The young man appraised me carefully, as though trying to decide how much was my honest reaction and how much simply siding with my husband out of loyalty. The curtain had dropped behind his eyes, making it impossible for me to read his conclusion. At last, with a small smile, he agreed to drop the subject.
“But the Saxons aren’t going to go away any more than I am, M’lady—and he’d do well to realize that.”
Oh, Arthur, if only you’d been able to see the new dreams forming, the new realities around us! They were good dreams, solid ideas for the future. Yet you clung as much to the glory of the past as to your distrust of Uwain, and the energy we could have harnessed began to seek other outlets and flow into other channels…
***
Later, in spring, Taliesin returned from Northumbria. He had become famous as Urien’s chief bard, and his patron had rewarded him well with fine horses and golden bracelets, beautiful clothes and a splendid new harp. But although he arrived in splendor, his countenance was mournful, for he brought word that Urien, the Raven King of the north, was dead.
“Poisoned by a jealous ally who hoped to claim leadership of the north for himself,” Taliesin reported with a shake of his head. “Uwain put a stop to that—tracked the man down and hacked him to pieces. Afterward the warbands elected Uwain to succeed his father, and he now bears the title of King in Northumbria.”
The news sped through the household, and after dinner everyone gathered round, wanting to learn the details and curious to hear them told by Taliesin himself, who, as a child, was thought to be a changeling. Even I remembered how, in his youth, weird, wonderful words would pour from his mouth.
Taliesin was no more physically remarkable as an adult than he had been as a youth—of middle height and pudgy, with nondescript hair and a coarse mouth. But when he put fingers to strings, when his great bass-baritone filled the Hall, one felt the power of the Gods waiting within him.
This night it was the death song he sang, the eulogy that captures for all times the story of a slain leader, and he voiced the lament of a people lost and grieving for the lord who had sustained them through good times and bad.
His memory I carry, close to my heart;
The memory of Urien, generous leader of hosts.
On his white breast, a black carrion crow now sits.
The man I hold up, once upheld me.
My arm is numb, my body trembles, my heart breaks;
This one I cherish, who formerly cherished me.
The last line fell into silence, the faint echo of harp strings rippled on a pool of grief. Tears were running down the faces of the older Companions, and Gawain sobbed aloud at the loss of his uncle.
Putting his instrument aside, Taliesin spoke in his normal voice, proclaiming that life and kingship went on in Northumbria despite the passing of so great a leader. “Hail to his son and successor, Uwain of the Lion’s Shield, as proud and generous as ever his father was—and loyal to Your Majesties.”
“For which we are grateful,” the Pendragon acknowledged, then asked if Taliesin would stay with us and be our bard, since Riderich had died more than a year before.
Taliesin looked about the Hall, his eyes lingering on the various Champions he’d known since childhood—Gawain and Gaheris, Agravain, Bedivere, Lancelot and Cei—and a smile that was part arrogance, part mischief played over his features as he answered. “I would be honored to serve the High King thus.”
I wondered suddenly if we would regret the invitation, for a bard can ruin the reputation of king or hero as easily as a sword can shatter glass. But in the end, Taliesin did not so much destroy the old dream as sow the seeds of a new one at Caerleon, when we held the Round Table on the Christian feast of Pentecost.
As usual, the town was full of excitement and color. “Can’t remember a time when things were better,” Cei acknowledged as we made a last-minute check of provisions and accommodations. “Everyone in high spirits, and the locals setting up a market to take advantage of so many visitors.”
Indeed, although they no longer boasted a dancing bear, there were games and mimes and musicians to charm the Round Table Fellowship. In the taverns young warriors bragged of their own deeds and boasted about friendships with older, more legendary heroes, while at various camps in the surrounding meadows and woods, squires kept watch over their sponsors’ horse and armor, and dreamed of the days when they, too, would be asked to join the elite at Arthur’s side.
At the praetorium, older kings and warlords reminisced while newer rulers listened, and Vortipor of Demetia—he of the arrogant attitude—condescended to thank me for the suite I’d put at his disposal. I resisted the temptation to say it was only because of his rank, not because he deserved it—compared with his uncle, Agricola, the man was an oppressive tyrant and a disgrace as a ruler.
Over the years Cei had worked wonders in the basilica. He’d managed to halt the ravages of ruin, repairing the corner of the roof that had fallen in, or replacing the missing flagstones in the floor. With its huge columns and incredibly high clerestory ceiling, it had become a majestic setting for the Round Table.
On the night of the first feast, the long nave was full of gaiety and laughter. We’d set the curved trestles in a full circle, each draped with white linen, each lit by the oil lamp in its standard. Urns of flowers flanked the doorways, and well-seasoned torches gave the huge room a clean and glowing light.
Throughout the Hall friend greeted friend, catching up on news of the months or years since their last encounter. They moved about like brightly colored leaves caught in a swirling wind, and in the center was Arthur. Wearing a new green tunic, arms laden with the golden bracelets he would bestow on his followers, he smiled and laughed, listened, nodded, frowned in concern, or extended a hand in sympathy to the various leaders who approached him.
Seeing him thus, like the sun in his element surrounded by lesser stars, I smiled to myself. If only Merlin could see how well it had all turned out!
There would be work enough at the next day’s Council. Tonight friendship took precedence, with toasts to past allegiances, hints that Lamorak’s youngest daughter was reaching marriageable age, even the introduction of Gwynlliw’s brother, Petroc, recently arrived from Devon, where he was known as the finest spearman in the south. Colgrevance’s sisters from the Continent had all married, but I noticed that didn’t keep them from flirting outrageously, and even Pelleas, Nimue’s quiet husband, was more outgoing than usual.
Seated next to me, Lance was full of droll observations about the different people who made up our Round Table family. And we toasted the new moon together, for I’d told him about Nimue’s spell, and we took the crescent as the symbol of the love that was between us.
The food was superb, and I’d arranged to have the different courses brought in behind the pomp and majesty of a Highland piper. Trays and trenchers of meat were paraded—venison and boar, mutton and beef—roasted, boiled, stewed, or braised. Whole poached salmon lay on beds of cress, while duck and goose and even swan made up the fowl course. There were puddings and aspics, pâtés and pickles—and spiced cakes full of raisins and dried figs, and that rarest of spices, ginger.
As the meal came to an end, our guests washed their fingers in rose-scented water and wiped their knives clean on linen towels before replacing them in their belts. I saw the gleam of lamplight on silver and gold, ivory and pewter, and smiled as the boy carrying the water pitcher refilled my beaker; he was using the Egyptian flagon with blue enamel designs around its lid which had been part of my dowry. It had once held the wine I’d poured for Arthur, the first time we met.
It occurred to me that all the treasures and toil of my life had come together at that great feast, and I reached up and touched the golden torc on my neck, feeling once more its timeless connection with great occasions, past and present, and was glad to add this one to its history.
The evening’s entertainment was about to start when a fierce commotion erupted at the door, and
Lucan the Gatekeeper ran into the center of the Round Table as though propelled by the stocky youth pounding at his heels.
“Perceval of Wales seeks admission,” the butler panted, none too happily. Before Arthur had a chance to reply, the newcomer thrust Lucan to one side and, after a hasty bow in our direction, turned to survey the gathering.
Pellinore’s youngest son had filled out since Arthur sent him to King Pellam to be civilized. He was still more sturdy than tall, more solid than lithe, and his chubby face had the open, childish look of one who has not dealt much with the world. This time his mane of curly brown hair was combed; he wore a coat of chain mail over a fine linen tunic and carried a spear instead of a sling. But his eyes were as restless as ever, and he sent his feral glance over every member of the Round Table. It never even flickered as it passed Palomides and I wondered if he’d forgotten having killed the Arab’s falcon.
When he’d finished scanning the Fellowship, Perceval turned back to Arthur and, planting his feet wide apart, folded his arms across his chest. Not even the fancy clothes could hide his loutish nature, and when he declared he’d come to take his place among the heroes of the Round Table, a snicker ran round the room.
“Have you gained some training in courtesy and the code of honor?” my husband asked with a gentle smile.
“Oh, absolutely.” The youngster pulled himself to attention and bowed with an overblown flourish. “Lived with my Uncle Pellam and learned all manner of fine things. My poor mother never knew the half of it, hiding in the wildwoods, there by the holy well. But King Pellam, now there’s a king what knows something, even if he is an invalid.”
“And how is the King of Carbonek?” Arthur inquired.
“Not well, M’lord.” Perceval’s broad face became solemn: like a lake that reflects every cloud in the sky, his countenance mirrored his emotions immediately. “It’s tragic, I’d say. Poor old man has been lying abed well over a score of years with that wound that won’t heal. His lands are wasted by plague and draught for want of a vital leader, and his subjects grumble, yet he can neither live nor die.”
There was a murmur of sympathy and fear from the household, and many among us made the sign against evil. Everyone knew the story of the king who was too badly maimed to recover, too weak to make the sacrifice demanded by the Royal Promise.
Perceval’s voice softened and his eyes glistened with tears. “Unfair, Your Highness, that’s what it is. Pellam is as willing as any other monarch to give up his life for his people, but the Old Gods won’t take him. That’s why he became a follower of the White Christ. At least the Father God sends down food and hope for him every day, and they are carried through the Hall in a grand procession. Why”—the lad’s eyes began to sparkle and his voice filled with wonder—“I saw it once. It’s the most amazing spectacle. There were harpers, and singers, and priests aplenty, all moving slowly across the room. And the girls!” For a moment I heard Pelli’s admiration of women in his son’s voice. “You wouldn’t believe how many girls follow after, each bearing some kind of treasure—a spear that drips blood, a silver salver with a skull on it, a jeweled box that held a rock. Strange things, and holy. And in the center, a beautiful maiden carried the food for the ailing King under a cover of white samite. She was so splendid, I was dumbstruck when I saw her, M’lord—couldn’t say a word.”
It sounded as though Perceval was mixing some stately ceremony at Carbonek with the Thirteen Treasures of Britain. No doubt he’d heard a bard conjure that ancient story so well, the bumpkin with the poet’s soul thought he saw them all around.
“Tried to find out that lass’s name, but no one knew it,” he went on. “She must live there, though—takes part in that ritual every night, according to Galahad.”
Beside me Lance stiffened at the name, and I gasped with the realization it was his son.
“Galahad?” Arthur asked, immediately intrigued.
“My cousin.” Perceval gestured to a lithe young man who emerged from the shadows under the loft. “May I present Galahad, son of Elaine of Carbonek and the Queen’s Champion, Lancelot.”
The boy was upward of fifteen or so; well built but not yet fully come to manhood. He had his mother’s coloring and red hair rather than Lance’s dark locks, and the features which formed such a fascinating whole in Lance’s face were here more closely refined and balanced. He was far and away the prettiest of the men present but, I thought critically, he’ll never be half as interesting to watch as his father is.
“I cannot tell you how pleased I am that you’ve come to Court,” Lancelot said, rising to give the youth a kinsman’s embrace. The son looked as uncertain as the father, for neither had seen each other since Elaine’s precipitous visit when Galahad was only a babe in arms.
“Have I not done well,” Perceval broke in eagerly, “bringing you the very flower of Carbonek? Why, if you knew how hard it was to get his mother to let him come with me…” He shook his head at the obdurateness of mothers.
Lance immediately left my side to go sit next to his son, and during the rest of the evening the two of them began to get acquainted. I watched them covertly and hoped it was going well.
But next morning Lance sighed and shook his head. “We’re virtual strangers, Gwen.” We were walking among the vendors’ booths at the town market. With the Council not scheduled to start until noon, I was using the time to find gifts for some of the more notable members of the Round Table and had asked the Breton to accompany me. “After the first excitement of meeting,” he added with a note of sadness, “we really didn’t have much to say to each other.”
“Maybe that’s to be expected at the beginning—after all, he knows you only from the bard’s tales, and whatever Elaine has told him.”
Lancelot smiled ruefully. “It’s the strangest thing. Here I am with a son…a son I want to get to know, and I think he wants to know me, too. But he credits me with achievements I’ve never even thought of. I haven’t the slightest idea how those stories get started.”
I grinned at that, having often marveled at how quickly noble adventures get embellished with the fantastic. “Happens to the best of us,” I quipped, pausing to admire a handsome wool blanket. “There’s probably a certain amount of hero worship he has to get over. But I’ve no doubt you’ll understand each other in time, if you let it come naturally,” I added. His eyes crinkled with a smile of appreciation for my confidence, and for a long moment we held each other’s gaze, saying mutely all the things that would never be spoken aloud, before I turned my attention to the merchant.
At the tournament Galahad and Perceval were the source of much curiosity and there were many side wagers on how closely each boy would reflect his parentage. Like Pellinore, Perceval got rather carried away, and when he wrestled Cei to the ground, he accidentally broke the Seneschal’s arm. He did offer an apology, which Cei was understandably surly in accepting. It seemed Perceval had not taken the measure of his own strength yet.
But it was Galahad who stole the people’s hearts. As the day wore on, it became clear that he had the makings of an exceptional swordsman—might even become as good as his sire, eventually—and he was mannerly in all ways. By the time the tournament came to an end, he was the darling of the Round Table.
“But there’s still more formal respect than real affection between us,” Lance noted later. “He’s full of wild idealism, and prattles endlessly about Celtic honor and Christian purity.”
“Christian?” My eyebrows went up at that. As I recalled, Elaine put as little faith in that religion as I did.
Lance nodded thoughtfully. “He got that from his grandfather, but it’s all tangled up with Druid lore and Pagan rites; the Royal Promise and things like that.”
Considering Pellam’s state, it didn’t surprise me that Galahad had such sacrifices on his mind, or that it made Lance uncomfortable.
His various relatives from Brittany—most notably Ector de Maris, and both Lionel and Bors—greeted Galahad with lively pl
easure, seeing in him the next generation already come to fruition. No one could miss the family pride and happiness, particularly at the feast, when Galahad was feted for having taken the prize of the tournament. But in the midst of all the festivity I caught sight of Mordred watching Lance and Galahad with an envy so plain it clutched my heart. I have loved you for many things, Arthur Pendragon, I thought bitterly, but not for what you’ve done to your own child.
When the meal was completed and the trestles cleared, Dagonet came tumbling into the center of our attention, his piebald outfit wonderfully colorful, his jester’s staff topped by a rattling bell. He posed some riddles, sang a song, and when all our guests were leaning back, full of wine and conviviality, he announced the presence of Taliesin, word-weaver of great renown. There was a murmur of excitement, for many had heard of the Bard’s reputation, and in the flurry of comment that followed, someone called for the retelling of his trip to the Otherworld.
Bedivere and I exchanged glances, remembering the origin of that tale. It was the one-handed lieutenant who had rescued the changeling child from certain drowning when his coracle capsized in the waters of the Rough Firth. The boy had lain on the shingle, a forlorn, sodden corpse, while Bedivere struggled ferociously to squeeze the water from his lungs and drag him back to life. After he recovered, Taliesin swore he had been to Annwn and seen the Hall of the Otherworld King, boasting proudly to anyone who would listen. I leaned forward now, curious to hear how the man would express the boy’s experience.
“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.”
Guinevere: The Legend in Autumn Page 27