By now, stories were coming quite easily to me, stories of my time in Camelot mixed up with ancient legends and sometimes even the news and scandals of the day. I used all the material I came across, for I believed it added depth and color to my narratives and kept familiar stories fresh and new.
Meanwhile I’d finished my own account of Camelot and had embarked on a semi-truthful version for the queen. But I knew there was more to be told, for the Camelot I knew continued to exist, and I wished I was still there to observe matters at court so that I could complete the work properly. There’d been great unease before Guinglan and I had been led away by my mother. My father’s affair with Guenevere, and his killing of several worthy knights in his bid to escape with the queen, had shocked the kingdom and thrown everything into doubt, including Arthur’s mandate to rule. If a king could not control his wife, how then could he control a kingdom? This was said in whispers and behind closed doors, but everyone thought it. And it was clear to everybody that Arthur’s bastard son, Mordred, child of my own mother, was more than ready to take the king’s place and was actively working towards that end – to my shame and their disgrace. While I thought Arthur had shown weakness in his determination to ignore the love affair between his queen and my father, I wondered if he’d had an ulterior motive: the hope that if he could not give Guenevere their longed-for child, then maybe my father would succeed in impregnating her, and so secure a worthy heir for the throne. If so, it was, perhaps, a wise decision for I was in complete agreement with the older knights at court who believed that Mordred must never be allowed to follow Arthur as king. In my opinion, Arthur was a ferocious warrior, but he was also a wise and good king – attributes certainly not shared by his son.
I was well aware that my mother did not agree with me, but she had her reasons to hate Arthur, however ill-founded they might be. I just hoped that, eventually, she might make her peace with her brother and unite with him to save Camelot from whatever trouble lay ahead. It would be a stormy sea they sailed on, and I longed to be a part of it, if only so that I could write it all down.
*
The years passed quickly while I kept busy working on my lais to tell the court, and adding them to my book. I’d also begun to plan a new work, a book of fables based on some of the stories told to me by the elderly nun at the priory, which I thought might entertain Aline. She was growing up quickly, from toddler to a young girl with a personality all her own. I found her sometimes wilful, and often troubling, for she would cut herself off from me and seemed not to hear me when I spoke to her. Instead it was as if she was in a dream; I watched different expressions flit across her face as it changed from happy to sad, troubled to disdainfully proud, although always animated. I began to believe it was her thoughts that brought about the changes – or even my thoughts, for I suspected that she was sometimes able to hear what I was thinking. I also wondered if she might be communing with someone – an imaginary friend perhaps? Yet I did not think she could be lonely. When I was not showing her how to read and write, for I felt it important that she should be literate, she kept company with the queen’s children, especially young Henry who was closest to her in age. But they all mixed freely, although I sensed that Aline sometimes kept herself apart as if their wild games were not to her liking. Once she alarmed me greatly by asking after her granddame and grandsire. I’m afraid I gave her a short answer, and she did not ask again. I spoke often to her of her father, telling her what a brave and handsome knight he was, though I lied to her about the location of the court, saying only that it was across the sea, and a long way from here.
“But where is he now?” The first time she asked, I was lost for words. Finally I stammered an explanation, telling her what I’d already told the court: that he had died of a fever. I hated lying to my daughter, and I fully intended to tell her the truth one day, tell her everything, and give her the book I had scribed. One day, when she was old enough to understand, but also to keep the knowledge to herself.
Our days passed happily, but it seemed that trouble was brewing, and as always Meg gave me all the details when I was summoned to the court prior to traveling on with them to celebrate Christmas.
“The king’s at odds with Thomas Becket,” she said, going on to explain how Henry’s zeal for legal reform was not shared by his former chancellor. “They were the greatest of friends until Henry insisted that he accept the position of Archbishop of Canterbury. Becket said he didn’t want it, and the queen advised the king most strongly against the appointment. Mind you, she’s never liked Becket, so perhaps that’s understandable. But once Becket was confirmed in his position, instead of going hunting and carousing with the king as was his wont, he’s now taken to wearing a monk’s habit with a hair shirt underneath, and is posing as a true man of the church.” Meg gave an exclamation of disgust. “I hear he’s ordered a daily flogging for himself, and he regularly washes the feet of beggars to show how humble and penitent he is. But it’s all show; it means nothing. That man clings to power like a barnacle clings to a rock, and he intends to keep it. He will not allow Henry to bring the ecclesiastic court under the aegis and law of the royal court as Henry is determined to do. I know not how they’re ever going to resolve their differences.”
I’d heard something of this, for the issue was being hotly debated and with great acrimony. In my opinion Henry was in the right, for the misdemeanors of the “criminous clerks,” as Henry called them, meant that they were sometimes getting away with crimes as serious as murder, so light were the punishments meted out by the clerical courts. And it seemed that Meg spoke true: Becket would not back down, and neither would Henry.
“The king is like a child who’s been deprived of his favorite toy,” said Meg. “Every time Becket refuses to obey his wishes, he roars like a lion and throws himself about, so great are his rages. To make things worse, Becket refused to allow Henry’s brother William to marry the heiress Isabella de Warenne on the grounds of consanguinity. What an eruption there was then, but the final blow came when William died some months later. So of course Henry now blames Becket for the death of his brother, who he claims died of a broken heart. In retaliation, the king has confiscated two of Becket’s manors. One is at Eye and the other is at Berkhamsted. And that, Marie, is where we shall be holding our Christmas court!”
I could imagine Becket’s fury, and humiliation. I was sure it would lead to more trouble. But for all that, we made ourselves comfortable at the newly refurbished and luxurious manor. It was a bitter winter; fires burned day and night, so we were reasonably snug and warm and therefore able to welcome a small party of travelers who came knocking to beg shelter after they’d found their way blocked by a heavy dump of snow.
Before their arrival I had decided to try out a new lai, something to assuage my longing for Guinglan, and my home. I always felt miserable at this time of the year, when the days were so short and the nights so long and so bitterly cold. This year I seemed to feel my loss more acutely than ever, although I tried to keep cheerful for Aline’s sake. I had decided, with some misgivings, that perhaps it was time I told my own story, but I vowed to disguise myself by calling the daughter in the tale by a different name, and also give it the happy ending that I had been denied, in the hope that this might serve to lift my spirits.
I was unaccountably nervous as I began. “I shall tell you the story of Le Fresne as it has been told to me...” A woman from the group of travelers caught my eye. I gave an involuntary gasp and stopped mid-sentence, mesmerized by the power of her gaze. Against my will, I responded to her silent call. She stared at me as I stared at her; I could feel her mind probing mine. Fearing the intrusion, I forced myself to turn away and tried to block everything from my mind except the lai I was about to relate. Now I deeply regretted what I had chosen, for I was afraid that she would understand more about me than I was saying. But it was too late now to change my mind as I’d already introduced the story.
The queen was looking at me expectantly
; I needed to continue. Caution warned me against going straight into the story of my abandonment at the priory and the subsequent revelations regarding my birth, even though I longed to recount myself into a happier situation.
Something Meg had told me came into my mind: how a servant at our court had given birth to twin girls, and how mortified she had been, since it was thought by some that, for twins to be born, the woman must have lain also with a man who was not her husband.
“It’s an ancient belief,” Meg had said cheerfully, “but the poor woman has had some explaining to do. Fortunately her husband seems to believe her – but only after the midwife sent him off with a biting flea in his ear!”
I realized that in Meg’s tattle lay my salvation and I began to speak once more. I changed my story to an account of two knights, and how the wife of one of them had given birth to twin boys only to be mocked and scorned by the wife of the other. But then that wife, in turn, gave birth to twin girls of her own. Ashamed of her mockery, and determined to conceal the truth of her own situation, she kept one of the girls while her maid hid the other in an abbey. And from there, I weaved my own story into the tale of how Fresne, as I called her, fell in love with a man called Gurun.
The woman still watched me closely. I tried to ignore her as I went on with my story: how by chance Fresne’s twin sister, Coudre, was pledged to marry Gurun, and how nobly Fresne put her sadness aside in order to prepare the marriage bed for her unknown sister and her beloved.
“She draped the bed with fine linen and a piece of striped brocade that had been found with her when she was abandoned at the abbey, and which she had treasured thereafter,” I continued. “But the deceit surrounding Fresne’s birth was uncovered on the wedding night, when her mother recognized the expensive brocade as her own, given to her by her husband many years before on his return from Constantinople. And so Fresne found out that, in fact, she was of noble birth, for her mother confessed her deed and asked her husband’s pardon.
“Her husband said, ‘I was never as happy as I am now to hear that we have found our daughter. God has given us the greatest joy rather than doubling the sin.’” I went on then to tell them how Fresne was united with her mother and father amid great joy. And when the truth was revealed, the marriage between her sister and Gurun was annulled.
“And so Fresne was free to marry her beloved. She was given to him by her newly found father, who divided his inheritance between the sisters before departing to his own realm once more, taking with him his wife and Coudre.
“When this adventure became known to me, I composed the lai of Le Fresne, named after its heroine.” I said the last line defiantly, hoping that it would be enough to convince the court, and most especially the mysterious woman, that this was all a complete invention.
After we had finished dining, I asked Meg what she could tell me about the travelers. But she’d been sitting with Alan, she said, and so taken up with him she had not paid much attention to anything else. “Oh, Marie, you’ll never guess what’s happened!” she breathed, clutching my arm in excitement.
I was used to this utterance from Meg, which could herald anything from a mundane happenstance like the queen finding a bumblebee in her chamber to a scandal concerning the king and his latest mistress, and so I listened with only half an ear, taken up as I was with uneasy conjecture about the mysterious woman. And so it took me a few moments to properly understand Meg’s news, but even then I queried it to make sure.
“Alan has asked you to be his wife?” I gave my friend a hug, delighted on her behalf. Since she’d first spoken of him, I’d had the opportunity to meet him on more than one occasion, and had liked what I’d seen. He was a man of medium height, medium build and medium looks, and so not very noteworthy in appearance. But he spoke well, and was obviously very much in love with Meg. It was clear, too, that he came from a good family even if his prospects weren’t too bright. This last thought gave rise to a new question.
“But how will you live – and where?” It was not only my concern for Meg’s welfare that prompted the questions; it occurred to me how greatly I would miss my friend if she was to leave the queen’s employ.
Meg beamed at me. “At the queen’s behest, the king has appointed Alan to a manor that has become vacant on the death of its overlord and which is now under the king’s aegis,” she said proudly. “The land there is rich and productive, and Alan is to act both as the king’s steward and as overlord in the king’s absence.”
“And where is this manor?” I asked, fearing the worst.
“It is in close proximity to the old castle at Sarum.” Meg took my hands in her own. “The king and queen do visit Sarum sometimes, and I hope you’ll come with them, Marie, so that we may meet again. I shall miss you so very much.”
“And I you,” I said, in heartfelt tones. But this was an occasion for rejoicing, not regret, I reminded myself, and so I gave Meg’s hands a squeeze, and turned the conversation to a discussion about where they would be wed, and how soon the marriage could take place, and she soon recovered her usual high spirits.
Meg’s news had put the mysterious woman out of my mind for the time, but I was reminded of her again as, during dinner the next day, I stood before the court ready to recite a story.
“Give us the lai of Guigemar, Marie,” someone called out, only to be shouted down by another voice demanding the story of Morgana and Launcelot.
Horrified, I looked to the queen, who said gently, “Rather tell us the lai of Lanval, Marie, for I recall that you found that other story somewhat distressing.”
“Thank you, my lady.” I was filled with relief as I embarked on the well-known story of Lanval, his mysterious lady love and the jealous queen. I had told the story so often that the words came to my mind without too much thought – until I became aware that I was being stared at once more. Being tired of this charade, I stared back, hoping the mysterious woman had not understood the earlier reference to my father and mother, nor seen through my charade and understood the meaning behind the words I spoke now. What I’d just been saying, and what I observed, came suddenly together in a moment of blinding clarity. Lanval’s mysterious lady love had been a magical woman from the land of faerie – just as Guinglan’s mother and, indeed, my own mother had come from some other realm. Was this new guest at court also from a world other than our own? Would she be able to tell me news of Camelot?
I’m afraid I gabbled through the rest of the lai, so eager was I to approach her in the hope that she could answer my questions. After the story’s end, I noticed she had turned aside to have a quiet word with the young man sitting beside her. The older man on her other side had leaned closer to hear their exchange, and I saw him nodding thoughtfully.
The meal continued with a spread of honey wafers, sweet custards and jellies, but I was unable to eat anything else, for my stomach was tied in knots with anticipation. After the king and queen rose to leave the hall, and we were all free to go, I jumped up from my stool to go in search of the travelers. It didn’t take me long to find them for it seemed that they, in turn, were looking for me.
“You are Marie, Morgana’s daughter,” the lady greeted me without preamble. Once again I felt the shock of her powerful presence. And with it came a sudden darkness, a void into which I was falling. I saw again the banks of the River Thames, stripped of life and habitation, and I heard again the screams of those who were not there. Terrified, I summoned up all my will not to step away from her, while endeavoring to block my mind to all she represented. There were still things I could learn from her, information that I hoped she could impart. “Are you from Camelot, lady?”
The woman regarded me with a cool stare and, I thought, some disappointment. “I come from a realm that you cannot know – unless you are prepared to be instructed by me, as your mother was by Merlin?”
“No! Never!” My denial was instant, for I was still shaken by the memory of what I had witnessed. Although I still carried the objects that my moth
er had hidden in the bag before she abandoned us, they were anathema to me. I rejected them utterly, as I rejected and feared the practices that they represented.
“Your mother did not use her knowledge wisely, Marie. But you don’t have to follow her path; you may achieve something good, something worthwhile – something of great value for the future if only you will put your prejudice aside.”
“No!”
“But you saw it, didn’t you? The vision? You know what needs to be done.”
“I know nothing of it, nothing at all.”
The lady gave an impatient exclamation. But I had questions of my own to ask, and I wanted some answers. “You say you don’t come from Camelot, yet you seem to know of us. Who are you?”
“I am the Lady Viviane.” She did not elaborate further, but I’d heard enough to know that my mother had once mentioned the lady. “Interfering Viviane” she had called her, and I knew there was no love lost between them. But I didn’t wish to speak of my mother for there were far more important matters on my mind.
“Do you know anything of my husband, Guinglan?” I asked breathlessly. “Is he well? Is he at Camelot?”
“He is not at Camelot, nor have I seen him,” Viviane replied. There was compassion in her eyes as she continued, “I believe he’s been taken by his mother, Dame Ragnell, to an Otherworld that is unknown to me. It seems she has a higher purpose in mind for him, and was only waiting until he had given you a child before calling him home.”
A higher purpose than being my husband? Holding my anger in check with difficulty, I asked instead, “Why could I not go with him?”
The Once and Future Camelot Page 14