Guinevere: The Legend in Autumn

by Persia Woolley

  I saw the stalemate and wanted to throw my hands in the air. Of all the stupid stubbornness, devoid of empathy or willingness to understand each other as human beings! Fathers locked into keeping a grip on power, sons struggling to separate themselves from the shadow of childhood and gain their progenitor’s respect. But instead of embracing each other in the warmth of kinship and recognition, each prepared for defense or retaliation, fearful of exposing his own vulnerability.

  “This is beyond belief,” I stormed suddenly, rising to my feet and glaring at both men. “Absolute folly, and I will not be part of it.”

  I caught only a glimpse of their surprise as I fled from the room. In fury and frustration I headed for the stables, intending to take Etain for a long, free run. Instead I ran into Lancelot, and came a-cropper of my own moira.

  The barn was clean and well kept, smelling of fresh hay and healthy horses. Sparrows twittered in the beams, flying in and out of the light where honey-gold sunshine streamed through open stall doors. One of the barn cats raised her head and blinked as I passed her on the way to my mare.

  But I stopped abruptly at the sight of Lance standing in the middle of a free stall, surrounded by saddlebags and bedroll, leather cape and fodder nets.

  “What on earth are you doing?” I asked, suddenly forgetting both Arthur and Mordred.

  “Getting ready to go find the Grail.”

  He said it as though it was the most natural thing in the world, but it caught me totally off guard. Considering his earlier doubts about the Quest, it seemed a peculiar decision. A tiny rasp of fear grated on my spine.

  “Looks more like preparations for a war than a jaunt in the wildwood.” The remark was intentionally flip, tossed off as I came in and perched on the edge of the manger. But in spite of my effort at wit, a dreadful foreboding was creeping up on me.

  Lance responded with a grin and went on with his work. I watched in silence, afraid to open my mouth lest something really frightful would come out.

  Once his things were arranged in the saddlebag, he tied down the flap and came over to the manger. He was standing sideways to the sunshine, his face half in shadow, half in light—on the one hand open confidence, on the other brooding introspection.

  He stared down at me as he used to in the past, with love and tenderness and all the magnificent caring of his soul.

  “Don’t go.” The words jumped out without my volition. “Arthur needs you, and so do I. I’d be lost without you…we both would. With so many others searching for this thing, surely someone will find it and bring it back to share with the rest of us.”

  “That’s not the point, Gwen.” Slowly he put his hands on either side of my head, holding it gently while his thumbs wiped away the tears I didn’t even know were on my cheeks. His voice came very low and sure.

  “I have spent the better part of my life serving you and Arthur, both together and separately. He is the king I follow most gladly in the whole world. And you—you are my love, the only woman who touches me so deeply. It is for you I’ve done great things, sought out adventures, fought the enemies of Britain, shared the joys and sorrows of my heart. That can never change—it is captured in me like the fly in amber, and cannot be denied. But this matter of the Grail.”

  His voice trailed off, and he looked away. “It’s simply something I have to do. I want to find it before Galahad does, to keep him from making a terrible mistake.”

  He brought his gaze back to mine, a silent plea beseeching me to understand. And I stared back, remembering that this was the love I had turned away from in order to raise Arthur’s son. The most basic law of the universe was being played out again: first you take care of the children.

  “Then go with my blessing,” I whispered.

  He bent over me and softly, so softly, left a kiss on my forehead.

  It was a dear and proper way to say good-bye, but something inside of me rebelled. Trembling fiercely, I threw my arms around his neck and pulled his face down to mine. Our lips met, brushed, and opened as he dropped his hands to my ribs and pulled me to my feet. Instinctively our bodies moved together, crushed and crushing as though to merge into one.

  It all came back: the rush of passion, the flood of surprise that the love so long dormant could leap to life full-blown again. We had kissed less than half a dozen times in all our years together, yet always there was the same excitement, the wondering thrill of finding it was still magic, the promise of unexplored worlds that ached for discovery. We clung to each other, trembling like children lashed by a storm.

  But he turned from me just as quickly as he’d reached out, and when he spoke, it was with his back to me.

  “Go now, love and let me get on with my life.”

  It was as much a request as a demand. Instinctively I put my hand out to touch him, but he was drawing away, beyond reach, and his shoulders were shaking with silent sobs. I dared not intrude further, so I turned and tiptoed out, leaving him in the sanctuary of the hay-sweet barn.

  Had that kiss been expected? No. Was I being selfish, determined to mark him forever as mine before he embarked on this strange journey? In the light of what happened, some might say so. I do not have the luxury of hiding behind the Gods, claiming it was fated, as Tristan and Isolde were fated by their love potion. Yet that embrace was prompted by something far greater than my personal desire—something closer to the very nature of existence affirming itself through the two of us. And when we parted, I knew that no amount of soul-searching, of philosophizing and questing after the Divine, could ever gainsay the love we had been blessed with.

  ***

  Once it was known that Lancelot was going in search of the Grail, many of his friends decided to join the Quest as well. Perceval and Galahad, Lionel and Bors, were already committed, but now Lamorak and Dinadan began packing also. Even Urr and Lavaine and Nerovens, who had been past protégés of the Breton, took up the cause. With the armorers working day and night—mending chain mail, honing blades, reinforcing helmets—Ironside began to fret that his own new jerkin would never be ready in time for the departure. But Nimue’s husband, Pelleas, continued to eschew the Quest, though he kept his reasons to himself.

  “Some things are better not sought for in this world,” the doire replied when I asked her about it. We were gathering the herbs and flowers and birch-branches she would use in the blessing of the Grail Seekers before they left. “Merlin once said Arthur’s greatest challenge would be keeping the Fellowship so busy they’d forget the corrosive feuds of old. As long as there was a cause—taming the Saxons, developing the Round Table, righting wrongs, and redressing grievances—just so long would the Fellowship flourish.”

  The doire was staring down into the golden heart of a burnet rose. In the past the Goddess had spoken through her, making her eyes large and dark and her voice deepen to the sound of wind soughing through pine trees. I heard the change, felt the advent of the Great Mother, and hastily closed my eyes—one does not look on the naked face of a deity.

  “But the Grail is different…” Her voice was a roar and whisper all at once, filling my head with its presence. “It is a quest for the ineffable, for something beyond description. Although they don’t realize it yet, each man is searching for what is inside himself, not something out in the world.”

  The Goddess was everywhere, humming in the air and making the ground beneath my feet tremble.

  “Is that good or bad?” I asked fearfully.

  She seemed to be amused, for I could feel laughter falling around me, pressing against my eyelids like coins of light. Frightened, I covered my face with my hands.

  “Silly child, what do the Gods know of good or bad? Oh, the Grail will be found, but it will never be brought back to the Round Table, and whether that’s ‘good’ or ‘bad’ depends entirely on your point of view, doesn’t it? It could be the exquisite culmination of a lifetime or the unexpected discovery of the flaw that destroys a kingdom. Either way it is a journey of`great risk.”

&
nbsp; “Yet the best and dearest of our men insist on undertaking it,” I said suddenly, though whether I spoke the words aloud or only in my head, I had no way of knowing. It had never occurred to me to talk back to the Goddess before.

  “That is why they are the best and dearest,” She responded, still amused by what must have seemed self-evident.

  “How utterly unfair,” I railed, fear for Lance making me brave beyond the point of reason. “To leave the rest of us behind, helpless to aid those we love. Why, if it’s such an important journey, I should be going too.”

  “Then why aren’t you?” The question came from everywhere at once.

  I recoiled in amazement, appalled by the realization that the Gods don’t understand humans at all.

  “A queen doesn’t pick up and run off on personal adventures. It’s my duty to stay with Arthur and my people. I can’t just go looking for the Grail because I want to.”

  “Of course you can.”

  The Goddess was no longer amused, and an edge of exasperation sharpened her response. I could feel her shifting from the loving mother to the stern hag. “Haven’t you heard what I said? Do you think you have to have a horse and wildwood to find the Grail?”

  “No…” I answered tentatively, suddenly terrified at my own temerity. “But how would I know where to begin, what to do?”

  “You’ll know…you’ll know, Gwenhwyvaer.”

  The ancient speaking of my name pulsed in the air, lifting me on wings so powerful, I had no way to resist. She gathered Herself into full majesty, an irresistible force that focused the entirety of the universe into me until I was drawn into a glorious freedom, billowing out and away from the limits of myself in endless wonder.

  I floated in the early-morning light and stretched ecstatically along the wind. There was no place that I was not, no separation of me and Other. Suffused with a rapture beyond telling, I melted into the butterfly’s wing; the night-shadow caught in the branches of the yew; the sweet, clear fragrance of the violet. Starlight flowed in my veins and thunder crashed in my heart even as I danced in the spindrift of the breakers below Tintagel’s cliff. The vibrance of my joy echoed both within and without, then gradually, ever so slowly, coalesced into early-morning silence as my name distilled into birdsong and dew drops.

  “Gwen,” Nimue was saying, bending over me. “Gwen, it’s all right, you’re all right.”

  Drenched with sweat, I lay crumpled on the ground, sobbing for no knowable reason. My head hurt horribly, and I groaned as the doire pulled me upright.

  “Is She gone?” I asked idiotically, as though I would be conscious if the Great Mother was still with us.

  Nimue laughed gently. “As much gone as the Gods ever are. She spoke directly to you, didn’t She? It was on your face, the light of Her presence. I had to close my eyes, it was so strong in you.”

  “In me?” I whispered, shaken anew by the thought. Always before She had spoken through Nimue.

  “What did she say?” The doire was rubbing my temples, knowing from her own experience the headache such visits leave.

  “She explained…” I blinked. The memory was absolutely clear, and I knew what it meant, but there was no way to explain. “She said…the Grail is for everyone,” I finished lamely.

  The doire nodded, though whether with comprehension of the message or mere resignation that I’d never be able to put it into words, I couldn’t tell. She helped me to my feet, however, and gathering our basket of simples, we made our way back to Caerleon and the mundane world.

  ***

  With the departure of the Grail Seekers set for the next day, I had neither time nor inclination to share my experience with anyone. Besides, since Lancelot was leaving and Nimue already knew, there was no one I could tell about it. It was not the sort of thing I would mention to Arthur.

  On their last night at Court the Seekers were feted at a magnificent feast. We threw open the gates so that peasants and craftsmen, village artisans and local warlords mixed with the Round Table members in the great nave of the basilica. There was singing and dancing—though I noticed Lancelot abstained from the latter, preferring to spend the time in conversation with his son—and wonderful toasts to our heroes. Ironside loudly commended the armorer, who, although he had no time to make a new jerkin, had at least repaired the old one. Gawain drank only enough to pay honor to those being toasted; it would never do to start searching for the Grail with a hangover.

  Cei sat next to me that night, watching the festivities with disdainful tolerance. I remembered Dinadan’s mention of the Seneschal’s unrequited love and wondered why the lady of this heart had not bothered to look beneath his acid bluff. In spite of his sharp tongue, he was a man of highest principles and great bravery.

  “Do you realize,” he mused, twisting one of the many rings with which he bedecked his fingers, “how many blessing and purification ceremonies will be performed throughout the night and morrow? Virtually every religious group is represented on this Quest.”

  “Really? I hadn’t thought of it.”

  “Um-hm,” he averred. “Father Baldwin is providing confession and penance for Christians tonight and a Mass of the Angels in the morning. Lionel and the followers of Mithra will be off to their cellar chapel for a ceremony sometime between now and then—you know how secretive they are about their rites. I understand Cathbad and Gwyn of Neath have offered to lead some sort of communion with the Old Gods at moonrise, and Nimue plans to do a blessing at sunrise. One of the local priests will make sacrifice in Diana’s temple as well, so you might say,” he added with a twinkle, “that Arthur’s Court is preternaturally sanctified tonight.”

  “You think we’ll survive?” I queried.

  The Seneschal gave me an exaggerated frown. “It will be up to Your Majesty to keep us from becoming entirely too holy,” he responded, and we both laughed.

  Indeed, the odor of holiness that filled the Court next morning was of a fine and ecumenical nature. Arthur and I sat on the raised platform in the curved apse of the basilica, hands resting on the carved arms of the special chairs Caerleon made available to us. To either side stood the new lamp holders the local smiths had worked into the shape of dragons. Each creature supported a plenitude of oil lamps caught in the curve of its tail, tucked into the body folds, captured in talons, or crowning the proud head. The clear flames played against the heavy crown that rested on Arthur’s head and glimmered off my golden torc. Excalibur was strapped at Arthur’s side, and the regal amethyst winked in the great sword’s pommel.

  Various friends of the Round Table were assembled on benches in the nave, with a wide aisle open down the middle. The sunlight that came in the clerestory played on a scene of bright color and rich texture—Celtic warlords, Roman aristocrats, the ruddy Cumbri of Wales and Cornwall, even a burly Caledonian chieftain. The Picts had not sent an envoy this year, being too busy defending themselves from Fergus of Dumbarton, and I wondered what the strange, dark people with the fine tattoos would make of the Grail Quest.

  There was a rustling as everyone waited for the Seekers to arrive. The holy leaders were seated on the platform with us. Nimue smoothed her white robe and sat, hands folded and eyes downcast. Father Baldwin was likewise solemn, and even Cathbad wore a serious air, though the members of the audience murmured curiously among themselves.

  At a sign from Arthur the trumpeter raised his battered instrument and played out a flourish both round and graceful. Two by two the Seekers made their entrance and moved silently down the length of the nave. Each had a garland of flowers around his neck and was escorted by a solemn, reverent child carrying a lighted taper. Dressed in fine linen tunics, new armor, polished helmets, and creamy lamb’s-wool capes, they looked like a congregation of ethereal spirits as they stood before us and bowed their heads. A kind of awe settled over participants and audience alike.

  Father Baldwin gave a short prayer, Nimue dipped a birch branch into the bowl of herb water and sprinkled it over the congregation, and
Cathbad called on the Old Gods to guide these searchers to the magic vessel that held the Essence of Being.

  Looking at them assembled in all their odd, eccentric diversity, once more I wished Merlin were here. He had promised that men of all kinds would gather to Arthur’s standard, and foretold that they would know eternal glory as members of the Round Table. No matter their origin, they would become part of a cause greater than themselves—brothers in a Fellowship whose name would echo down the length of time.

  And now it had come to pass. One by one they knelt before us, splendid in their dedication, loving us in their own ways as much as we loved them. Together we had built a concept that would last forever, and when I extended my hand to each, I gave them gratitude as well as my blessing.

  Once the ceremony was complete, the entire group turned slowly and, taking the tapers from the children who had guided them into the nave, made their way, still in pairs, through the audience. A quiet stole over the assemblage as they passed, as though the strange, unknown mystery these men had dedicated themselves to spread like a wake among all who were gathered there.

  As Arthur helped me down off the dais—royal garments get no less heavy with age—I caught the furrow of concern that darkened his face. So I slipped my hand into his and gave it a reassuring squeeze while we moved down the aisle between hushed nobles. Once outside, we took our place on the steps and the rest of the Fellowship moved off to each side, spreading out along the covered walks of the colonnade that lined the plaza. Cei and Bedivere stood beside us, however; no matter what kind of adventure called, they remained with us if we needed them.

  The Seekers had clustered in small groups, mounting their horses, bidding Godspeed to friends. They would each go their separate ways once they passed through the plaza’s arch, but before they left, they filed past the steps, giving their monarchs a final salute.