Guinevere, the Legend in Autumn: Book Three of the Guinevere Trilogy

by Persia Woolley

  “It was the first discovery of my moira,” the Bard began. “Until then I was a child, knowing only the strange echoes of lives past, fleeting premonitions of a destiny I had no way to comprehend.”

  His eyelids dropped and his fingers moved deftly across the strings, evoking a haunting, melancholy glory as his voice began to spin its magic.

  I have been in many shapes.

  I have been the narrow blade of a sword.

  I have been a drop in the air.

  I have been a word in a book.

  I have been a light in a lantern.

  I have been the string of a child’s swaddling clout.

  Beside me the wolfhound Brutus leaned his massive head against my knee, as enthralled with the sound of Taliesin’s voice as the assemblage was with his words. The Hall had gone silent, every ear atuned to the spell Taliesin was casting.

  He told of bearing a banner before Alexander, of directing the work on Nimrod’s tower, of being in India before Rome was built.

  I am a wonder whose origin is not known.

  I have obtained the muse from the Caldron of Ceridwen.

  At the naming of the sacred source of inspiration and knowledge, many people crossed themselves or made the sign against evil. But Taliesin was well into the magic of his song, leading us into the realms of the Other, the realm of Annwn bounded by the heavy blue chain of the sea. Here was the gloomy grave, the revolving tower, the Glass Castle of the Perfect Ones where the Lord of the Dead assembled his Court. Here was the pot that would not cook the meat of those who were forsworn but, like Bran’s drinking horn, gave every man the food he most desired, provided he was pure in heart and courage. By the breath of nine damsels it was warmed, and the purple rim was crusted with pearls.

  Suddenly the spell of Taliesin’s story was broken by a wracking sob, and Perceval jumped to his feet. “The grail! He sings of the grail,” the lad called out. “My mum told me of it—the source of life, the provider of all sustenance…”

  Galahad hastened to pull his cousin back down to his seat as the Fellowship turned to stare at him, shocked by his outburst. A mutter of exasperation was flowing around the Table, and Galahad was quick to counter it.

  “Forgive the country lad, good warriors. His mind has sent him to learn the ways of your Fellowship, but his heart still lives by his mother’s well in the wildwood. It is love of what the great Bard has sung, not disrespect, which makes him burst out so.”

  Indeed, Perceval had gone into a kind of trance, his face lit with an inner glow, his eyes seeing things the rest of us could not. Taliesin, curious about the lad’s Sight, put aside his harp as Perceval continued.

  “Most holy of all the Treasures of Britain—most ancient, most sacred—it is the vessel of renewal and hope and Eternity.”

  Perceval’s voice trembled with rapture. He had become a vessel himself, through which the Gods spilled their message, and we stared, awestruck and terrified, at the divine fool.

  “It’s been hid from men’s sight all these years, waiting for the Pure Ones, the Brave Ones, to seek it out. My mum knew—she says it’s here, someplace…in the wildwood, in the hermit’s cell, in the Grail Castle it shall be found. That’s what she said, back there by her fountain in the woods. But only the bravest, the purest of heart…”

  Uncertainty rippled through the Round Table as a fit of shaking brought the boy’s words to a halt. But no sooner had Perceval collapsed in his cousin’s arms than Gawain was on his feet.

  “Hear, hear!” he cried, the fire of Perceval’s madness blazing on his forehead. “Surely you must feel it—the presence of the Other, the naming of the hidden mystery? Perceval says it is one of the Thirteen Treasures and calls it a grail, a sacred object that can only be found by the bravest and most honorable of men. Truly, the search for such an object, the finding of that link with the Divine, would be the most important quest of a lifetime!” The Prince of Orkney solemnly pulled forth his dagger and held it hilt upward so that it made the symbol of Christianity. “By this cross I vow not to rest until I find the Grail, nor to turn aside from the least adventure until I have captured it and brought it back to Camelot, to be enshrined to the glory of the Round Table for all time.”

  “I’ll be at your side, Father,” Gingalin cried, rising to stand beside him. Not to be outdone, Gaheris and Agravain leapt up also, lifting their drinking horns and swearing to follow their brother. I gaped at the Orcadians, only just beginning to realize what was happening.

  “You haven’t said what you’re looking for,” Arthur noted uneasily. “So far no one has defined this thing. How can you tell if you’ve found it?”

  “The soul will know.” Galahad spoke for the first time, his quiet self-assurance a marked contrast to Gawain’s burning zeal. “Each man knows his own level of purity, and the Divine will make itself manifest according to each man’s worthiness.”

  A cheer went up at that, but I noticed that both Palomides and Lancelot remained silent. Only when the noise had abated did the Arab rise.

  “I think you’d better decide what you’re looking for, first,” he said soberly. “If you are seeking a physical object, we can all take part in ferreting out this treasure. But if you are searching for something divine…that is an individual matter which requires thoughtful preparation. Spiritual quests aren’t conducted like a fox hunt, you know.”

  There was a moment of silence as everyone weighed the alternatives, and one after another turned to look at Perceval.

  “Spiritual,” Pellinore’s son announced, his face radiant. “A spiritual quest…that’s what my mum said it must be.”

  With that a wave of ecstasy surged through the Hall, eddying around the Fellowship and lapping at the feet of even the most practical of Companions. “I’m with you,” Bors pledged. “And I,” averred his brother, Lionel. Old Ironside, thumping his mug on the tabletop, caroled, “I for one shall not return until the Grail has been won. Call the armorer, for this requires a new jerkin.”

  Cheers greeted each new declaration, and I glanced at Arthur. The High King of Britain watched as more and more of his men rose on a floodtide of excitement the likes of which we hadn’t seen for years. Purpose, direction, and a noble cause had been carved out of the very air by a Bard’s tale and a forest simpleton, unleashing a force not even the Pendragon could control.

  The client kings and allied members of the Round Table looked on in fascination as my husband agreed, with some reluctance, to give his blessing to all who wished to embark on what came to be known as the Quest for the Holy Grail.

  ***

  “Frankly, I think it’s a dreadful idea,” I exclaimed in the privacy of our chambers that night. “Who knows what divisions it will bring up, or how the Christians will react to a search for the Pagan Treasures? Won’t they complain that you are sanctioning the Old Beliefs over their own?”

  “Possibly—though perhaps they have some tale of a sacred vessel themselves. No one knows just what this ‘grail’ is, so it could prove to be anything.”

  “Mmm,” I sighed, not convinced.

  “I’m more worried about the number of men who want to go on this quest,” Arthur noted as he moved restlessly about the room. “If too many leave, the Saxons could see this as a good time for rebellion or outright attack.”

  He paused to study Excalibur, which hung on a stand by our bedside at night. The elegant gold-and-silver hilt glimmered in the lantern light, and he reached out to touch the deep purple amethyst that graced the pommel. The physical symbol of his power was gorgeous—as unique and special as he was. At last he turned away with a sigh.

  “You can’t fight a religious idea with physical means, no matter what enchantments are laid on the blade,” he commented sadly. “I just pray that it strengthens the realm, rather than weakens it.”

  For once he was putting into words the very thing that I myself was feeling.

  Chapter XXIII

  Preparation

  The mystery of the Grail Qu
est held a kind of fascination for the members of the Round Table, and no one went untouched by it. Although most of the men who espoused the adventure were Arthur’s Companions, there was nothing to keep others from joining the search. Some, like Lamorak and Vortipor, looked on with admiration but felt they should stay home and take care of more prosaic needs. Others not only decided to take up the cause themselves, they recruited friends and allies as well. The crusty warlord Bagdemagus of Dorset even agreed to take Melias, the young scion of a Roman family in the south, as his squire. They made a most peculiar pair—the warrior in heavy homespun and leather, the youngster in elegant linen and silk.

  Oddly enough, the Quest didn’t appeal to Lancelot. “Oh, I grant there is a magnificence to it—pure catnip to the Celtic soul,” he responded when I asked him about it. “Where else can you find such a combination of glory and courage, mysticism and the chance to touch the Divine? But with everyone rushing to be part of it, it feels more like a circus than an honest effort at reaching God. I don’t doubt their sincerity, exactly. It’s just not the sort of thing I want to do.”

  Agravain made snide comments about Lance putting himself above the common man, but the Breton ignored the jibes. It was not uncommon for lesser warriors who were jealous of his fame to attack him in petty ways.

  Those who were taking part in the Quest decided they would all leave together on Sunday, and most of the Fellowship stayed to see them off. There was constant speculation as to what shape the Grail would take. Perceval had said that it was one of the Thirteen Treasures of Britain, so some thought they were looking for the platter, while others were sure it was the caldron, or the drinking horn, or even the spear. But all agreed that, as Galahad had said, they would recognize it when they saw it.

  Galahad himself was less vocal on the subject, quietly going about his preparations for departure. Because of this, Lance made a point of having a long talk with his son.

  “He’s consumed by the matter,” the Breton reported as we strolled past the parade grounds, following the main street of the village that leads to the Roman quay at the bend of the river. “He’s convinced the Grail will cure his ailing grandfather, like the Dagda’s caldron that revives the dead. Elaine has taught him that Pellam and the Waste Land can only be saved by returning to the Old Ways, so he sees it as somehow connected to the Royal Promise.”

  Oh Glory, I thought, human sacrifice not being one of the ancient rites I wanted to see restored.

  Lance sighed. “When I pointed out that that kind of ritual has been outlawed for centuries, he countered that it’s the same as Christ’s death on the cross…that He was a sacrificial victim willing to die in order to save mankind. I couldn’t make him see the difference, and in spite of our discussion, he won’t be swayed from that belief.”

  We had come to the edge of the wharves, which were rarely used since the Legions left. Like London or Chester, Caerleon was situated at the upper end of the tidal reach, allowing the ships to take advantage of the twice-daily ebb and flow. The tide was high, making a quiet slap-slap of ripples against the pilings as Lance brooded over his son. He was looking off toward the estuary, but I doubt he saw the birds rising or heard their calls, and when he spoke, his voice was very soft.

  “I’m afraid, Gwen…afraid for my son. What if he finds this Grail and takes it to his grandfather? If it does restore life and heal the sick, Pellam would no longer be an invalid. But he’d still be an old man, feeble and doddering in his years. That’s far from the vital, vigorous leader the country needs to become healthy. Traditionally only the sacrifice of the king can make a Waste Land whole again…but such a sacrifice must be made freely by the monarch, as part of his pact with the people.”

  “Pellam’s been a Christian for years,” I mused. “It’s why the High Priestess won’t help cure his wound. Perhaps he can’t be healed by a Pagan relic…or no longer believes in the Royal Promise.”

  Lance nodded. “Exactly. He may refuse to have anything to do with it, and if Galahad tries to convince him of its importance, he could be accused of plotting his grandfather’s death. Apparently, the lad’s quite popular in Carbonek, and likely to be made king after Pellam dies. So it wouldn’t be hard to misconstrue his actions as nothing more than a personal grab for power. If he’s successful, it might even be seen as murder.” The word was little more than a whisper, but its threat chilled the air, and Lance shook his head sadly. “I tried to warn him, tried to point out there are always those who want to overthrow a favorite, but he thought I was questioning the purity of his motives and got very defensive. I can’t tell him what to believe, but I’m frightened this will end badly.”

  There was little I could say to relieve his worry, but later I thought of Arthur, refusing even to enter into a dialogue with Mordred, and Lance trying so hard to reach a boy who wouldn’t listen to him. I ached for both of them, but at least the Breton was making an effort.

  Mordred and I took the horses out next morning, and once they’d run out their first high spirits, we settled to a more steady pace, talking about all manner of things, just as we used to when he was young.

  He spoke enthusiastically about the Saxons, whom he found to be friendly, hardworking, and reliable. Certainly they could not have asked for a better envoy from the Pendragon. The fact that Mordred spoke their tongue and delighted in their games and riddles endeared him to them. For his part, it seemed he was truly beginning to find himself, now that he was away from Court. I’d noticed that on his return for the Round Table he was confident and relaxed, mixing easily with the men who were preparing for the Quest, chatting with his brothers, and wishing everyone well, though he wasn’t any more interested in searching for the Grail than Lamorak or Uwain were.

  “Why not?” I asked as we stopped at a spring to let the horses drink.”I should have thought you’d want to be part of this adventure.”

  “Me go looking for something sacred, something that can only be attained by the pure?” There was a sudden sharpness to his tone, which was totally out of keeping with his earlier demeanor. I turned to look at him, surprised.

  “Come now, M’lady—I’m the one the Witch of Wookey branded as unclean…born of a union so vile that even my father turns from me in disgust. Purity does not run in our family.”

  The very air was scathed by his words, and for a moment I saw a naked, brazen anger in his eyes. But as he spoke, his gaze drifted away. “The Gods did me no favor in my parentage—why provide another chance for divine snickering at my expense? Besides, if I call too much attention to myself, something terrible might happen…I sprang from a bedding far more forbidden than that of Lamorak and my mother, and she died for that little romp.”

  “Oh, Mordred,” I cried, aghast at the depth of his bitterness. “Those are dreadful things to say. We make our own lives, my dear—surely you know that. There is no reason for the son to take on the guilt of the father.” I closed the gap between our horses and put my hand on his arm. “You’re a whole person, grown now, and free to walk out of the shadow. Or at least you could be, if you put aside the past. You cannot change it, child, so please, I beg you, let go of it.”

  “Are you saying moira doesn’t count, M’lady?”

  “What we do with it is what matters, Mordred—what we do with it.”

  The man I thought of as my son raised his dark eyes to mine and gave me a forlorn smile.

  “Which is why I am becoming the best ambassador the Saxons have ever known. Let the dreamers go sniffing after the Grail. It’s people such as Cynric and I who deal with the realities of the world and shape the future as best we can. Have you any complaint with that, M’lady?”

  His tone had moved from sullen rage to a flat honesty, and I searched his face, trying desperately to read his heart. Instead I found the practiced, polished façade of a diplomat. Finally, with a sigh, I shook my head and agreed he was doing a fine job in the post his father had given him. It was the best I could say when faced with such despair.

&nb
sp; ***

  As the day of the Grail Seekers’ departure drew near, Arthur became more and more tense. The man who normally slept as soundly as a child tossed and turned endlessly during the night, making a mess of the covers and waking cross and cranky.

  “There’s far more practical matters to put your attention to, Your Highness,” Mordred suggested one morning. “For instance, you might consider lifting the ban against Saxon ships docking at British ports. It would bring new and useful goods into our markets and improve relations with the tribes on the Continent.”

  “I suppose,” Arthur said testily, “this is another of your ideas for making the Federates part of my realm?”

  “Well, more or less. Trading across the Channel will happen eventually, so it seems reasonable to gain the benefits from it sooner rather than later. Just as they will eventually have leaders of their own, and if you began appointing them now, with local administrators who would still be responsible to you—through me…”

  “And I suppose you have several in mind?” Arthur inquired abruptly.

  Mordred was pacing slowly around the room, and his gaze swung my way as he opened his mouth to answer. I gave him the briefest shake of my head—this was not the day to pursue the matter. But he either didn’t see it or ignored my warning.

  “Cynric would be an excellent man for the Winchester area.”

  The name of his enemy’s son flayed Arthur’s already-raw nerves, and his response came out in a roar.

  “Never! Never will I allow that to happen. Nor will I consider lifting the embargo. Or including the Saxons in the Round Table.” His jaw had gone stiff, and he spoke between clenched teeth. “How many times must I tell you? I do not trust your precious Saxons now and never will. And that is the end of it, Mordred. The subject is closed!”

  Mordred stopped dead still and a veil of ice dropped behind his eyes. For a long minute he stared at Arthur, as though unable to believe what he had heard. And his father stared back, unflinching and unresponsive. Like two parts of a mountain split by a narrow gorge, I thought…neither willing or able to move closer, yet each defined by and defining the horizon of the other. It was uncanny, immutable, and, perhaps, eternal.