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

by Persia Woolley

  “A full moon was riding free and clear, and in her light the plowed ridges looked like furrows made by the Goddess’s fingers caressing the curve of the earth. He came to a stop at the top of a rise and stood looking out over the land like a lover looking at his beloved. Finally, a long, slow smile came to his face, and he said a little prayer to the Mother. As though in answer, the strange call of a nightjar drifted through the air. Then, before I realized what he was going to do, he took his dagger and made a quick, deliberate slash across his wrist. In the moonlight the blood spurted out, thick and black, and he held his arm over Amide’s bowl, letting his life pour into the Grail just as hers had.”

  There was a gasp from the household, and Perceval paused to dash a tear from his face. Bors sobbed in shocked disbelief, and I swallowed hard around the lump in my throat for the bright, lively boy we had all admired.

  “At first Galahad walked across the fields, holding the crater so that his blood pooled into it, then spilled over onto the earth—a dark, steamy shower that smelled of salt and guaranteed the future of life in Carbonek. I wanted to stop it, to bind up the wound and make him lie down, but he met my protest with silence and a gentle shake of his head; Galahad was determined to fulfill a destiny greater than his own. So I walked beside him, holding the Grail when he grew too weak and supporting him when he begged me not to let him fall.

  “Back and forth across the land we went, the first vigorous thrust of direction becoming a zigzag staggering as he grew more feeble. His skin was clammy and his mind was wandering as he called on the Christ and the Great Mother and sometimes Amide as well. Just as it seemed I could hold him up no longer, we stumbled on a ewe and lamb nestled together under the boughs of a hazel bush. I pushed them out and made Galahad as comfortable as possible, propped up in that warm sanctuary and looking out over the earth he’d given even his life for. His face was as white as the moon, but there was nothing but love in his eyes when he whispered his last words: ‘It is finished. I have fulfilled the Promise.’”

  Perceval had reached out, as though wanting to offer this miracle to the whole of humanity and all the Gods, but when his voice dropped into silence, he was left staring helplessly at his hands. No one moved. At last, with a heavy sigh, he let his arms fall. But he kept his eyes averted as he completed the story. Perhaps it was easier to bear his grief that way.

  “I dug his grave on that very spot, burying him and the Holy Grail together. It seemed a fitting thing to do, and I didn’t want to see the same sacrifice be made, year after year. This once was bad enough. I wished his grave could have been near my mother’s well, where all the Old Gods have gathered since forever, but that would be too far from the plowed fields…I thought he should be where he could see the rich harvests his death ensures.

  “That was almost a month ago. At first the people of Carbonek were distraught at the discovery of their young monarch’s death. They mourned him deeply, then chose a new King in his place. I wandered about for a while, not sure where I should go, or whom I should be with. Finally I made my way back to my mother’s well. It was while I sat there, in the bower of her shrine, that I heard the voice telling me to bring the story of the Grail to Camelot—to the most noble Court in the world, from which the Quest had started.”

  When Perceval finished, he stood stock-still before us. The retelling of Galahad’s death had left him empty, and his usually quick eyes bore the soft, vacant look of a child newly wakened from a nap, who still half lingers in the dream state.

  A murmur of sadness and sorrow stirred the Companions. Some were openly crying for the lad we had known so briefly, while others quietly debated just what the Grail had been, and a few applauded Perceval for being a steadfast friend in both life and death. I myself thought of Lancelot and the anguish he would feel at the loss of the son he had so recently found.

  “I’ll send a courier to him—one of the Royal Messengers,” Arthur said that night. “See if we can get him to come to Carlisle this summer. It would give him a chance to hear the details from Perceval, and afterward he can lead us back to Uwain’s new headquarters in Northumbria.”

  I nodded my assent and crawled into Arthur’s arms, grieving for the loss of Galahad, for Lance, and for all dreamers, everywhere.

  Chapter XXVIII

  The Trap

  Gareth left for Joyous Gard two days later, having volunteered to take the news of Galahad’s death to Lancelot.

  “Lynette and the babes will be safe with you while I’m gone,” he reckoned, sizing up the sky to the north. “And I’ll bring the Breton to Carlisle, if he’ll come.”

  I was glad it was arranged thus—in light of the bond between the two, Gareth could be counted on to break the news gently.

  With the plans for a summer in Rheged looming large, I threw myself into packing with a passion, thankful that the uncertain days of the Grail Quest were over. The surviving Companions who didn’t have commitments elsewhere were back with us, and the prospect of moving north pleased everyone.

  So, on a lovely day in June, we made our way down the cobbled drive, harness bells jingling and banners whipping in the morning breeze. At the juncture with the Road, I turned to look back at Camelot, seeing the barn and stables, men’s quarters, and handsome Hall rising high and proud atop its massive hill. A white confection of summer clouds piled behind it, outlining the buildings which gleamed pale gold and gray, and the four towers that lifted majestically from the corners of the upper wall. A fierce joy swept through me at the sight. A wonderland, I thought; a place where dreams could still be realized.

  Word of Galahad’s death had swept across the land like a rainbow flitting over Scotland. Just as the glory of this spring was more delicious for being late in coming, so the end of the boy’s Quest took on a unique splendor because of its strangeness, and people everywhere were talking about it.

  The stories must have come piecemeal out of Carbonek, for they varied from place to place, as did the story of how the youth had died. Some said he had looked into the heart of the Grail and died of ecstasy, some that he and the Grail had suddenly been carried up to heaven by angels. None mentioned the Pagan nature of his sacrifice, however.

  And instead of becoming the bridge between the Old Ways and the new as Galahad had hoped, the Grail had been co-opted by the Christians who claimed it was theirs, and theirs alone. This, in spite of the fact that they couldn’t agree on what the Grail was.

  “It’s the pair of cruets that Joseph used to capture the blood and tears shed by the Pascal Lamb.”

  “Naw, it’s a bowl. I heard it from my cousin, who got it from her brother-in-law in Gwynedd. It’s a big old bowl what caught the blood and water that flowed from Him when He was sacrificed on the cross.”

  “’T’ain’t neither. I’m a Christian, and I ought to know; it’s the chalice that held the wine our Lord consecrated at the Last Supper.”

  Yet no matter how much they argued over the relic, the very idea of it inspired a remarkable piety. Peasant and noble alike came to wayside chapels that not long ago had housed the Gods of the Old Ways, bringing flowers and ribbons and votive offerings with which to bedeck the tiny shrines. Where there were already churches, such as at Glastonbury and Cirencester, whole congregations turned out to greet us, making a grand occasion out of thanking their God for having allowed the Grail to be seen again by mortals, even if it was for a short while and then only by the best and purest of souls. I noticed that the Bishops’ envoys refused to endorse the miracle, however.

  The demands on Father Baldwin increased even more when people realized he had personally known Galahad. Finally the gentle cleric asked permission to leave our party and make his way into the Chiltern Hills, where he’d heard there was an untended chapel to which he could retreat. “All this notoriety can’t possibly be good for the soul,” he said quietly. I gave him my best wishes and a message for Brigit as well, since he’d be going near her convent. So while we continued north, he took the Road which leads to
Silchester and the Goring Gap.

  But if we lost one of our dearest that summer, we made up for it with Mordred’s return. Arthur planned to hold a Round Table meeting at Carlisle, and after delivering his report on the Federates, my stepson agreed to accompany us on the progress to Carlisle and stay for the Council. As our procession made its way up through the Welsh Marches, he took to riding beside me, behind Arthur and Bedivere.

  Naturally the subject of the Grail came up. “Perhaps I’m too much of a skeptic,” Mordred said thoughtfully. “Or at least a realist. But I’m not about to accept a God who demands we remake ourselves in the name of what some priest defines as virtue. I much prefer the old-fashioned deities, who take us as we are.”

  I nodded my agreement, glancing over at my stepson’s handsome face.

  “The barbarians have a very direct relationship with their Gods,” he went on, always glad to explain the people he had come to think of as his own. “Much more like the Celts than the Christians. For one thing, they have a very clear picture of Them—creatures with real shape, not invisible spirits wafting around everywhere. And there’s all manner of Goddesses with power and strength—none of this looking at women as the work of the devil, designed to tempt men into sin.”

  He slid a sly look my way, knowing how I would react to that, and I snorted in reply.

  “I’m sure my aunt would like to know more about the Saxon Gods as well,” he continued, still watching me. “Since we’re going past the Road to the Lakes, do you think His Highness would allow me to go visit her? It’s been a long time since I’ve seen the High Priestess…”

  For a moment I wondered if Mordred were using me, trying to get at—or around—Arthur by appealing to my good auspices. On the other hand, Arthur remained adamant in his distrust of the Lady of the Lake and was unlikely to give his son permission if he asked for it directly.

  From the occasional bits of news I’d picked up over the years, I gathered that Morgan had sunk into a spiritual quagmire. As more and more people deserted the Sanctuary, she’d grown inturned and bitter, surrounding herself with acolytes who fluttered helplessly around her like wounded doves. Their greatest virtues seemed to lie in adoring Morgan and hating men. I thought it a blighted life, particularly for one who had once aspired to become High Queen of Britain. But although I had no intention of trying to establish a new rapport with the woman, that was no reason to deny Mordred the company of his kin. So I smiled and assured him I’d see what I could do.

  Thus, ironically, I was the one who eased the way for his going to the Sanctuary, never thinking that Morgan le Fey might still hate me, in spite of the years of silence between us.

  ***

  By now I’d come to love the Romanness of the big house in Carlisle, with its courtyard rooms and muraled walls. In a city that had grown cluttered with lean-tos and small huts scattered between Roman structures, the house and grounds were an oasis of civility.

  It had been years since we’d stayed here, and the garden was a mess of weeds. I eyed it critically and set to work restoring order as soon as we’d settled into the house. It was no accident that all our major residences had gardens laid out around them. Even the hunting lodges at Wroxeter and Birdoswald had their little plots. In a life so circumscribed by matters of state, I jealously guarded the hours spent with my hands in the earth.

  No doubt that’s where I was on the day that Mordred returned, bringing with him a personal letter from Morgan to her half brother. Certainly the missive went directly to Arthur without my seeing it. When Arthur mentioned it, it was only to say she was complaining about having a church erected in Camelot. “Seems she sees it as a betrayal of her having helped to put me onto the throne,” my husband said with a sigh.

  The only other complaint we found was voiced in the local Councils, and was both military and political in nature. Some of the Caledonian chieftains had taken to making raids across the Wall in reprisal for Hueil’s execution, and Arthur, feeling responsible for the situation, immediately ordered a full manning of the defenses along the Wall. He and Bedivere spent several weeks traveling from fort to fort, enlisting the men who lived in them and agreeing to send some of the Companions to augment their forces where necessary.

  While he was gone, I began to notice a subtle shift of attitude in the men who remained in Carlisle. Conversations stopped abruptly when I came near, and some of the younger ones began eyeing me with unusual boldness. The most obnoxious among them was Gawain’s son, Gingalin, for he developed a habit of covering his mouth with his hand and snickering whenever I appeared. Even after the High King returned, I had the distinct impression that something was wrong.

  “Enid, does it seem to you that the Companions are acting different these days?” I asked Geraint’s widow one morning while she was fixing my hair.

  “A little, M’lady,” she answered, carefully combing out a sidelock. “It’s not like it used to be when we were young, with warriors and squires of all ages getting on well together. Now the newcomers keep to themselves and gather around Agravain—and Mordred, too, when he’s with the household.”

  I nodded thoughtfully. Just two days before there had been a fight at one of the taverns, apparently instigated by Agravain. Mordred had come out of it unscathed, but a farmer’s son had been hurt. For some time I had worried about Agravain’s influence on my stepson, and decided this was a good time to talk to him about it.

  So I asked Mordred to accompany me to the market in the Square that afternoon, and gave him a motherly lecture on the proper behavior of nobles.

  We were standing beside a peddler’s rug, on which were spread all manner of things the man had no doubt picked up in trade or barter as he wandered between the northern kingdoms. A Scottish bagpipe lay deflated in one corner, along with several pairs of sandals and a bronze handmirror, whose back was covered with swirling designs. In the center of the rug was an odd assortment of armor which Mordred eyed while I pointed out his responsibilities as a Companion.

  “A drunken argument among your own…well, that happens in any group of warriors. But a public brawl where commoners are hurt—that’s simply not acceptable,” I concluded.

  My stepson ducked his head and allowed that I was no doubt right. “But the fellow attacked Agravain first—took umbrage at something he said about Lancelot. Naturally I had to come to the aid of my brother.”

  He gave a small shrug of dismissal and turned his attention to a Roman baldric on the rug.

  “What about Lancelot?” I demanded, mindful of the comments I had heard Agravain make in the past.

  “Oh, just the usual things—that the Breton is arrogant and proud, and rash in his actions…always claiming to be best at everything, and terribly superior to the rest of us.”

  “Now, Mordred, that’s unfair,” I chided. But he was ignoring me, reaching casually to pick up the sword belt and examine the boiled oxhide for cracks. Stung by the insolence of his action, I spoke more curtly than I intended.

  “Whatever have you got against Lancelot? You of all people know how generous he is. Didn’t he make you his squire and protégé when Arthur was too busy to?”

  “Ah, the Breton has a talent for such things,” Mordred shot back, his voice rimmed with ice. “He seems to have made a career of stepping into the good King’s shoes—raising his son, servicing his Queen…”

  Appalled by the snideness of the comment, I rounded on my stepson without thought or warning, slapping him across the face with all the strength I could muster. The force of the blow caught him off guard, and he raised his hand to his cheek in surprise as he rocked back on his heels. My hand was throbbing painfully, but I glared at him with ill-controlled rage and thrust my face into his.

  “Don’t you ever sully your King or Lancelot with such slander again,” I hissed.

  The dark eyes were wide and startled, but as he stared at me, they narrowed briefly to slits before returning to the cool, guarded look he habitually affected.

  “I shall re
member, my Queen,” he murmured.

  Mordred’s comment had unnerved me badly, and I stormed back to the house, shaking both inside and out. That Lance was my personal Champion, and the closest of the Companions to me, was recognized and accepted by all. But after all the years during which we had avoided bed—and that not always easily—it was both ironic and galling to have Mordred use the subject as a means of insulting Arthur.

  I could understand Mordred’s pain and anger at his father, and his desire to lash out at him. But it was dangerous to give vent to his feelings through such accusations, and I prayed it wouldn’t happen again—that it was not a rumor being spread by all the Orcadians. No doubt Agravain had given Mordred the idea to begin with; the stomach-curdling innuendo, with its implication of incompetence on Arthur’s part and sneaky deceit on Lance’s, sounded like Agravain. Hopefully the matter would go no farther; the very thought of Lance’s reaction to such gossip made me wince.

  Gareth and the Breton rode into Carlisle that evening, having taken advantage of the long northern twilight to extend their hours on horseback.

  The two of them came into the main room where people lounged in various groups, some playing chess or dice, others listening to one of Ironside’s interminable stories. Agravain looked up, then away, apparently not recognizing that the man in the long monk’s robe was the Queen’s Champion.

  Life as a rural recluse seemed to agree with Lancelot, for he had regained some of the weight he had lost during his Quest for the Grail. He also moved more freely, so I suspected he no longer wore the hair shirt. But even though he held his sorrow in check with rigid self-control, the reason for his visit was written plain across his face.