Percival scowled in hard thought.
“Is it summer or winter?”
“What difference does that make?”
“In summer, I would sleep in the fields.”
“And wake up naked with your horse gone, if you woke up at all. Try again.”
Percival sighed. He had spent many nights in the fields. The worst that had ever happened was being awakened by a goat who thought his hair was fodder. He concentrated. What had Lancelot done on their short trip to Camelot?
“I would go to the big house and announce myself to the lord and ask for lodging.” There. That sounded good.
“A strange lord? In an unknown country? Percival!”
“Well, what then? I can’t think of anything else.”
“You would go to a farmer’s hut, or, even better, a herdsman’s. You would let him think you were a poor stranger, perhaps in the service of a great king, but not very important. He is the one you would ask about a place to stay and the temper of the lord; what neighbors he has and how he deals with them. About some men, you won’t even need to ask. Look at the condition of the huts and then the width of the castle walls.”
Percival only looked blank. Palomides gave up. With any luck, no one would allow the boy out on the roads alone.
“Well, then. How are you coming in making conversation with the ladies?”
Percival looked even more glum.
“I’ve been trying to remember everything you said, Sir, but they never seem to answer the way I expect them to. I was talking with the Queen the other day and I was doing fine, I thought. I told her about meeting Sir Lancelot and about my mother and our horses at home. Then she suddenly started laughing and couldn’t seem to stop. Gawain had to pound her on the back.”
“What were you telling her about the horses?”
“Only about Glisten, my favorite. He’s beautiful, but a little skittish, especially around mares. Anyway, it suddenly struck me that her hair was the exact color of his coat. So I told her. You said to compliment ladies whenever I could!”
This was given in a tone of anguish as Palomides’ face twisted. What could he say? Percival always gave the highest compliments he could, and he meant them. Could he help it if most women did not want to be compared to his mother or his horse?
“Sir Palomides?”
“Yes, boy.”
“How did you learn what to say and do? Is it true that you’ve even seen the Emperor?”
“I’ve seen greater than that, young Percival.”
“Tell me.” The boy sat cross-legged on the floor, his eyes begging for a story. Palomides composed himself to recite his history, as he had done his first evening at Camelot.
“I was born in Constantinople, in the shadow of the Emperor’s palace. My father was a member of the Nubian guard and my mother a Thracian slave of the Empress’s household. He saved his earnings for seven years to buy her freedom. But the Empress would not release her, so he stole her away—and, with her, myself, a child of five. He fled with us to Jerusalem, where they were married in the church as good Christians should be.
“Throughout my childhood we traveled, to Syria and Egypt and south to the land of my father’s fathers. I have been to Hippo, where the blessed Augustine lived, and to sorrowful Rome. I have been to Dalmatia and the lands north, where men still worship stones and trees. As I grew, I began to feel a calling within my spirit, a need that I could not ignore. My parents found a home at last in Thrace, but I could not stay with them. I wandered farther, to Babylon and to the mountains that hold the sky away from the world. Finally, I returned to Jerusalem. I knelt one dawn before the very place of Our Lord’s sepulchre. And, as the gray night was pierced by the first rays, I thought I heard such a voice as Mary Magdalene heard: ‘He whom you seek is not here; you must seek him among the sons of men.’
“It was there that I first heard the tale that old Joseph, whose tomb it should have been, did not remain in Jerusalem, but sailed away, through the Lake of Rome, past the gates and out into the endless ocean. And he did not die there but came to a wondrous land, unknown to Rome. There he built himself a small house and planted seeds from the trees of his garden. And there he left a great treasure to those of our faith.”
He stopped. Percival’s eyes were big and his breath came fast.
“And then?”
Palomides smiled. “He died. That is all the stories tell. They do not say what the treasure was, only that it had been touched by Our Lord, Jesus. So I sailed through the gates and out to an island that was unknown to Rome in those long-ago days. I found other stories there, about a man who was creating a better land than Rome had known since the days of the Republic. The closer I came the more I learned about him, and it seemed to me that if someone in these hideous times was succeeding in building a society based on honor, it could only be with the help of some strong power. And what power could be stronger than this?”
He held out the symbol on the end of the chain around his neck. Percival had never seen it before.
“Is it Christian?” he asked. “My mother is a good Christian, but she never showed me anything like that. Where is the fish, or the pomegranate or the chi and the rho put together?”
Palomides smiled. “It is more Christian than any of them, and a better reminder of Our Lord. It is a cross. They are very common now in the eastern Empire.”
Percival made a look of disgust. “But that is so shameful, a criminal’s death. I don’t want to think about things like that. It’s not the way I was taught to think about religion.”
“Ah, yes. Your mother, no doubt, only told you of the glories of heaven and the wonders of redemption.”
“But we must be noble, honorable, faithful, and good to deserve them,” Percival intoned.
“Of course. Can you read, Percival?”
He shook his head.
“Then find someone who can, and have that person tell you the true story of our faith, of the times of persecution and the days when it was considered a fairy tale for slaves, and of the man who was spat upon and beaten and died forgiving his tormentors. There are those who feel, even today, that we must emulate Christ’s passion and pain in order to enter his kingdom. But I believe we should only remember it with thanks. And how better than with the symbol of his greatest suffering? Don’t you understand the symbolism of the Mass you attend every morning?”
“I never thought about it; the Latin is not like ours. I don’t follow it very well. I’m sorry, Sir.” Percival shrank inside himself, as if expecting a blow.
Palomides sighed and tucked the cross back inside his tunic. “Never mind, boy. I’ve been here long enough to know what passes for ceremony here. Who’s to say that you have less religion than those in Constantinople, who argue the nature of the trinity in the taverns while they are waiting their turn with the whores upstairs? Our lesson is finished for tonight. Go get yourself something warm to drink and then come back and sleep. Tomorrow morning we will work on the military side of your training. How old are you, boy?”
“Almost fifteen, Sir.”
“At your age I could wield my father’s sword and shield against any man but him. We will spend the morning in the upper court working on your reflexes and ability to aim and avoid projectiles.”
Percival shivered. “But the courtyard is full of snow!”
“I’m well aware of that. Sir Gawain and Sir Gaheris and perhaps others will meet us there. They will be our opponents.”
“We will fight all of them, even Sir Gawain?” Percival swallowed hard and tried not to think of what Gawain could do to him.
“The Queen will be on our side also.”
“The Queen? She’s going to fight?”
“Certainly. I understand she throws a very accurate snowball. Now hurry! And bring some warm ale for me, too.”
Chapter Three
The knocking was growing louder as the messenger pounded more heavily on the thick wooden door.
“Lord Modred! I am se
nt by your mother and the Lady Morgause to bring you to supper. I must not return without you! Please open the door!”
Modred rolled over lazily and began cutting the ropes that bound the girl to the bed.
“You see, I told you no one would care if you screamed. Now you have a sore throat along with everything else, and I’m not going to give you a present. Remember that next time. There. Clean up in here before you go. All right!” he yelled at the door. “I’m coming! I’ll be out in a minute!”
The noise stopped as the messenger realized he had finally been heard.
Modred took his time about dressing, adjusting the drape of his tunic, cinching his belt a little tighter, drumming his fingers on the table as he selected a brooch for his cloak. He paid no further attention to the sniffling girl as she worked behind him. Yet he was instantly aware when her sniffling stopped, and he whipped around in one smooth motion, nearly in time to catch the knife she had thrown. The expression on his face never wavered as he picked it up and reached for her where she stood, too frightened to resist him. He pulled her close to him, pinioning both her arms in one of his, and then drew the knife across her face, cutting it deeply from the right temple to the chin. He stepped back quickly to avoid getting the blood on his cloak. Then he wiped the knife on the bed clothes and put it back under the mattress.
“That has just ruined your chances for advancement here. Tonight you will take yourself back to your father’s hut. I can’t wait to see what kind of husband he will be able to find for you with that face. If I think of it, I may send someone for you, myself. Now, finish your work and get out.”
Calmly, he turned his back on her, unbolted the door, and left.
Morgan Le Fay and her sister, Morgause, were nearly finished with their meal when Modred entered, but they did not chastise him for his tardiness. His mother rose to greet him with her arms open, and Morgause smiled tenderly and offered her cheek to kiss.
“Such a busy afternoon you must have had, darling,” Morgan cooed. “I’m so glad you aren’t bored at Tintagel the way all your brothers have been. It would break my heart if you should abandon me, too.”
“Now, Mother. Why should I be bored? Tintagel has so much to offer by way of diversion. But I am a grown man now, and it would be better if you gave me some idea of why I’ve stayed here instead of going to Camelot with Agravaine, Gawain and the others. You always said there was something special for me to do, and I believed you. Don’t you think it’s time you told me what it is?”
Morgan raised her eyebrows. “What do you think, Morgause? Should we tell him?”
Morgause shrugged. “I’ve been saying for the last year that he was our best hope. We should never have waited so long to see about Galahad. Even though it was our potions that made Lancelot beget him, he just isn’t one of us. It was clear by the time the child started talking that he would never be turned to our side.”
“Clear to you maybe, sister,” Morgan snapped. “And how many sons have you raised? Galahad is totally unlike any child I’ve ever known, but he might have been convinced to help us, if only for love. He does love us!”
“Morgan, the child loves everybody! He’s as unjudgmental as a new-born calf. But he is incapable of understanding the simplest motives of revenge and he always will be. It’s some sort of flaw in his makeup.”
“I, however,” Modred interrupted, “am quite willing to go along with your little plans for power and revenge as long as it’s fully understood that I intend to be the next ruler of Britain.”
Morgan smiled lovingly on her son.
“Of course, my darling. I always meant you to be, from the time you were a little boy. It’s your right.”
Modred shrugged. “I don’t know about that. Lacking a son, Arthur could choose almost anyone he liked to succeed him. But, for the same reason, a nephew could easily be selected. Especially if he already had support from the Saxons and the lords of the North. And I haven’t been totally idle. I’ve made friends in both camps.”
Morgan hugged her secret a little closer in her heart. How thrilled he would be when she told him! He was always the most precious of the five, twice hers, and the tool she had prayed for to destroy her dear half-brother.
“My dears, have I ever told you about the fathers of my sons?”
Morgause groaned. “Not again, sister. I know it all. Agravaine is Lot’s. Nice of you to let him have the first, he being your husband. Gaheris belongs to one of those hermits we have perching on the rocks below us. Gareth, although you hate to admit it, looks just like that half-idiot guard of your husband’s . . .”
“It was a very long winter!” Morgan protested.
“It must have been. And if I hear that story again about Gawain being conceived by a shaft of sunlight, I’ll scream!”
“Do you have another explanation for Gawain?”
“Would you like me to make a list?”
“Ladies!” Modred interrupted. “May I point out that in her narrative, my mother has never mentioned which of her illustrious lovers is responsible for me?”
“Exactly, my dearest.” Morgan settled back on her couch. “I never told anyone, not even the man himself. Of course, I didn’t know who he was, then. He was just a boy, really, and totally inexperienced. But he was so eager to learn. I never even reminded him of it when we met again at his wedding. I thought that showed great delicacy on my part. You came with me, Modred dear, don’t you remember? And I didn’t say a word. But, after all, he is your father and he has no legitimate sons. I see no reason for him to deny you his throne.”
She arched herself like a preening cat, stretched out her arms and gave the other two a satisfied grin.
They stared back in horror.
Modred spoke first. He seemed to be choking.
“You stupid bitch! Are you telling me that Arthur, your own brother, is my father! That’s just wonderful! Do you have any idea what people think about incest? I’ll be lucky if I’m not burnt at the winter fires along with the other unclean things!”
Morgan sat up in indignation.
“When did you start being a prude? I’ve certainly heard some interesting goings on in Morgause’s room between the two of you.”
“I certainly don’t go about getting pregnant by my relatives,” Morgause sniffed. “Anyway. What we think is not the point. It’s what Arthur thinks and all the other devout morons he gathers around him. Do you suppose for a minute that he would acknowledge Modred openly and make him his heir?”
“Of course not,” Modred said slowly. “He couldn’t do that; it would ruin him. But he might be convinced to accept me privately, very privately. If we went about this the right way, he might very well be persuaded. I can work on his guilt. Poor Modred! Doomed by his father’s sin! Cheated of his birthright. It won’t be easy, though. It might have helped if you’d sent me for fostering at Camelot. Then he would know me, at least.”
“You have a point, Modred, dear,” Morgause answered. “Your mother was always such a fool about that. She couldn’t bear to have any of you parted from her, except Gawain, of course.”
“He always gave me the shivers. At least you others were all human. I never knew what he might turn into. But I wanted you all here at Tintagel with me, where our strength lies. Think how much more soaked in magic you are than the others. I’m sure it will help. Do you think we can blackmail Arthur into leaving Britain to you?”
Modred shrugged. “From what I’ve heard, he might be brought to it. He has a strong sense of justice. But my birth could work against us, if I’m not careful.”
He strode across the room, his boots kicking the rushes aside and hitting the stones with angry beats.
“Now I will have to go to Camelot. I had hoped to organize opposition to Arthur among the kings of the old tribes and get support from the town bishops whom he’s taxed against their will. There are many in Britain who are not in favor of Arthur’s ‘new Rome.’ I could have done it legitimately that way! You see what you’ve
done? I can’t ignore this; it’s an edge I must try to use. But now it will be that much fouler. You’ve taken a clean victory from me. Now I will need to be treacherous and fleeting. But, of course, under your tutelage I’ve become expert at that. Don’t worry. This way the victory will be all that more certain. I will enter Arthur’s untarnished, shining court and breathe decay upon it. But that was what you always dreamed of, wasn’t it? God damn you, woman! Why did I have to have a whore for a mother!”
He stretched his hands, talonlike, toward her throat. She cringed back as they trembled closer to her. Then, with a cry, he spun around and ran from the room. Morgan crumpled onto her couch, her wool and linen robes sagging and bunching around her body.
“What have I created?” she wailed. “I loved him more than all the others, twice our mother’s child. He should have been the one most willing to revenge the degradation Arthur’s father forced on her. I should have told him Arthur raped me.”
“He wouldn’t have believed you.” Mogause looked with disgust upon her younger sister. “You idiot. Uther Pendragon has won again. That is not your son, or Arthur’s, but Uther’s own grandson and as like him as any man could ever be. He’s right. He could have conquered Britain without once entering Camelot. It will be twice as dangerous for him now. I’ve been there. You don’t know what it’s like. Arthur wields a kind of enchantment. Lords like Meleagant think he does nothing but sit in his rooms all day and send out laws to anger them. They don’t know the hold he has over his knights. Have you ever heard of one of them being bribed? They may fight and carouse and game on their own, but when he orders them to settle a dispute or mediate a claim, they become everything he expects them to be. Even your sons do. Modred will have to find a way to break that, or he can never hope to destroy Arthur.” v
“He wanted to strangle me!” Morgan caressed her throat, half expecting to feel bruises.
“At the moment, I’m sorry he didn’t. By Maebdh’s own wrath, sister! I’ve told you often enough that you can’t play on the fringes of sorcery. Look at yourself. You’re three years younger than I am and you look thirty older. You’ve used your little bits of magic to seduce and cajole and shape pillows around your life. You can’t hope to control anyone that way. You must take the risks. I have looked into the fires and the mists. I have been burnt and scalded, but I hold power! You are nothing more now than the little slaves Modred plays with. You’ll get no more love from him.”
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