Guinevere: The Legend in Autumn

by Persia Woolley

  Gawain and the Orcadian faction were first, outfitted in the richest of fabrics and jewels, and wearing the badge of the Red Dragon on their shoulders. They made a splendid showing and waved to us cheerfully, full of excitement and confidence.

  Next came the various men who had no clan affiliation; they were an eclectic bunch, ranging from Palomides on his fine Arabian steed to Bagdemagus, riding what appeared to be a dray horse while his young squire, Melias, followed on a palfrey. Lamorak paused to say an official farewell, but Dinadan just smiled and gave us the thumbs up.

  Last of all was Lancelot’s contingent, with Galahad in the fore. The boy’s face was radiant with hope and purpose, and he carried his white shield with the red cross as though it were his badge of honor. Behind him Perceval struggled to handle the new warhorse Arthur had given him as a gift, then came Lionel and Bors and finally, soberly dressed in black, was Lancelot. His big stallion, Invictus, pranced and pulled against the bit, but the Breton held him in check as he turned and nodded solemnly to Arthur and me.

  At the sight of these men the crowd in the colonnades began to murmur, sending up a soft chant of prayers, and I felt a lump of pride and fear fill my throat.

  In spite of its holy purpose, this was a chancy adventure, and I wondered suddenly who among them might not return. It was a dismal and frightening thought in the midst of so much glorious leave-taking, but one that would come back to haunt me in the days that followed.

  Chapter XXIV

  The Quest

  What are you doing?” I asked as Cook laid out a hodgepodge of flowers and leaves on the kitchen table. I was used to seeing her replace the bundle of oak, ash, and thorn twigs over the door in order to keep the fairies away—though she put out a bowl of clean water each night so that those sprites that didn’t leave could bathe their babies. And she waged a never-ending battle with the boggart who overturned the kailpot with laughter and high glee at her distress. But this was something new.

  “My nephew Kanahins’s gone on the Quest as Ironside’s squire,” the good woman confided. “The doire who watches over the spring in the elm grove taught me a charm to help him find the Grail…but it has to be made in secret, with no one watching.”

  She gave me such a pointed look, I offered to sit in the herb garden just beyond the door and keep others from interrupting her again, provided it didn’t take too long.

  “Oh, thank you, M’lady. It’ll be finished quick on. And I’ll include a word for Lancelot, too,” she offered, glad to go back to her magic-making with impunity.

  Charms and spells to help the Seekers were becoming commonplace among the household, for although no one had expected the Quest to end during the first week, it was going on a month now without any word, and people were beginning to ask the Gods to look after their loved ones.

  I was not the only one who sometimes stood staring off into the green distance, wondering where particular friends were at the moment—Elyzabel, Bedivere, and even Arthur himself seemed distracted by the matter from time to time.

  Once midsummer was well passed, we all trekked back to Camelot, still thinking the heroes would be returning soon. I formed the habit of walking along the top of the wall in the morning while Arthur and Bedivere made the rounds of the fortress and established their plans for the day. Looking out over the well-loved landscape, I let my spirit rove like a terrier snuffling for a scent, or a sight-hound scanning all quarters of the sky, trying to learn how Lancelot fared. But it was to no avail—I could no more discover where he was, or feel reassured about his safety, than I could predict how many toms would be in a litter of kittens.

  Finally, when late summer was full upon us and the great wains of new-mown hay had finished trundling into Camelot’s barn, Melias limped through the gates. He was tired, dirty, and beaten down by misery—a very different sight from the aristocratic lad who had ridden out as Bagdemagus’s squire.

  Neither he nor the warlord had found anything that resembled the Grail, though they’d traveled steadily along the Roman Roads, sleeping at the edge of the woods by night and seeking adventures by day. One evening, outside of Cirencester, they set up their camp in a meadow by a crossroads. Suddenly an unknown warrior came riding down on them, screaming imprecations and making all manner of threats. There was a wild melee, during which Bagdemagus was mortally wounded, and the stranger rode away, not even stopping to find out whom he had killed.

  “It was all so quick,” Melias said, his eyes dulled by the senseless violence. “We never even found out why…”

  If that weren’t disaster enough, while the squire was bringing his warlord’s body back to Camelot, he was set on by bandits who stole both horses and dumped the corpse by the side of the Road. The young man buried the body and returned to Court, alone and on foot, not knowing what else to do. “And the adventure hardly even begun,” he concluded with the lost, empty voice of hopelessness.

  It hurt to see a young life scarred so early, and I was glad when Arthur suggested the lad report to Bedivere if he wished to stay on and train to become one of the Companions.

  “Bandits on the Road outside of Cirencester, and I don’t have enough men to send up there to take care of it!” Arthur fumed, striding across the reed-covered floor. “I knew this Quest would lead to trouble.”

  I agreed with him silently and made the sign against evil, wondering if this was an omen. Certainly it was a bad beginning for what was supposed to be the Companions’ greatest achievement.

  Several weeks later, on a night with a full moon, we were wakened by a guard who reported a man pounding on the gates, demanding entrance and an immediate audience with the King.

  “At this hour?” Arthur mumbled.

  “Yes, Your Highness. It’s the Prince of Orkney, and he’s very insistent.”

  “Good heavens, send him in,” my husband exclaimed, sitting up suddenly and reaching for his clothes. I stayed under the covers, however, and drew the comforter up under my chin.

  Gawain strode into our bedchamber with an explosion of questions. “Who is it? Mark of Cornwall? That Frankish fellow in Paris? I know—it’s those insufferable Romans on the Continent!”

  He came to a halt and began to look apprehensively around the room, as though startled to find us abed. When his gaze settled on me, he blushed and glanced hastily away. “Doesn’t seem like you’re mobilizing much.”

  “What are you talking about?” Arthur demanded with a yawn.

  “The war! I rushed right back as soon as I heard you were going to war. Grail or no Grail, I’m still the King’s Champion.”

  Arthur gave him a rueful grin and allowed there’d been some mistake; we had no war.

  “No war?” Gawain gaped at his commander, repeating the words like a child who can’t believe what he is hearing. “Do you mean I gave up my chance of finding the Grail for a war that doesn’t exist?”

  Arthur nodded, and the redhead sank down on the bench before my dressing table. “Neither honor for the Round Table nor glorious battles for posterity…This is turning into a pretty poor summer season, if you ask me.”

  “Well, we’re glad to have you back in one piece,” Arthur assured him good-naturedly, no doubt thinking of Bagdemagus. “Now, tell us about your adventures.”

  So the King’s Champion recounted apprehending two bandits, rescuing a woman who had been abducted from her family, and challenging an unknown warrior at a crossroads near Cirencester.

  “Cirencester?” Suddenly I was the one thinking of Bagdemagus.

  “Um-hm,” the Orcadian affirmed. “Set up his tent in the meadow I was going to use. I warrant it’s a lesson he’ll long remember.”

  I looked at Arthur, who gave me a quick shake of the head; this was not the time to pursue the matter. No doubt he’d question Gawain more fully next day at the practice field, where they wouldn’t be waking up the whole household if it came to a shouting match about the Orcadian’s behavior.

  “And the Grail?” I prompted.

 
; Morgause’s oldest son sighed heavily. “Ah, M’lady…it sounded grand at first, something that would bring immense prestige to the Champion who found it. But the longer I wandered in the wildwood, the less sure I became. It seems to me the true path of the hero is that of valor and conflict; only in battle are all the senses alive, when your muscles and mind and spirit are singing with power. That’s when you touch the essence of life. And about the time I was wondering what the Grail has to do with that, the hermit of Saint Govan’s cove came to me in a dream, saying that you’d be needing me when you went to war. So I broke camp and rushed back.” He gave me a tired smile, gap-toothed and sincere. “Let the likes of Perceval go looking for the meaning of it all—I’ll settle for a life of honor and courage, and a chance for single combat now and then.”

  Thus the King’s Champion returned, having found the key to his own nature, if not the holy vessel itself.

  From then on news of the Quest drifted into Camelot like the golden leaves that began to fall from the trees. Periodically miscreants of one kind or another showed up on our doorstep, men who were bested by Champions of the Round Table and came to pledge their fidelity to Arthur in the name of the hero who had beaten them. Most surprisingly, a good number were from Bors, who seemed to have given up killing his opponents outright in favor of sending them to us. Like Ironside, most of them preferred to stay on at Camelot, finding some niche for themselves in our household. Before the winter was over there would be any number of new men I barely knew by name.

  Ironside returned in November, having concluded that the Grail was really the head of the Old God Bran. “I knew it all along—knew before I left that’s what it would be. Wasn’t it Bran’s head that provided his followers with food and comfort for years after he died? The source of all sustenance, just like Perceval said.” The old warrior spoke with the conviction of a man who is well pleased to have found exactly what he thought he would, then knit his brow in consternation. “But Bran’s head is supposed to be buried on that knoll in London, to keep invaders out, and it wouldn’t be right to go digging it up.”

  Ironside made the sign against evil, though his eyes slid surreptitiously toward Arthur. No doubt he’d heard that the Druids were still upset about the skull Arthur had uncovered when the Tower was being repaired; like the belief that Nimue captured Merlin with his own magic and holds him captive in a crystal cave, it is a rumor that has a life of its own, regardless of the truth.

  Since both Arthur and I ignored Ironside’s comment, he waxed cheerful and was obviously glad to be home again.

  Agravain and Gaheris returned to Camelot in time for the midwinter festival. They each brought a new warrior they had met on the Road, men named Florence and Lovel, though I had trouble remembering which was which. We feted them all in the Hall, but they were tight-lipped and silent about their adventures, saying only that, like Gawain, they had decided the Quest was not to their liking.

  Shortly afterward, word came that Lamorak had been killed, the victim of an ambush by unknown scoundrels. The Orcadians, long having held him responsible for their mother’s death, showed no sorrow, and I fancied there was a cold smile of satisfaction on Agravain’s face when the death was announced. But as was often the case, there was not enough proof against the man to warrant making accusations.

  It was coming on February when Lionel showed up, glowering at the world in a mood as black as pitch.

  “My own brother, with no more sense of loyalty than a stick of wood,” he grumbled, sitting by the brazier in our office as I plied him with mulled wine and Arthur drew out his story.

  “Bors and I’ve never been overly close, I know. Not like Gaheris and Agravain, who go everywhere together. But I always thought that was a measure of our respect for each other—can’t fit two hands in one glove, after all. And I didn’t berate him when he chose to become a Christian, though our whole family has worshiped Mithra since the days of the Legions. But now he’s decided the Grail has a special Christian meaning…and he’s gotten very stuffy about it.”

  The quiet, methodical warrior who was more noted for his physical strength than his mental abilities now struggled to put his experience into words.

  “As a Pagan I said the Grail belongs to everyone, but Bors wouldn’t allow that, and we got into a terrible row the very first day. So we each went our own way…but later, when I was in trouble and Bors came riding by, did he stop to help me? No, of course not.”

  The taciturn man stared into the fire as a large tear spilled over and ran down his cheek. “You’d think family loyalty would mean something, wouldn’t you? Blood kin, raised together? If you can’t count on family…” He blinked hard and tried to swallow around the ache in his heart. “It ought to mean something…I would have come to his aid if the situation had been reversed.”

  “Surely you can talk things out when he comes back,” I suggested, but at the very notion Lionel’s hand clenched into a ball.

  “He’ll be the one to beg for help next time. Left me as good as dead, without caring one little bit!” His fist landed on the table with such force, the wine in his mug slopped over. In the silence that followed I decided it best to hold my tongue.

  Finally Arthur spoke. “Did you ever find the Grail?”

  “Aye, that I did, and it’s naught to do with those prickly Christians, either.” Lionel nodded with silent satisfaction at the little lake of wetness on the tabletop. “No…not at all. But I’m not so sure I want to tell anyone—saving Your Graces, that is, if you’ll keep it in confidence. Only another Mithraite can appreciate it fully.”

  He peered about to make sure no one else was within hearing, then leaned closer to us.

  “I went off riding into the wildwood, thinking about the Grail…how some said it was a gold-and-silver chessboard, and some thought it was a casket covered with gems—fancy things, and fine wrought. And how could even the most splendid vessel be everything to everyone? I couldn’t see the sense of it, though I thought about it a lot.”

  When Lionel lifted his mug and took a long draft, I caught Arthur’s eye. This was more talking than the fellow had done in all his years at Camelot.

  “Being alone in the greenwood gives a man a chance to remember what’s important. Sleeping beside a stream where the singing trout leaps, watching an eagle circling in the high blue of the sky, snaring a hare for dinner…these are wonders enough for me. What would I do with a pearl-rimmed caldron or a fancy salver, anyway?”

  He paused to finish off his wine, and without a word Arthur lifted the flagon that was warming on the brazier and with his own hand refilled the empty cup. Even a Bard could not ask a higher compliment, but Lionel was so enthralled by the memory of his adventure, he barely noticed.

  “Then one morning I woke at the edge of a meadow where a little river broadens into pools. There was a mist rising up through the weeds—the sun hadn’t come up yet—and I could hear the hooves and bellows of a wild bull bringing his herd of cows down to the water to drink. Lowing and roaring he was, looming up white in the ground fog, with his wide horns swinging this way and that as he checked the air for wolves and bears. Made me think of the bull the god Mithra sacrificed…the whole of creation came from its blood streaming into the ground. That’s when I knew…”

  The man shook his head in amazement, and his words came haltingly as he groped to phrase his discovery for us. “It’s all the Grail, and everything is part of it: squirrel and bear, king and priest, sunrise and new moon…all of us, all growing out of the blood of the bull. But looking out across that meadow, that’s when I knew…Mithra’s bull itself was part of this Being-ness, if you follow. It’s not something separate, this Grail. It is, and was, and will be…and before, as well as after.”

  Lionel was looking back and forth between us, hoping to see some glimmer of understanding, his dark brows beetled in concentration. “Ach, the words M’lady…words get in the way sometimes. I do know what I’m trying to tell you, honestly I do.”

  “I
understand,” I assured him quietly. After all, I hadn’t been able to explain to Nimue what the Goddess had said.

  Lionel put all his attention on me, peering into my face for confirmation that didn’t need speech. Apparently he saw it, for with a great sigh he sat back and gave Arthur a curt nod.

  “That’s it, Your Highness…how I came to find the Grail,” he concluded.

  And that was it—as far as I know, he never told another soul, though he may have broached the subject with others who followed the soldiers’ god, Mithra.

  Later that night, when Arthur and I were talking after going to bed, I brought up my fear that this Quest might drive a wedge between followers of the various religions which had, heretofore, lived in peace in Britain. If two brothers as fond and loyal as Bors and Lionel could become estranged over it, what other damage might not result?

  “None, if I can help it,” my husband announced firmly. “There will be no religious intolerance while I’m High King.”

  He said it with such conviction and confidence, I put my arms around him in a hug and didn’t ask just what he thought he could do to stop it.

  ***

  If Lionel’s experience with the Grail was profound but inarticulate, Palomides’s response was both lucid and brilliant.

  In the spring the Arab rode up to our gates without fanfare, waiting his turn behind a farmer’s cart of pullets and the pack-train of a Scottish trader come to take orders for kippered herring. Fortunately I was on the parapet, wondering where Lance was, or I might have missed him altogether. It was his black cloak, edged with gold and embroidered with strange Eastern symbols, that caught my eye. From the look of him he’d been riding many a day and not stopped often for food, so I ran down to greet him and took him off to the kitchen.

  “No, M’lady—I haven’t seen the dark-haired Breton, though his blond cousin, Bors, spent some time in the forest with me,” Palomides said as I served him a plate of cold meats and a ladle of soup.