“I’m afraid not, M’lady,” Uwain hastened to explain. “But the Lady Automne was an unusual woman, who had done many remarkable things in her life. Ever since childhood she’d studied the arts of war—tactics, rather than brute force, of course—and when she came to the age of marrying, there wasn’t a warrior among her father’s men who wanted to make her his mate. Seems they were fearful she would outclass them in military knowledge. Then, too, I fancy none of them met her standards. Being high born, her father couldn’t force her into an unwanted union, so she chose to remain single and keep control of her own life.” He cast me an arch look, then added, “You know, I assume, that Christian wives are expected to view their husbands as their masters and play the servant to their whims?”
“No, really?” I’d never heard it stated so baldly before, though considering the way many of the clergy treated me, I should have guessed as much.
“Well, at least that’s the way it is in the Roman Church,” Uwain continued. “So I don’t blame Automne for choosing not to marry. And it was to my good fortune, for by the time we met she’d had enough of the usual bumptious males and found me a lover eager to learn all that she could teach me. It made up, in part, for some of the things so long missing in my own life.”
It was barely a passing comment, but the words brought up the whole of his childhood. How many times had I wondered what would happen to the lad, caught between warring parents who could not learn to tolerate each other? Perhaps Morgan’s ignoring him in favor of pursuing political schemes was a blessing—her bitterness might have crippled him for life.
“What of your lion?” I asked, remembering the story of his healing the hurt animal.
“Ah, he is with me in spirit,” Uwain replied with a smile. “I’ve learned a great deal about veterinary medicine, and commemorate the lion on my badge as well as my shield.”
I followed his gesture toward the table where his men sat, happily exchanging news and toasts with the Companions. Every one of their tunics had the emblem of a lion sewn on the shoulder.
“We’ll have the Smith use the pattern for your hanging lamp when you take your place at the Round Table,” I promised.
Uwain spoke quickly, though still with a fine courtesy. “Oh, that won’t be necessary, Your Highness. I have more to do up north than here with the Pendragon. Let me just visit occasionally, as my need arises.”
“Are you that resentful?” I queried softly.
“Not resentful, just aware of where my own fate leads—and it is not currying favor with the High King. I shall probably spend my life serving at my father’s side, and when he no longer leads his warriors, I will keep the Hall warm, give out the gold, and meet the challenge of the invaders. I don’t foresee much time for noble causes or grand quests.”
Perhaps you were the first of the realists, Uwain. The first of the sons grown to manhood who returned to question where our dream was leading, what we had become. I watched you that night with admiration and fear, and a certain sentimental fondness for the lad you had once been—it was easier than looking at the message you were now conveying.
“But though I cannot stay, I’ll leave you an eager young fellow in my stead,” Uwain told Arthur later. He gestured to his lieutenant, who fetched a dirty, wild-eyed boy from the pile of dogs by the hearth.
“Found him roaming in the forest, Your Highness,” Uwain explained. “He ran right up to us, begging us to take him in. I shooed him away, assuming he was nothing more than a loony living in the wildwood, but he came back next day, riding a piebald nag and carrying a wooden spear. He claims he’s destined for Camelot, so I brought him along.”
Arthur was looking the boy up and down, and being openly assessed in return.
“What’s your name, lad?” the High King inquired.
“Perceval. What’s yours?”
My husband sat back, startled by the impertinence, and Uwain rolled his eyes upward. “He’s a bit rough, Your Highness. But more untaught than unteachable, I’d say. Seems he was raised by a mother who feared for his life if he became a warrior, so she kept him in the forest, ignorant of the ways of men. Taught him nothing but bare survival and notions of heaven.”
“Mum says the angels are made of light,” Perceval declared, looking admiringly at the Prince of Northumbria. “When you wear your shiny hat, you look exactly like an angel.”
A guffaw went up from the Companions, and the boy whirled around. One hand reached for the sling that hung from his belt.
As he moved, his tattered cloak flew back, and I saw for the first time the familiar gold-and-enamel brooch. “Would you be Pellinore’s son?” I inquired, wondering if the crazed widow who had left the Wrekin had been unable to find refuge with King Pellam at Carbonek.
“Pellinore?” The boy savored the sound, as though it had a flavor he was trying to place.
“Pellinore of the Wrekin,” I supplied. The lad was small and stocky, unlike the massive warlord, but there still might be a connection.
“Mayhap.” The bumpkin shrugged his shoulders in unconcern. “Can’t remember my da. Only Mum and the people who came to the fountain in the woods. Never been in a house before, either.”
He stared in amazement at the Red Dragon on the tapestry behind us, then sent his feral glance to the shadows under the loft. The Companions held their breath, as though watching some strange, unpredictable animal, and in the silence Palomides’s falcon ruffled its feathers and settled back to drowse on its perch. With a motion almost too fast to follow, Perceval had his sling out and hit the creature with his first stone. The hawk toppled to the floor, stunned.
Palomides’s turbaned squire let out a shriek of outrage and drawing his dagger, leapt at the half-wild boy, who was intent on retrieving the bird. There was a moment of scuffling, during which a number of warriors converged on the two, trying to keep them apart while the girls from the Continent squealed excitedly.
Perceval managed to evade them all. Grabbing the bird, he wrung its neck for good measure and handed it to me. “Not much good for spitting,” he noted. “But it will do in the soup pot.”
The ruckus around him was turning into a brawl, and Cei began to pound on the table to restore order. Palomides was restraining his squire and finally had to lead him away as Perceval looked on without a trace of remorse.
“And why did you want to come to Camelot?” Arthur asked.
“This fellow here said that’s where he was going.” Perceval nodded toward Uwain. “Said that the King’s men all wear metal helmets and carry bright shields…you that king?”
“I am,” Arthur acknowledged, hard pressed not to smile at the boy’s ingenuousness in spite of his atrocious behavior. “What would you do for me?”
“Catch your dinner, fight your wars, wear one of those shiny hats.”
The remark brought a burst of laughter from Cei, and the boy crouched as he turned to glare at the Seneschal. “That will do,” Arthur warned them both.
“Then tell the tall man not to laugh at me,” Perceval responded, as prickly with pride as any Champion.
“What are you going to do with him?” I asked later that night.
“Send him to his Uncle Pellam at Carbonek,” Arthur replied with a sigh. “The old, ailing King needs all the warriors he can get, and since there’s a blood-tie there, he can be responsible for the boy. Whew—I warrant there’ll be the devil to pay over that falcon!”
Surprisingly, Palomides was fairly calm about the loss of his most-prized possession, but the turbaned servant was inconsolable. The fact that no one in Britain knew how to train such birds didn’t help, and in the long run the fellow’s despair, along with his already noticeable homesickness, led Palomides to arrange for his passage on the next boat bound for Alexandria.
“He’s a canny one, and can find his own way from there,” the Arab allowed. “Perhaps it was arrogant of me to think he could adapt to this foggy little island just because I have.”
So Palomides and his servant p
repared to go to Exeter and wait for summer trading to commence. Arthur decided to accompany them, wanting to check further on how things were going with Gwynlliw.
“I’m sending Mordred out on his first assignment,” my husband noted as he packed for the southern trip. “He’s to check on the Bristol coast from Sea Mills down to the River Exe. The Irish haven’t shown any signs of resuming their raids, but it doesn’t hurt to be prepared.”
“Oh dear, he had so wanted to go to Northumbria with Uwain,” I mused, hoping my husband would reconsider his opposition to that plan. “Might do him good to get to know his cousin better.”
“Uwain?” Arthur spit the name out. “I don’t trust Morgan’s son any more than he trusts me—don’t want to give him a chance to turn Mordred against me.” His tone was so contentious, I couldn’t point out that it was he himself who was driving his son away. “The two of them plotting who-knows-what is the last thing I need,” he added.
There was a rasp in his voice that made me stop and take a good look at him. He was glaring at the map case with an unconcealed fury. This was no momentary flare-up of anger, but the overflowing of a long-simmering rage.
“I know you wish I’d do more for Mordred—that I’d treat him more like…kin. But Gwen, the very thought of him makes my skin crawl. I cannot stand the sight of the boy, can’t even look at him, without remembering…”
Arthur’s jaw clamped shut, and his muscles tensed, as though this most noble of kings was locked in physical combat with his own imperfect nature, and I understood for the first time the extent of his struggle. Since time began, a monarch must be without blemish, whole and strong and vital. But Arthur’s soul carried the blot of incest, rendering him tainted, a man to be cast out of decent society. For all that he was the finest leader in Europe, his moira left him shadowed and at war within himself.
Suddenly he relaxed and, dropping the leather case, came over to me. Taking me firmly by the shoulders, he searched my face imploringly.
“Lass, I’m trying to do the best I can. I’ve sent the lad out on his own this time—he’ll be in charge, without anyone else to oversee him. I want to be able to trust him. Maybe once he proves his loyalty, maybe then I can meet him man to man, without the other getting in the way.”
“Most likely,” I said. “He still wants so much to please you.”
“Ah well,” Arthur sighed, turning away again. “We all do the best we can. And I swear, if this assignment goes well, I’ll promote him to a more important post.”
I heard the promise and felt cheered by it. “That would be splendid, my dear—good for both of you, I think.”
Thus Arthur went south with Palomides, and Mordred headed to Sea Mills, going first to Wells, then along the Mendips, while I kept the household at Camelot. And no one suspected the chaos that little trip would bring.
Chapter XIX
The Witch of Wookey
As was my wont, I began each day working in the garden, weeding and pinching, mulching and clipping. It gave me a chance to touch the earth again, to draw in strength and calm for the day. In particular, it provided an hour or two of inner communion that was hard to find elsewhere in a busy Court, and restored the balance that was always missing when Lance was gone. At such times my thoughts often went to Joyous Gard, where, I hoped, the Breton was safe. I liked to think of him working in his garden just as I was in mine.
“M’lady!”
The sound cut across my reverie as sharply as it clove the air. I sat back on my heels and blinked at the figure that came careening down the path. He moved like a drunken scarecrow, clothes flapping about raggedly and a dreadful grimace contorting his features.
“Mordred? Mordred, what is it?” I cried as he lurched to a stop in front of me.
The young man was gasping for air so hard his whole body shook. Goaded by who knew what demons, his face had become sunken and ravaged, while his eyes burned wildly in the shadows of their sockets. Even his beard, which he had a youthful vanity about, was tangled and dirty, and both his hands and face were badly scratched.
“Is it true?” he rasped.
A cold premonition slid over me, and I reached toward him. “Is what true?”
“That King Arthur is my father?”
The air went still around us and the very earth ceased to breathe. Even my hand stayed in the effort to find his, and I gawked at my stepson, horror-stricken. Not this way, I prayed; don’t let it come out this way.
But my silence was confirmation enough, and he spun away, as though by not seeing me he could avoid the truth. Then, with a sudden swing of direction, he turned back, his manner veering from entreaty to accusation.
“You knew, didn’t you?” he hissed, bearing down on me. “Answer, M’lady! You knew!”
The young, powerful hand grabbed my wrist as I bit my lip and nodded a silent admission. For one terrible moment we stared at each other before he loosed his grip and flung my hand away.
“Then why? Why in the name of all that’s holy didn’t you tell me?” The words welled up out of him, as scalding as milk overflowing a seething pot. “You knew, and yet you let me go on trying, day after day, to make the man like me. Trying to live up to impossible standards. Trying to earn some respect from the King, who himself carries a loathsome secret. At the least you should have told me it was hopeless. Why, M’lady…why didn’t you?”
I shook my head in stunned disbelief. Why, indeed? It was the same cry I had made to his father all those years ago when I, too, had found out about Mordred’s origins. How could I have let this boy, this child I thought of as my own, walk into the same horrifying discovery without giving him the protection of being forewarned?
“I…” My mouth opened and closed, yet no sound came out. Tears were filling my eyes. “There never seemed to be a right time…I tried. No, that’s not true…not quite. I wanted you to know—I just had no way to tell you.”
Mordred heard the words, but his face showed no understanding of their meaning. The truth had heaved him into a blind pit, and he stared through me to his own inner horror, like a man enmeshed in nightmare. When he spoke, despair had leached his voice of color.
“I wouldn’t believe her, you know. Tried to kill her when she taunted me. Spent the whole night chasing through the woods—each of us hiding in the dark, listening, darting away, jumping after—through bramble and thicket and holly shaws. Just before dawn she made it back to the cavern and hid beyond my grasp.”
This time he let me take hold of his hands, which were growing cold as ice. “Who, Mordred? Who told you?”
“The Witch of Wookey Hole.” His teeth started to chatter, and a long shiver ran through him. “Named the truth for me, the reason that the King finds me so hateful. Just a voice at first, coming from the woods but following as I went along the Road…‘He has been where he should not, you are the spawn that he begot. Unnatural child of an unspeakable union, that’s what you are, and even the Gods despise you.’ Unnatural—that’s what she called me. Unnatural…” The word hung on the air, sick with self-loathing.
Cursing the crone silently, I chafed Mordred’s hands in an effort to warm them. The color was leaving his face, and he whimpered once as he slumped on the bench and I called frantically for help. After Enid and I got him wrapped in blankets, Griflet was summoned to carry him to my chamber.
When we’d put my son on the bed and bundled the comforter around him, the Kennel Master asked quietly, “Do you want me to stand guard?”
I shook my head, grateful that I could trust that neither he nor Enid would mention this to the household. “He’s had a bad shock, but will be better for a sound sleep and some hot broth.”
Mordred slept through much of the day, with me sitting beside him, seeing again the boy who loved to track the golden eagles in their flight, who cherished the stories of the Trojan War and had always dreaded the dark secrets of the woods. A bright child given into my care, born to run free into the promise of tomorrow, now tripped and forever
caught in the dark snare of his father’s secret.
Over and over I wondered how I could have handled it better. What could have been done or said to make Arthur see him as a boy in need of a father rather than the eternal reminder of a shameful act? Perhaps men never face their own humanity in the way that women do—and there was nothing anyone could have done to deflect the moira of this father and son.
By nightfall Mordred had slept through the worst of his exhaustion, and the restless tossing of nightmares gave way to calmer waking. He lay there looking at me, sad-eyed and empty, no longer wracked by the feverish horror of the morning.
“You’ll be needing your chamber,” he said softly, glancing out the window at the new moon that lay cradled in sunset clouds.
“You needn’t go on my account.” I spoke up quickly, unwilling to send him from the safety of this nest. “I use the royal bedroom even when Arthur’s gone.”
He grimaced as he raised himself on one elbow, though whether at the sound of his father’s name or the bruises of his body, I couldn’t tell. “No, M’lady…not on your account but my own. There are things I must learn to live with, and that’s easiest done at a distance.” Pulling himself upright, he smiled bleakly and reached for my hands. “We’ll have no need to speak of this again…but before we leave the matter to the past, please know I don’t blame you.” His voice went gentle for a moment. “You gave me the best childhood one could ask for, have been the best mother one could want. Morgause…” he stumbled on the name, then gave a faint shrug. “The memory of her is far back and faded. Not even she saw fit to warn me.”
His mouth firmed into a hard, cold line, and he tightened his grip on my hands. “I have but one request—that you not tell the High King. There is no reason for me to put into words what he has left unsaid. I will not bring it up myself; why should I? But I ask your promise to keep my secret as well as you kept his.”
Guinevere, the Legend in Autumn: Book Three of the Guinevere Trilogy Page 23