“It was the source of All beauty and light, warmth and sustenance. I rushed to enter the sanctuary and kneel within the holy spot…but something stopped me. Something felled me to the ground suddenly, as if I’d been axed by a Saxon.
“I stayed there, stunned, waiting for my head to clear so that I could get back to my feet. But for some reason, I could not move. All night I lay motionless on those steps, watching in a half dream while others came and went, entering the chapel and adoring the Grail. All around me I felt their rapture, knew that they were moving out of themselves and into the presence of God, and longed for the experience of oneness with the deity. As much as ever I longed for you, that’s how much I wanted to join that holy company.
“It didn’t happen, Gwen—any more than your and my bedding can happen. And when I came to in the morning, I was back in the cell of the hermit, sobbing for the loss of what I had come so close to. I begged the old man for absolution, for help and understanding of why this was denied me, how I had failed in my love of God. He said it is because of my loving you.”
Lance stroked my fingers softly, then looked long and hard into my eyes.
“I can never have you, for you belong to Arthur—but with some real dedication, some honest repentance, perhaps I can have the Grail. Something of my own, Gwen—a cause, a fulfillment, a reason for living. That’s why I’m renouncing all claim on my place beside you and Arthur, in Court and in love, and will go live at Joyous Gard. There is nothing else to be done if I am to salvage anything of my own life now, my love. Do you understand? Does it make any sense to you? I know there is more to life than the mundane experience—know the Divine is there to be touched, if we only have courage enough. I want more out of life than the everyday things…I want the breath-catching wonder, the Otherness, the rapture…”
His voice trailed off, and he continued to search my face, desperately looking for some sign of understanding. I remembered my experience with the Goddess and nodded mutely, knowing what he longed for, hating that I must do without him in order that he find it.
“Once more I tell you good-bye,” he whispered, carefully putting my hand in my lap and getting stiffly to his feet. “This time the best I can ask is God’s blessings on you.”
And with that he bowed formally and walked steadily away, leaving me as wordless as when the conversation began.
And so You won, You wretched, intractable Father God! And Lance moved as far away from me as geography and political reality allowed.
I have lived too long to cry piteously with pain any more, but I still feel the anger of it. Anger at Lance for taking what seemed to me the coward’s way out, anger at the Goddess for letting him, but most of all, anger at the Christian God who denies all human frailty and, like difficult fathers everywhere, sits in stern, unbending judgment of His offspring.
Chapter XXVII
Perceval
I was not the only one stunned by Lancelot’s leaving Camelot. His decision to live henceforth at Joyous Gard cast a pall over those who had known him best—for all that he had spent so much time off on adventures, or plying between his two homes, he had still been one of the pillars of Arthur’s Court. Now that it was no longer his central haven, some of Camelot’s luster dimmed.
“If only Galahad had come back,” Gareth said with a sigh. “Lance would have stayed if his son were here.”
He paused, and I motioned for him to move the second caldron of water onto the coals. It was a hot day in high summer, and both of us were sweating as we worked in the outdoor kitchen, minding the fire.
I’ve never learned the arts of midwifery, having had no time for the training. But the specter of death which haunts the bearing of life can unnerve a husband as caring as Gareth, so over the years I’ve become adept at keeping expectant fathers occupied while the women got on with the birthing.
Gareth seemed well pleased with his daughters, playing gently with solemn Lora, and roughhousing with the fiery Megan. Still, neither girl could join him on the practice field, or carry his flag in tournaments or war. Like Bedivere and Lance, Gareth wasn’t afraid to show his fondness for children, and I thought how lucky any boy would be to call him sire.
“You hoping for a son this time?” I inquired.
Gareth nodded in affirmation, then qualified it immediately, not wanting to rile the Gods unduly. “As long as Lynette and the bairn are healthy, I’ll be grateful with whatever we get, but she and I’ve agreed, if this one is a boy, we’re going to name him Lancelot.”
It was a lovely idea that did them both honor, and I smiled fondly at him.
By eventide his gamin wife had produced a bonny boy, and there was much rejoicing in the household that night, with all the Orcadians toasting the next generation of warriors. Even Mordred, who had come with another report on the Federates, took part in the family festivities.
I was glad to have my stepson home and see him in better spirits than at the start of the Quest. Watching Mordred, I was struck by how much he was like his father—open, frank, generous with time and interest, quick to show his confidence in and appreciation of the men around him. He might have proved as good a leader as well, if his moira had been different. For all that kingship among the Celts is not hereditary, our people could do far worse than Mordred when Arthur’s successor must be picked. They would doubtless consider him more seriously if Arthur recognized him as his son.
It was a thought that had crossed my mind more than once, but I dared not approach my husband with it until he himself acknowledged the blood-tie between them. Whenever they spent time together, each came away from the encounter wrapped in dark silence. Mordred no longer pressed for giving the Saxons more say in their governance or letting them join the Round Table, but the subject hovered over father and son like a kestrel—vital, unswerving, marking time until the moment to move came clear. It made each man uneasy with the other.
Mordred’s brothers thought as well of him as I did, however, and now that he was grown, accepted him fully as an equal. Gawain praised him often for his skill with the sword, Gaheris and Agravain sought out his company, and Gareth frequently pointed out that Lance considered Mordred one of his best pupils. At least the Orcadian contingent at Court was whole and intact.
Not everyone fared so well, however. There had been no Round Table gathering since Caerleon, what with so many of the Fellowship off on the Quest. Some had returned to their own lands, discouraged and saddened by their inability to locate the Grail, only to find that their holdings had suffered from their absence—harvests not collected, taxes in arrears, outlawry on the rise. And the coming of a bitter winter didn’t help matters.
Cold storms held the land in thrall, killing both animals and humans who were unlucky enough to be without shelter. Even when the clouds lifted, the sun provided only enough warmth to melt the surface of the snow, which often turned to treacherous ice before moonrise. Winter game grew scarce, firewood was used in great quantities, and before the feast of Imbolc, farmers and villagers alike began to straggle to our gate, asking help from their rulers when they could no longer help themselves. I talked Cei into allowing each family a ration of free wood, and Cook served more stew and soup than roast so that we could share the meat with those who had none of their own.
Then, as March came in without any promise of surcease, we received word that Dinadan had died while still looking for the Grail. The demise of Tristan’s wiry little friend struck me closer than any of the others had. A man of wit and humor, deft at avoiding self-pity and pretension, he was never known to follow the well-trod paths toward fame and glory. Why his search had led him into the moors of Yorkshire no one knew, but both he and his horse had been found frozen out in the vast, empty hills, without even a tree for protection. The news brought an infinite sadness to my world, for I had known him since childhood.
“Ah, lass—it’s the kind of thing I feared when this Quest began,” Arthur commiserated as the tears ran down my cheeks that night. “Between men lost
or gone…Cador dead of old age, Pellinore and Urien of treachery…Tristan in Brittany with that new wife of his…Lance living like a monk at Joyous Gard…” He shook his head as though unable to encompass the long, slow arc of it all. “And if that’s not enough, there’s Lamorak, Bagdemagus, and now Dinadan killed while searching for the Grail.”
My husband stood behind me, one hand on my shoulder, and I put down my brush in order to lay my fingers over his. Instinct still prompted me to turn toward him, wanting to rage against the cruelty of the human condition and, by sharing this moment of vulnerability, help blunt the anguish for both of us.
But Arthur gave me a reassuring pat and turned away. Just so had every poignant moment between us been deflected in the past. And just so did I take a deep breath and smile at the back of the husband I loved. I reminded myself that in his own way he loved me, he’d just never learned to express it. By now the words of caring had been silenced so often, he probably had no voice with which to phrase them.
“’Tis all part of life, I suppose,” he commented briskly. “And we’ll no doubt come to know the new men and the youngsters as well as we did the old, given enough time.”
Arthur was only partially right about that. He had a natural talent for making young men comfortable, and they sought his approval by the droves—an approval he seemed capable of giving everyone but his own son. I, on the other hand, found the newcomers not that easy to get to know. They gathered in their own groups, laughed at their own jokes, and showed little interest in having contact with their Queen. Before long, I simply lumped them all together as “those young people.” Perhaps, in that, I was as resistant to the new warriors as Arthur was to Mordred’s new ideas.
There was one, however, who caught my attention. Bagdemagus’s squire, Melias, had made a place for himself among the Companions and his pleasure at being included in the Round Table was wonderfully contagious. He had a deep admiration for Lancelot, but since the Breton was no longer with us, Melias attached himself to Gareth as a logical substitute for his idol. Gareth not only took him as his squire, but remained friends with him after the boy achieved warrior status. Watching the two of them striding up from the practice yard together, I was reminded of Lance and Arthur, in the early days of Camelot.
The thaws came late that year, and the priest who rode up to our gate in mid-April claimed that wolves had followed him boldly along the Road, barely retreating into the verge until he made the sign of the cross at them. No doubt the starving animals would have feasted well on the plump little man—he was one of those clerics with an appetite for food and wine, as well as dogma. I noticed he scowled when Father Baldwin asked Cathbad to lead the blessing at dinner.
“All manner of things happening to the west,” the priest announced, eyeing the brimming bowls of stew that were being carried from trestle to trestle. I wondered which would win out, his lust for food or the desire to be the important bearer of tidings from distant courts.
It was a dead heat between the two; eyes and hands concentrated on heaping all manner of edibles onto his plate while mouth and voice paid service to his news. Of primary concern was the death of Illtud, the founder of the monastery at Llantwit, who had helped train and manage our horses.
“He was a fine man, saintly and pious,” the priest opined, grabbing up a handful of dried pears from the tray a servant brought round. “All of us in the Church will miss him. Of course, they say he was far too lenient with the Pagans in his area—even had dealings with a descendent of the Fairy King, Gwyn ap Nudd.”
I choked at that, having myself once wondered about our horse breeder’s lineage, until his brother Yder died a mortal’s death. Still, it was a fine joke, one that both Illtud and Gwyn would have enjoyed. Just then Arthur shot me one of his “don’t you dare” looks, so I swallowed my laughter, and on a more prosaic note, asked if Gwyn would take over the maintenance of our horses at the monastic stables now that Illtud was gone.
“Not likely, M’lady,” the priest announced. “The Church won’t tolerate such contact with heathens. Why,” he went on, his voice trembling with indignation, “some Pagans are claiming there’s a cup in Carbonek which once held the Savior’s blood. When the Pope heard that, he was scandalized…says it just shows how the uninitiated corrupt our beliefs.” By now the cleric was eating and talking at the same time, sucking the marrow out of the stew bones and popping fresh bits of bread into his mouth between each phrase. “Since the Church won’t accept it, their ‘holy relic’ is obviously a fraud.”
Many of our Christians bristled at the notion, and Father Baldwin was hard put not to call the man a liar. We held our tongues, however, and gave the guest his due in Celtic hospitality, but all were glad when he left the next morning.
“So much for the sacred vessel,” Agravain sneered that afternoon. “Wouldn’t you know that goody-goody spawn of Lancelot’s would try to profit from a fake.”
I was in the Hall closet, replenishing the supply of tapers when the Orcadian spoke up, apparently not realizing I was so near. Of all Morgause’s sons, Agravain was the most difficult, being both cruel and cunning, and I’d never found a way to like him.
“I’d be more inclined to believe Bors than that cleric,” Gawain noted. “Bors is scrupulously fair and not prone to slant things one way or the other.”
“I don’t know.” Agravain was playing with his dagger, sliding it effortlessly in and out of his belt and making it spin nimbly through his fingers. Like most warriors he rarely sat still, but always kept honing some part of his skill. “He’s a cousin of Lancelot’s, isn’t he? Bound to make that foppish boy look as good as possible, just to curry the father’s favor. You know,” he added under his breath, “I don’t trust that Breton. Have you ever thought how much closer we would be to Arthur if it weren’t for the Queen’s Champion?”
“That’s nonsense,” Gareth declared, rising like a guard dog to his mentor’s defense.
“Besides,” Gawain cut in, “Lance has gone to live in Northumbria. It hardly speaks well of your honor to be attacking a man who isn’t here. If I were you, I’d look to serving your King better instead of besmirching someone else’s reputation.”
Dear Gawain. I turned back to my work, glad to see him exert a steadying hand on his less reliable sibling.
During the next week the Roads opened more fully, and a spate of Royal Messengers came and went with reports from all over. There were no insurrections, few complaints, and here and there a spark of bright hope. Uwain had cleared the northern reaches of Northumbria of Saxon invaders and sent word he was adding buildings to Thirlings as well as Yeavering. He included an invitation for us to visit him this summer, if we could arrange it. Arthur read the communiqué aloud and raised an eyebrow.
“Perhaps this would be a good time to solidify our bond with the man,” I noted, and Arthur nodded.
“Go see him in the summer, after we hold Court at Carlisle,” he suggested. My heart rose at that, for it had been some time since I’d been home, and any year that contained a trip to Rheged was a good year. Besides, it was that much closer to Joyous Gard.
Then suddenly, three weeks into May, Perceval arrived from Carbonek. As usual, he came while the household was at dinner, and Lucan made a solemn occasion out of announcing his presence.
Pellinore’s youngest son walked soberly across the circle and bent his knee to Arthur. His hair was still a riot of curls, and his eyes flashed with the same feverish fire as before the Quest, but otherwise his untamed energy was kept in check. I wondered if time itself had calmed the God that drove him so, or if his new demeanor stemmed from some other, more harrowing, experience.
“Up, up off your knees,” Arthur called jovially, “and tell us how things are in Carbonek. We’re eager for news.”
A hush came over the Hall, all eyes and ears intent on Perceval. Even the faces peering through the carved foliage on the pillars seemed to pause in their mimicry of humans, and I fancied that the Red Dragon on the wall behin
d us held his steamy breath to hear what the holy fool would say.
“It is a sorrow, and a wonder both,” Perceval replied cryptically. “There has been both a coming and a going, and it brings much awe.”
A mutter of discontent flitted around the room. It was one thing to listen to Perceval weave one of his magical tales for entertainment’s sake and quite something else to get such a fey response when what everyone wanted was news.
“Did you bring the Grail with you?” someone called out, to which Perceval replied with a shake of his head.
“Where is it now, then?” Griflet asked.
“Gone. Gone to heaven, it has…” A shadow crossed Perceval’s face, but he began to beam as he mentioned Galahad. “Once he became King of Carbonek, the Waste Land came back to life—waters flowed in the streambeds and flowers bloomed in the meadows. Birds returned, horses foaled, the crops grew rich and ripe again, and for a whole year the earth blossomed. There was, as Galahad predicted, a returning to the Old Ways, for he saw the Grail as bridging the gulf between Christian and Pagan, so paeans of praise to both Christ and the Goddess filled the air. I’ve never seen Galahad happier. He would climb to the top of a ridge or sit on the topmost wall of a hill-fort, staring out over the land, marveling at its revival.”
Perceval’s voice began to go low and raspy, and he stared at the embers on the hearth when he spoke. I heard the change, and a cold dread crept into my heart as Perceval spun out the story of the boy who would not let the Royal Promise be.
“The people of Carbonek rejoiced in their new King, surrounding him with love and accolades, but Galahad was ever modest, saying it was the Grail which had saved them, not he himself.
“When Beltane came round, Galahad made me promise to help him with a secret ceremony, a rite he wanted to complete alone, while the people of Carbonek were busy dancing round the bonfires and coupling with the joy of returning summer. So, when the music and revelry were at their height, we slipped away into the shadows without being seen. He carried Amide’s bowl and led me down from the hill-top and out to one of the further fields.
Guinevere, the Legend in Autumn: Book Three of the Guinevere Trilogy Page 33