“God has given us each a vision,” said Patricius. “How I have prayed that something might come among us, to inspire all these men with the love of the true vision of Christ. . . .”
Gwenhwyfar thought of the ancient proverb, Have a care what you pray for, it might be given you. Surely something had inspired these men. One after another they were rising, pledging to spend a year and a day searching, and she thought, All of the Round Table now is scattering to the four winds.
She looked at the altar where the chalice had lain. No, she thought, Bishop Patricius and Kevin the Merlin, you were wrong as Arthur was wrong. You cannot call down God to serve your own purposes this way. God blows through human purposes like a mighty wind, like the rush of angel’s wings which I heard in this hall this day, and tears them asunder. . . .
And then she wondered, What is wrong with me, that I am thinking to criticize Arthur or even the bishop for what they did? Yet then, with new strength, she thought, By God, yes! They are not God, they are only men, and their purposes are not sacred! She looked at Arthur, walking now among the peasants and subjects at the far end of the hall . . . down there something had happened, some peasant had fallen down dead, perhaps overfilled with the joy of the Holy Presence. He came walking back, looking sorrowful.
“Gawaine, must you go—Galahad—? Not you too, my son? Bors, Lionel—what, all of you?”
“My lord Arthur,” called out Mordred. He wore, as always, the crimson which suited him so well and which exaggerated, almost to the point of caricature, his likeness to the young Lancelet.
Arthur’s voice was gentle. “What is it, my dear boy?”
“My king, I ask your permission not to go on this quest,” he said. “Though it may be laid on all your knights, someone must remain at your side.”
Gwenhwyfar felt an overflowing tenderness for the young man. Ah, this is Arthur’s true son, not Galahad, all dreams and visions! Had there ever been a time when she had disliked and distrusted Mordred? She said, heartfelt, “May God bless you, Mordred,” and the young man smiled at her. Arthur bowed his head and said, “Be it so, my son.”
It was the first time Arthur had called him so before other men; Gwenhwyfar gauged his disturbance by that. “God help us both, Gwydion—Mordred, I should say—with so many of my Companions scattered to the four corners of the world, and God alone can say whether or no they will ever return. . . .” He reached out and clasped Mordred’s hands, and for a moment it seemed to Gwenhwyfar that he leaned on his son’s strong arm.
Lancelet came to her side and bowed. “Lady, may I take my leave of you?”
It seemed to Gwenhwyfar that tears were as near the surface as joy. “Ah, love, must you go on this quest?” and cared not who heard her speak the words. Arthur too looked troubled, holding out his hand to his cousin and friend. “Will you leave us, Lancelet?”
He nodded; there was something rapt, otherworldly, shining in his face. So it had come to him, too, that great joy? But why, then, did he need to go forth to seek it? Surely it was within him as well?
“All these years, my love,” she said, “have you told me that you are none so good a Christian as all that. Why then must you run away from me on this quest?”
She saw him struggling for words, and at last he said, “All those years, I knew not whether God was nothing but an old tale told by the priests to frighten us. Now I have seen—” He wet his lips again with his tongue, trying to find words for something beyond them. “I have seen . . . something. If a vision such as this can be shown, whether of Christ or of the Devil—”
“Surely,” interrupted Gwenhwyfar, “surely it came of God, Lancelet—”
“So you say, for you have seen, you know,” he said, holding her hand against his heart. “I am not sure—methinks my mother mocked at me, or all Gods are one as Taliesin used to say—I am torn now between the darkness of never knowing, and the light beyond despair, which tells me—” And again he fumbled for words. “It was as if a great bell called to me, far away, a light like to the faraway lights in the marsh, saying, Follow . . . and I know that the truth, the real truth, is there, there, just beyond my grasp, if I can only follow it and find it there and tear away that veil which shrouds it . . . it is there if only I can reach it, my Gwenhwyfar. Would you deny me the search, now that I know there is truly something worth the finding?”
It seemed as if they were alone in a room, not in the court before all men. She knew she could prevail on him in all else, but who can come between a man and his soul? God had not seen fit to give him this sureness and joy, and she did not wonder that he must now go seeking for it, for if she had sensed it was there, yet without the surety, she too would have spent the rest of her life in that seeking. She reached both hands to him, and said, feeling as though she embraced him before all men in the clear light of day, “Go then, my beloved, and God reward your search with the truth you seek.”
And he said, “God remain with you always, my queen, and may he grant that someday I return to you.”
Then he turned to Arthur, but Gwenhwyfar did not hear what they said, only that he embraced Arthur as he had done when they were all young and innocent.
Arthur stood, his hand on Gwenhwyfar’s shoulder, watching him go. “I think sometimes,” he said softly, “that Lance is the best of us,” and she turned to him, her heart overflowing with love for this good man who was her husband, and said, “I think so too, my dearest love.”
He said, surprising her, “I love you both, Gwen. Never think, never, that you are less to me than anything on earth. I am almost glad you have never borne me a son,” he added, almost in a whisper, “for then you might think I loved you only for that, and now I can say to you, I love you beyond all else save only my duty to this land whereof God has given me the stewardship, and you cannot be jealous of that. . . .”
“No,” she said softly. And then, for once meaning it absolutely, without reservation, she said, “And I love you too, Arthur, never doubt that.”
“I have never for a moment doubted that, my own dear love.” And he raised both her hands to his lips and kissed them, and Gwenhwyfar was filled again with that great and overflowing joy. What woman alive has had so much of life, that the two greatest men within the borders of this world have loved me?
All around them, the noises of the court were rising again, demanding notice for the things of everyday life. Everyone, it seemed, had seen something different—an angel; a maiden bearing the Grail; some, like herself, had seemed to see the Holy Mother; and many, many others had seen nothing, nothing but a light too bright to bear, and had been filled with peace and joy, and been fed with such meats and drinks as they liked best.
Now a rumor was going about that, by the favor of Christ, what they had seen was the very Grail from which Christ had drunk at the Last Supper among his disciples, where he broke the bread and shared the wine as if it were body and blood of the ancient sacrifice. Had Bishop Patricius chosen his moment to spread that tale, while they were all confused and no man knew precisely what he had actually seen?
There was a tale Morgaine had told her, Gwenhwyfar remembered, crossing herself: Jesus of Nazareth, they said in Avalon, had come here in youth to be educated among the wise Druids in Glastonbury, and after his death, his foster-father, Joseph of Arimathea, had come here and struck his staff into the ground where it had blossomed into the Holy Thorn. Did it not then seem reasonable that this same Joseph had brought hither the cup of the sacrifice? Surely, whatever passed, it was holy . . . surely this was a holy thing, since, if it had not come of God, it could not be anything but a most evil enchantment, and how could such beauty, such joy, be evil?
Yet whatever the bishop said, it had been an evil gift, Gwenhwyfar thought, shaking. One by one, the Companions had arisen and ridden forth on their quest, and now she looked on a hall which was all but empty. They were gone, all the Companions save for Mordred, who had vowed to remain, and Cai, who was too old and lame to ride forth. Arthur turned away
from Cai—she knew he must be comforting Cai for not riding on this quest with the others—and he said, “Ah, I too should have ridden forth with them, but I could not. I would not shatter their dream.”
She came and herself poured him some wine, and she wished suddenly that they were within their own rooms, not here where they were left alone in the hall of the Round Table. “Arthur, you planned what happened—you told me that something amazing was being planned for Easter—”
“Yes,” he said, leaning back wearily in his chair, “but I swear to you that I knew not what was planned by Bishop Patricius or by the Merlin. I knew that Kevin had brought here the Holy Regalia from Avalon.” He laid a hand on his sword. “I was given the sword at my crowning, and now it has been given to the service of this kingdom and of Christ. It seemed to me, as the Merlin said, that the holiest of Mysteries of the ancient world should be put to the service of God, since all the Gods are one, as Taliesin always told us. In the old days the Druids called their God by other names, but these things belonged to God and should be given to him. Yet I know not what happened in the hall this day.”
“You know not? You? Does it not seem to you that we beheld a true miracle, that God himself came before us to show that the Holy Grail should be reclaimed for his service?”
“At times, I think so,” said Arthur, slowly, “and then I wonder . . . was it not the magic of the Merlin which enchanted us, so that we should see a vision and think thus? For now are my Companions gone forth from me, and who knows whether they shall ever return?” He raised his face to her; she noticed, as from very far away, that his eyebrows were all white now, and that his fair hair was liberally silvered.
He said, “Knew you not that Morgaine was here?”
“Morgaine?” Gwenhwyfar shook her head. “No, I knew it not . . . why came she not to greet us?”
He smiled, “You ask that? She left our court under my great displeasure.” His lips tightened and again his hand sought the hilt of Excalibur, as if to reassure himself that still it lay at his side. It hung now in a leather scabbard, a coarse and ugly thing; she had never dared to ask him what had become of the one Morgaine had made for him so many years ago, but now she guessed that was behind their quarrel.
“You knew it not—that she had rebelled against me. She would have put her paramour Accolon on the throne in my place . . .”
Gwenhwyfar had thought she would never again feel wrath at any living creature after the day’s joyous vision; even now, what she mostly felt was pity for Morgaine, and pity too for Arthur, knowing how he had loved and trusted the sister who had betrayed him. “Why did you not tell me that? I never trusted her.”
“That is why,” said Arthur, pressing her hand. “I thought I could not bear it, to hear you say how you trusted her never, and how you had often warned me against her. But Morgaine was here this day, in the guise of an old peasant woman. She looked old, Gwenhwyfar, old and harmless and sick. I think that she had come in disguise for another look, perhaps, at that place where once she had held high state, and perhaps for another glimpse of her son. . . . She looked older than our mother looked when she died . . .” and he was silent, reckoning for a moment on his fingers, and saying at last, “Why, and so she is, as I am older than my father ever was, my Gwenhwyfar. . . . I think not that Morgaine came to do mischief, and if she did, why, for sure it was prevented by the holy vision . . .” and he was silent. Gwenhwyfar knew, with her sure instinct, that he did not want to say aloud that he loved Morgaine still and that he missed her.
As the years pass there are so many things I cannot say to Arthur, or he to me . . . but at least we both spoke today of Lancelet and of the love that was among us all. And it seemed to her for the moment that his love was the greatest truth in her life, and that love could never be weighed out or measured, so much for this one and so much for that, but was an endless and eternal flow, that the more she loved, the more love she had to give, as she gave it now to everyone, as it had been given her by her vision.
Even toward the Merlin, today, she felt that flow of warmth and tenderness. “Look how Kevin struggles with his harp. Shall I send someone to help him, Arthur?”
Arthur smiled and said, “He needs it not, for Nimue is ministering to him, see?”
And again she felt the flood of love, this time for Lancelet’s daughter and Elaine’s—child to two of those she had loved best. Nimue’s hand under the Merlin’s arm . . . like the old tale of the maiden who fell in love with a wild beast from the depths of the forest! Ah, but today she even felt love for the Merlin too, and was glad that he had Nimue’s strong young hands to help him.
And as the days passed in the near-empty court at Camelot, Nimue came to seem more and more like the daughter she had never had. The girl listened with attentive courtesy when she spoke, flattered her subtly, was ever quick to wait upon her hand and foot. Only in one thing did Nimue displease Gwenhwyfar—she spent far too much time listening to the Merlin.
“He may now call himself Christian, child,” the Queen warned, “but at heart he is an old pagan, sworn by the barbaric rites of the Druids, which you have renounced . . . you can see still the serpents he wears on his wrists!”
Nimue stroked her own satiny wrists. “Why, so does Arthur,” she said gently, “and I too might have worn them, cousin, had I not seen the great light. He is a wise man, and there is no man in all Britain who can play more sweetly upon the harp.”
“And there is the bond of Avalon to bind you,” said Gwenhwyfar, a little more sharply than she intended.
“No, no,” said Nimue, “I beg of you, cousin, say this never to him. He did not see my face at Avalon, he knows me not, and I do not wish him to think me an apostate from that faith to this. . . .”
She looked so troubled that Gwenhwyfar said lovingly, “Why, if you wish, I will not tell him. I have not told even Arthur that you came to us from Avalon.”
“And I am so fond of music, and of the harp,” Nimue pleaded. “May I not speak with him?”
Gwenhwyfar smiled indulgently. “Your father, too, was a fine musician—once he said that his mother had set a harp in his hand for a plaything before he was old enough even to hold a toy sword, and taught him to touch the strings. I would like Merlin the better if he stayed with his harp and sought not to be one of Arthur’s councillors.” Then she shuddered and said, “To me the man is a monster!”
Nimue said patiently, “I am sorry to see you so against him, cousin. It is not his doing—I am sure he would rather be as handsome as my father and as strong as Gareth!”
Gwenhwyfar bent her head. “I know it is not charitable of me . . . but from childhood I have had a revulsion for those who are so misshapen. I am not sure it was not the sight of Kevin which caused me to miscarry when last I had a chance to bear a son. And if God is good, does it not follow that what comes from God must be beautiful and perfect, and what is ugly and misshapen must be the work of the foul fiend?”
“No,” said Nimue, “it seems not at all likely to me. God himself sent trials to the folk in Holy Writ, for he afflicted Job with leprosy and boils, and he caused Jonah to be swallowed up by a great fish. And again and again we are told he made his chosen people to suffer, and even Christ himself suffered. One might say that these people suffer because it is the will of God that they shall suffer more than others. It may be that Kevin suffers this affliction for some great sin he did in some life before this one.”
“Bishop Patricius tells us that is a heathen notion and no Christian should believe that abominable lie—that we are born and reborn again. Or how should we ever go to Heaven?”
Nimue smiled, remembering Morgaine saying to her, Never speak to me again of anything Father Griffin said to you. She thought she would like to say it now to Gwenhwyfar, but she kept her voice gentle.
“Oh no, cousin, for even in Holy Scripture, it is told how men asked of John the Baptizer who he was. Some men said that Jesus Christ was Elijah come again, and he said instead, I tell you th
at Elijah has come among you already and ye knew him not. And men knew—so it says in Holy Writ—that he spoke of John. And so, if Christ himself believed that men were reborn, how can it be wrong for mankind so to believe?”
Gwenhwyfar wondered how so much knowledge of Scripture had come to Nimue, living upon Avalon. And she remembered that Morgaine, too, had known more, she sometimes thought, of the holy writings than she herself did.
Nimue said, “I think perhaps the priests do not want us to think of other lives because they wish us to be very good in this one. Many priests think there is not much time remaining before the world will end and Christ come again, and so they are afraid that men will wait for another life to be good, and will not have time to attain perfection before Christ comes. If men knew they would be reborn, would they work so hard to be perfect in this life?”
“That seems to me dangerous doctrine,” Gwenhwyfar said, “for if people believed that all men must at last be saved in some life or other, what would keep them from committing sins in this one, in the hope that at last God’s mercy would prevail?”
The Mists of Avalon Page 118