I think he is afraid that our absence from court will leave Camelot open to invasion.”
“As it will!” I say, suddenly aware of the dangers of the situation.
“Nevertheless, it is our sworn duty to find the Sangreal and fulfill the maiden’s request.”
I read the determination on Galahad’s face, and suppress a sigh. I understand the futility of further argument or attempts at persuasion. “Then I wish you God’s speed in your endeavors,” I say quietly, and take my leave.
It is time for me to return to Rheged, but my sleep is haunted by dreams of Launcelot. I think of him setting out on his quest to find the Sangreal, and for some reason Galahad’s face comes into my mind. He seems so serious, so thoughtful, it’s hard to imagine him being persuaded to go off on a wild chase such as this one. I’d caught a glimpse of his goodness, the pure heart beneath his boyish exuberance, and I suspect that as yet, women are unknown to him. He seems determined to give the quest his all and, if honor and chastity are the key to finding the Sangreal, if such a thing exists, then I believe he’ll succeed.
I wonder what chance Launcelot has, going off on such a fool’s errand. By no stretch of the imagination can one call him pure of heart, not after how he has treated me, and certainly not when one considers his long infatuation with the queen. Has he risked everything to bed her yet? I shiver at the thought, and put it aside. Surely not even Launcelot would consider himself worthy of questing after the Sangreal if he is familiar with the queen’s bedchamber.
I long to see him again. It is an ache that spreads and spreads until I am consumed by it. And so I bid Marie farewell but, instead of going back to Rheged, I go in search of Launcelot, wanting to see him, to look upon his face for a few moments just to ease my aching heart. To hasten my journey, I assume the guise of a raven. But I am unsure where to start looking. Galahad had said that the knights had split up and gone their separate ways, and so they had. I encounter a number along my journey, some in groups and some venturing alone, but all with a grim determination on their faces. I suspect that what may have started with a holy purpose has become a race between men who, while they may profess that the only prize is the healing of King Pelles and his kingdom, yet strive to be first for the honor and glory that success in their quest will bring them.
I fly above a wild forest, the sort where men might lose themselves; where they would be ever at the mercy of wild beasts and the elements; and where they might seek adventure and even a Grail. And there, in its heart, I find Launcelot, on his knees and quite alone. I am almost afraid to fly close, to look into his eyes. I swoop down to him and perch upon a branch above his head. I suspect he has been praying, but he looks up at me, and my heart twists as I note the defeated slump of his shoulders and read the weariness on his face. We are deep within a thick tangle of trees and bushes, and I wonder if he is lost. My suspicion is confirmed when he addresses me directly.
“Can you lead me out of here, bird?” He pushes his long dark hair out of his eyes. He is unshaven, and somewhat grubby from living rough, yet I love him for all that. He sighs deeply. “Shame on me for talking to a raven, but the sound of my voice is a comfort, for I have not spoken to anyone in days. I have walked and walked, but have encountered nobody on my travels. Indeed, I fear I may die here.” He smiles at me then, or rather smiles at his folly, and shakes his head before falling into prayer once more.
I wait, and wait, but he continues to pray without looking up. I become impatient with him. Small wonder he can’t find his way out of the forest if this is how he spends his time! Finally, I fly away, out of his sight. At the flapping of my wings he raises his head to watch me go. His expression is one of utter desolation. But I am not leaving him alone for long; I have every intention of guiding him through the forest—but not yet. I have other plans for him right now, hatched in a hurry but no less important for that.
I assume my natural mien to go to him but my courage fails me. His harsh, hateful words sound in my ear: I wish you gone from my sight. My only desire is that I never see you again. I cannot go to him like this, no matter how loving my heart. Nor, as I remember the fate of Elaine of Astolat, does it seem that I can go to him in any other guise, for he will not take me and love me as I wish to be loved, not while the queen is foremost in his mind and in his heart.
I know what I need to do, but my mind rejects it utterly. Yet I am wild with longing, I ache with the need to be close to him one more time, to lie with him and hear his loving words. And so, hating myself for what I am about to do, I transform myself into a younger woman with golden hair and eyes the color of blue gentians, and I walk toward him.
He is still at prayer. I lay my hand lightly on his shoulder and he jerks upright and swings around.
“Guenevere!”
I see the shock on his face giving way to a slow delight, and I know that my trick is successful. I silently pray that he will not say that name again as I walk into his arms and feel them close around me. I breathe in his dear, familiar smell, overlaid by woodsmoke and sweat it is true, but dear to me nevertheless. And I burrow into his shoulder as I was always wont to do when we were alone together at Joyous Garde.
“My lord,” I murmur.
“But … what brings you here?” He puts me away from him and scans the forest around us, perhaps expecting to see Arthur or one of the knights closing in.
“I am alone, lord,” I reassure him, knowing this to be true. “I found you because I could not stay away from you. I long for you, Launcelot, more than I can say. And so I have come to you, to lie with you as should any man and woman who love each other more than life itself.”
I close my eyes and raise my mouth for his kiss. It comes to me suddenly that perhaps this is a dreadful mistake. If Launcelot and Guenevere have not yet consummated their love, then I am starting something that Launcelot may well wish to continue; may insist on, in fact, if and when he returns to court. But it is too late now to hold back, and so I surrender myself to Launcelot’s kiss, unwilling to spoil our time together with useless regrets.
He groans suddenly and once more thrusts me away from him. I cannot breathe in my distress, thinking that he will yet reject me from some sense of honor and duty to Arthur. But his hands fall on my gown with feverish haste and, without ado, he rips it over my head and begins to undo my undergarments with shaking hands, tearing the delicate fabric in his impatience to see my body naked. I am flooded with warmth as I untie his breeches; he is ready for loving and he falls upon me, taking me to the ground and thrusting into me with a desperate need. But I am already open and ready for him, my need matching his as he thrusts deeper and I push myself against him until, with spiraling joy, we reach a shuddering climax.
Afterwards, we lie quietly together upon the grass, while around us birds sing and butterflies flit and skitter among the flowers. He holds me close, and dusts my face with soft kisses. “My love,” he sighs. “I have waited so long for you.”
I stay silent; the urge to confess is strong within me. I long to tell him that I love him, that I have always loved him, no matter whatever else I may have done. I long to tell him about the child we made together, our Marie, who has become such a fine young woman, and a beauty too. For Marie has grown into her big eyes and wide mouth and in fact now looks more like Launcelot than me, although still not enough to cause suspicion, thank the go
ds. I open my mouth to speak the words, but Launcelot’s kiss stops me. Once more my body opens to his, but this time our loving is slow, gentle and unbearably sweet.
“We cannot do this again,” I say, as we lie, sated, at the end of it. “It is too dangerous. It will cause talk around the court if people realize that we have become intimate.” It is the only way I can think of to prevent Launcelot from finding out how I have tricked him.
“You are right, of course. But oh, my dearest one, I wish that we could proclaim our love to all the world, and that we could live openly as man and wife.”
“No, Launcelot! We must never speak of this again, not even between ourselves lest someone overhear us!” I am panic-stricken now, wondering what I have unleashed.
“Yes.” He takes my hands, and holds them against his heart. “But you are my life, and my love. You know that, don’t you?”
“Yes, Launcelot, I do.” I feel a deep grief that the words I most long to hear are said to another woman. Nevertheless I lie quietly, savoring the last moments of my time with him as I wait for him to fall asleep.
Once I am sure, I stealthily release my hands from his, pick up my clothes and walk some distance away to dress. I do not want him to see me in my true guise. But he slumbers on while I, a raven once more, keep watch over him from the branch above his head.
The afternoon wears on, and still Launcelot sleeps. I watch the sun arc lower through the sky, and finally give a hoarse croak to waken him. I need to lead him through the forest to safety before it gets too dark for him to see me.
He wakens with a start and looks about him. “Guenevere!”
There is such love and longing in his voice that my heart aches. I see his desolation as he realizes he is alone. He shakes his head, then spills some water from his flask onto his hands and washes his face. As he dries himself on his sleeve, he catches sight of me.
“Tell me, bird: did this really happen or have I been dreaming?”
I am well pleased if he thinks his lovemaking with Guenevere was but a dream; it is safer that way. But he looks down at his state of undress, and frowns.
“I could swear it was real, and that she was here.” He looks up at me, as if in accusation. “Who are you?”
Fear dries my throat; I can manage only a murmuring croak. But he laughs then, and looks about him. “If you know the way out of this forest, I pray you lead on.”
I know he is joking; nevertheless, I leave my branch and fly on to another, some distance away, and wait for him.
Launcelot gives me a long, dubious look. “All right then,” he says. “I may as well follow you, for ’tis sure I know not where else to go.”
And so, in a series of a short flights, I lead him through the wild innermost part of the forest, and out onto the plain beyond. The light is almost gone now; I am a black shape among shadows, but my task is done. Ahead of us stand the silhouettes of small cottages, some with unshuttered windows that show the gleam of lighted candles within. I know that Launcelot will find food and shelter here.
“I thank you, bird.” He sketches me a mocking bow, but his face is serious, reflecting his gratitude. I answer with another hoarse croak. As I fly away, I steal one last, loving glance behind me, knowing that it will have to last me a lifetime.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Conscious that I am long overdue at Rheged, I stop for a few moments to change from raven to swift before taking wing once more. As I fly onward over forests, rivers and high peaks I become ever more weary, and wish that I’d thought to commence this journey on horseback. But I tell myself there are several advantages to flight: being able to fly true and without having to avoid any danger or obstacles along my path, and also to see more clearly where I am bound.
I spy several knights along the way and recognize my nephews Gawain, Agravaine and Gareth. It seems they have just met up with Gaheris, who had been banished from court, and also with Mordred.
Despite my haste, the tie that binds mother to child proves too strong to resist—and besides, I am feeling my age; I am exhausted and in need of a rest. Feeling safe in my disguise, I fly closer and perch on a branch, listening to the cheerful banter between the brothers that not even Mordred’s sarcasm can dampen.
“So you have finally been knighted, Beaumains,” he sneers. “Is it because you cooked up a feast worthy of my father, the king? Are you pleased to be out of the kitchen at last?”
I expect Gareth to fly into a temper at this reminder of his lowly position and his cruel treatment by Sir Kay, but he remains calm as he unties the strings of his breeches to relieve himself, narrowly missing Mordred’s mount as he does so. “I had to wait for a chance to prove my true worth to the king, so when Lady Linet asked the king for protection for her mistress, Dame Lyonesse, I seized the opportunity to come forward.” He reties his breeches.
“Causing Lady Linet great shame,” sneers Mordred. “I heard her say that you stank of the kitchen. She begged the king to find her another champion for her mistress.”
“But she still consented to journey along with me, although she served me ill by inciting the Black Knight, the Red Knight and the Green Knight into combat against me.”
“But by so doing, you were given the chance to prove your worth as a knight by defeating them all,” says Gawain, ever the peace-maker.
“And I am delighted that Lady Linet has now agreed to become my wife,” Gaheris boasts.
“Then you can have no complaints about the affair,” Gareth replies.
“Neither can you, for Linet tells me you are to wed her mistress, Dame Lyonesse,” Gaheris points out.
This is all news to me, and I am pleased that I have interrupted my journey to spend time with them.
“Indeed, our marriage has been planned. As Gawain says: I have proved myself as a knight, and as a worthy companion for Dame Lyonesse.” Gareth shoots a hard look at Mordred. There is little friendship evident between them, nor, I think to myself, does Gareth seem quite so afraid of Mordred as he once was.
His next words confirm my opinion.
“That being the situation, none shall dare call me Beaumains ever again—not even you, Mordred.”
The threat is unmistakable, and is enough to silence Mordred, at least for a time. As dusk falls, Gawain has called a halt to their journey so that they may prepare a safe haven against the creatures of the night. A pile of wood is gathered and lit. I watch their activity while I rest my weary wings. Smoke billows above the leaping golden flames, and I shift position so that it cannot irritate my eyes and throat. The knights remain silent, their eyes drawn to the dancing light, listening to the fire’s pop and crackle, and the calls of the wild hunters and their prey.
The sky is black as ebony, pierced with glittering stars that promise light but give none. There is no moon, not yet. It is a night for the telling of secrets and I edge closer along the branch in the hope of hearing them.
Agravaine begins the conversation. “You’ve been away from court, Mordred, so I don’t suppose you’ve heard the news that most concerns you.”
“What news?”
My heart falls anew as I hear Mordred’s surly response. I had hoped—what? That my absence from court might encourage his father to treat him more like a son? That my absence might remove the burr that pricks his heart and turns him to violence? Yet it seems he himself has been absent. Has he been gathering support for his cause from disaffected knights across the realm, as I once did? Is that why he travels with Gaheris?
“You have a half-brother by the name of Owain. He is the son of your mother, Morgana, and Urien of Rheged.”
“I don’t believe you.”
Agravaine, being ever one to enjoy passing on news of the court, is not deterred. “Ask my brothers. They know all about him.” He glances around the company. “Well, not Gaheris. He’s not welcome at Camelot after what he did to our mother and to Lamorak.”
“Never mind ancient tales of revenge! Tell me what you know of Owain,” Mordred insists.
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“He is young; he was only sixteen summers or thereabouts when he first arrived at Camelot. But despite his youth he was knighted almost straight away by the king.” Agravaine splutters with laughter as he continues the story. “At the start he scared the court half to death—in fact the queen was so terrified she dropped down in a deathly swoon.”
“Why should she be so afraid of a vagabond knight?” Mordred says.
“Because the ‘vagabond knight,’ as you call him, travels everywhere with a very large and ferocious pet lion.”
If I had doubts about Agravaine’s story before, they are dispelled by this news that, to anyone else, would seem beyond belief. But I know that if anyone can befriend a lion, it is Owain. I hop down a couple of branches so that I can hear more.
“A lion!” Mordred’s jeering laugh cracks through the quiet forest. “There never was a lion for a pet in all of Christendom! Where do you find such stories, Agravaine?”
“He speaks the truth,” says Gawain, the oldest and therefore the one for whom they have the most respect. “It is said that, after Owain left Rheged in a bid to be admitted to Arthur’s court, he encountered a snake fighting a lion. The snake had the animal tightly bound within its coils and was about to make a fatal strike. But Owain drew his sword and cut the snake’s head from its body. He then unwound the lion from the snake’s deathly embrace before setting off once more for Camelot. But the lion followed him and, on occasion, protected Owain from errant travelers who wished him harm. So Owain told the king, and the king believed him. And for that deed he knighted Owain and bid him—and his lion—welcome at court, although he did not stay for long.”
Owain! I berate myself for my recent absence from Rheged, for not realizing that of course he is now old enough to seek his fortune at court. I remember the child who was always bringing hurt creatures home to nurse back to health, and my eyes fill with fond tears. I wonder if he too has set off on this fool’s errand for the Sangreal, and I determine to look out for him. What I hear next chills me to the bone.
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