“Good God! Stop him!!” Lancelot knocked over three men in an effort to reach the boy. Someone else cried out, and all steeled themselves for the worst.
Frightened by this reaction, Galahad jumped up again too quickly. Lamplight on the armour and cups glittered and blurred as he slumped in a faint onto the Table. He did not feel the carven words under his cheek, Siege Perillous.
Hands shaking with grief, Lancelot lifted up his son and leaned the body against his shoulder. Galahad stirred and blinked.
“He’s alive!” Cei breathed the obvious. "How can that be? Since Mallton, five men have died for sitting at that place.”
“He had no evil intention,” Father Antonius said cautiously. “Perhaps that makes the difference.”
Someone gasped and stood away from the Table. Lancelot looked down and slowly lowered his son to the floor. Galahad swayed a little and steadied himself on the edge of the Table. Then he saw it, too. He tried to swallow but could only choke. There must be something the matter with his eyes, the moonlight was suddenly so bright . . . and warm. He felt wrapped in love and security. Without realizing it, he smiled.
Even in his fury, Modred was not untouched by the radiance in the boy’s face. More than one man knelt before it.
The light grew less intense. Galahad turned to Lancelot for direction and was horrified to see tears pouring down his face.
“Father?”
“I cannot guide you in this, my son. I am not worthy.”
“King Arthur?”
“If you still wish to seek the Grail, Galahad, no one here will stop you.”
They all stared at the Table. There, still glowing like flame, were the words. Modred refused to believe them. It was another trick. But he saw no doubt in the faces about him. Lancelot got a proper chair and sat Galahad down again before the words:
SIR GALAHAD
WHOSE COMING I HAVE AWAITED SINCE I WAS MADE
Guinevere had heard the stillness and then the commotion. She hoped that Lancelot would be able to slip away for a few minutes before it was over. She had said good-bye to him many times before, but that made it no less hard and she preferred saying it to him alone, instead of politely, before an audience. Risa sat on the balcony, thinking and watching.
“There was a strange light over the hall again, Guinevere,” she called. “What could it be for?”
Guinevere shrugged and didn’t answer. She went on with her bead work.
“It must be over. They’re coming out now. No, only Galahad, I guess. Maybe they sent him away since he’s not going. I know how you feel about it,” she added, coming inside. “But I don’t know how you could have held out against them. I couldn’t. Domin is going with Bedivere.”
“But you have other children.”
“Do you think that would make the loss of one any easier?” Risa had anguished over letting the boy go; he was only twelve. But she thought Bedivere was probably his father and, in any case, would care for him. “Children are not like coins. One can’t replace another.”
“Galahad is all I have, Risa. All I’ll ever have. Would you risk that?”
Risa was prevented from answering by a timid knock on the door. She rose, gratefully, and answered it.
“Why, Galahad, I thought you had gone to bed!”
Galahad was very pale. “I need to speak alone with my mother. Would you mind, Risa?”
“Of course not, dear. I was just going, anyway. Good night, my Lady.”
Risa wondered about it all the way down to her room. “Mother,” he called her, not “Foster Mother.” Something’s happened. Somehow, the boy has convinced them to let him go and the cowards sent him to tell her himself.
Guinevere never told anyone what Galahad said to her that night. Arthur came up to their room cautiously, expecting to be greeted with either tears or crockery. But he found only his wife, sound asleep, and, if she had cried, there Were no traces left on her face.
In the morning all the court, all the landsmen, all the visitors, and all the dogs and cats were at the lower gate to send the knights off on their grand quest. No one knew exactly what they were after, but rumors and dreaming had made it something marvelous, which would change all their lives when it was found.
Lancelot was surprised to feel a twinge of jealousy as he realized that Guinevere was more concerned with Galahad’s departure than his own. She gripped his hands tightly, though, when he made his farewells, so that her own came away red. He wished he knew what she was feeling, if it were anger or sorrow or merely resignation. Galahad clung to Guinevere as if he regretted his decision, but, when all were ready, he did not hesitate. He kissed her once more, mounted his horse, and left, just as men had done for all time.
Arthur put his arm around her.
“He will be all right,” he said. “They’ll all be back by winter; you’ll see.”
Guinevere smiled. “He made me a promise. I know he will keep it. But I think the days will be very empty here.”
As he watched the others ride away, leaving him behind, Arthur totally agreed.
Chapter Nine
“So, Arthur’s little knights have all gone off Grail-hunting!” Morgause smiled. “Why didn’t I think of something like that?”
“You mean, you didn’t?” Modred was astonished. “Who else is there left in Britain who can do that sort of magic?”
“Don’t say ‘left’ as if I were some sort of relic.” Morgause ran her hands through her fiery hair. “And don’t believe that Christian claptrap about all the ‘demons’ having been driven from the land. There’s magic everywhere. It can’t be killed, only stilled for a time. But I never heard of a Grail in our lore. It sounds more Irish to me. They like to blend mysticism with a good, hot meal. We were more ascetic in our day.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Modred answered. “It’s left the way open for me. I’m fast becoming Arthur’s right-hand man. Cei is busy with the army and household, and Constantine can’t think of anything but that granddaughter of Leodegrance’s. So Arthur trusts me with all sorts of jobs. He even lets me take his precious wife on trips to the countryside. If it goes on like this, I may even get him to retire in my favor, without ever striking a blow.”
“You’re not starting to like him, are you?”
“Of course not! But why start my rule with blood?”
“The best sacrifices are blood. And the most powerful sorcery is rooted in it.”
Modred shrank back a little from his aunt. He always felt uncomfortable when she talked that way. It wasn’t . . . decent.
“Well, if I can do without it, I will. And, while all the favorites are out beating the bushes for this Grail thing, I am weaving myself through the heart of Britain. Meleagant has never forgiven Arthur for the death of Mallton, and he’s just as angry at him for taking Dyfnwal’s affection, although I can’t see that there was much to take. Meleagant was never too thoughtful with any of his children, even the legitimate ones. But he doesn’t want to leave his lands to the most likely bastard. His wife’s family is too powerful. He’ll support me to get his son back.
“I went to the coast just before I came to see you. Cerdic is another one we can have. He has more Saxon men than British in his control and has no faith in this return to Roman ways.”
“And Maelgwn?” Morgause studied her left eye in her hand mirror. Perhaps a bit more kohl around the lashes.
“Maelgwn I may leave to you, my love. He won’t fight Arthur, although he won’t help him more than necessary. He prefers to wait in the mountains until it’s all over. Then he’ll favor the winner, or, if the winner has been made weak enough, devour him. But you may be able to offer him something he will snap at. He has, I have heard, most unusual cravings.”
“From what I have heard, nothing terribly uncommon, only more elaborate than most.” She stretched.
Even though it was still late summer, fog lay on Tintagel and oozed in at the cracks. Modred shivered in his furs.
“I have to be gett
ing back soon, before Agravaine comes home. Arthur has decided, for some bizarre reason, to winter in London this year. The whole place is in an uproar since all the winter supplies are at Caerleon. He has asked me to find a suitable place for the people he is bringing with him. There is a wonderful chance to bring about resentment. 'The High King demands your house, my Lord. You may have it back when he is finished.’ Of course, London is all merchants and bishops; split down the middle already. I wish those ‘men of God’ were half as powerful as they think they are. They forget how few Christians dwell outside the towns. And I don’t know what I can promise the merchants that Arthur hasn’t given them already.”
“Never mind. Something will come to you.”
She crossed the room and put her arms around him. As his fingers slipped through her hair, he found himself wondering if Guinevere’s were as soft and if it were really as warm as it looked in the summer sunlight. He thought he could hear her laughing again, as she urged her horse past him and ahead. He came to himself with a start.
“Cold, Precious?” Morgause slid onto his chair and pressed her body closer.
“In this place? Of course.” He must be insane! Whatever made him think of that . . .? He knew better than to succumb to her the way everyone else around Arthur did. It was an obstacle that drove him mad; even though everyone knew she and Lancelot were lovers, no one said a word about it. It was as if she had bewitched them. Yes, that was it exactly. Meleagant had muttered something about witchcraft in his ramblings against her. But it was preposterous. She wouldn’t have the brains. Unless her innocence was all a pose.
“Morgause, when did you last see the Queen? Stop that a minute and answer me.”
“You know very well, when I brought Galahad and Elaine to court, when he was a baby.”
“How old was she then?”
“I don’t know, about twenty to twenty-five, I suppose, nearer the latter. Why?”
“That was fourteen years ago. You look as you did then, I imagine.”
“No, I’ve added a few touches. I changed my eye color and . . .”
“Yes, but you haven’t aged, have you?”
“Of course not! What an awful thing to say! What is the matter with you?”
“Well, neither has Guinevere.”
“That’s impossible. You’re exaggerating. She probably has some good creams and hair dye and covers up a little more in the sun, that sort of thing.”
“Not according to her maid. And I’ve seen her standing in bright sunlight with her head and arms bare. She doesn’t look more than eighteen.”
“Why, that bitch! How dare she!”
“You see what I mean? Is that natural?”
“You think she traffics with the old ones, too? The daughter of Leodegrance and Guenlian, those paragons of Roman Christianity? The fog here must have gotten into your brain.”
“Think about it! She doesn’t age, doesn’t bear children, and we know, don’t we, that neither her husband nor her lover is impotent. She does nothing special, and yet everyone adores her. I’ve seen perfectly sane men practically come to blows over who will escort her to dinner. Even the women have nothing bad to say about her. And I know that envoys have come to Camelot determined to win concessions from Arthur and, after one evening with Guinevere, have given him anything he wanted. Is that natural?”
“No, I suppose not. But it doesn’t seem possible that she could be doing it herself. Do you know,” Morgause added with rising excitement, “it sounds like something entirely different. It’s the sort of spell that the old priestesses used to put on the children they intended for sacrifice, so that they would not be damaged before it was time for the offering. If that’s so, then somehow the time passed without the sacrifice being made. This is fascinating! I never really believed that they worked. Although, certainly it should not last so long after the appointed time. It must be wearing thin by now. Yet, it might account for her looking so young.”
“Do you think she knows about it?”
“I doubt it. Innocence in the victim is necessary for that kind of ritual. Something has gone askew. I really must contact some of my friends about this.”
“Yes, and ask them what we can do about it. It may be the way to deliver the final blow to Arthur. If we can remove Guinevere and her influence . . . ah, my dear, I’m beginning to get an idea.” Modred rose with a suddenness that sent Morgause to the floor.
“Get up from there!” he snapped. “We have work to do.”
• • •
Gawain and Lancelot had decided to travel together, at least at the beginning. Gareth had taken it with bad grace. He said that Gawain’s infirmity would slow them down, especially as summer waned, and that he wasn’t serious enough about the quest anyway. But he really meant that Lancelot and Gawain were such good friends that Gareth would be left out, relegated to building fires and fetching water. However, Lancelot’s decisions were unquestionable in Gareth’s mind so he endured his brother’s good humor and flamboyance as best he could.
They set off into the western mountains. Among them were hundreds of uncharted valleys. If one wanted to hide a castle in one of them, it could stay hidden for centuries.
Late one afternoon, they entered one of those valleys. It was lush with summer growth. There was a cluster of huts at one end and a large stone-and-wood castle at the other. In between were small plots of grain, roped off to keep out the horses which seemed to be free to graze anywhere else they wished.
“What beautiful animals!” Gareth exclaimed. “Arthur should know about this place. Perhaps we can do some trading here.”
“It looks pleasant enough,” Lancelot agreed. “Shall we risk asking for a night’s lodging at the castle?”
“Why not?” Gawain yawned. “The worst they can do is turn us away. But let’s hurry; I don’t want to spend another night sleeping in a nettle patch.”
Gareth cringed. “I said I was sorry. It was so dark when we stopped that I couldn’t see what kind of plants they were. I tried to put you someplace comfortable.”
Their welcome at the castle was more than they hoped for. Arthur’s fame had spread far, and even the names of Lancelot and Gawain were well known. To Gawain’s embarrassment, the story of the Green Knight had been told there recently, by a wandering bard.
“Of course, of course!” their host chortled. “Goodness! You’re even bigger than the stories say! Well, have your slave take the horses to the stable and I’ll show you to the dining hall.”
Gareth stiffened and looked to Lancelot for aid, but Gawain was even more indignant. It was one thing to ignore one’s brother in the family but quite another to have him insulted by a stranger.
“We have no slaves!” he thundered. “This is my brother, Sir Gareth, a most respected and worthy knight of the Round Table. You should beg his pardon immediately, before we are forced to take umbrage!”
As Gareth gaped in amazement at his brother’s sudden defense and wondered what the hell umbrage was, the startled lord bustled around wringing his hands and stammering his apologies. Coming to himself, Gareth graciously forgave him and amity was restored.
The food was excellent, fresh game and vegetables with honey-dipped fruits and breads to end the meal. Their host was eager for news of the outside world and their quest for the Grail. But he shook his head sadly, when asked if he had heard of it.
“We know little of what happens outside the valley. Traders and storytellers pass through in the summer and we learn what we can from them, but no one has mentioned anything like that magic. And if anyone less distinguished than yourself had told me of it, I would have dismissed it as just another tale.”
At the end of the meal, as was the custom, the lady of the house showed the knights to their rooms. Gareth and Lancelot were left in a small room near the main hall. Gawain was barely able to stumble after the lady as she led him to a richly furnished corner room, with elaborate wall hangings and large windows, facing east. He mumbled his thanks and fell onto
the bed, leaving the poor woman to assume that, for all the tales told about his feats, the great Sir Gawain could not hold his liquor. She mentioned it to her husband.
“Why couldn’t we have chosen Sir Lancelot?” she demanded. “I don’t like sending her in there with a drunk.”
“There’s no way he could harm her,” her husband remonstrated. “And Sir Lancelot insisted on staying with Sir Gareth. He seemed afraid that we would board him with the animals otherwise.”
“Well, I might have. That Sir Gareth certainly doesn’t look like a knight. And I don’t believe for a moment that he’s really related to Sir Gawain. Oh, I do hope it works this time! I just hate the mess of it all. And it would be nice to be connected to the rulers of Cornwall.”
Dawn touched the windows of Gawain’s room the next morning. He opened his eyes, knowing there was no way he could sleep a little longer. But he was sure that no one but the kitchen drudges would be awake so early. He sighed and stretched, wondering why his host had chosen to decorate the room by hanging a three-foot sword directly over the bed. As his arm came down, he struck something soft. There was a muffled yelp.
Cautiously, he turned his head to see what was lying next to him. His brothers and friends had put some odd things in with him before, from a suckling pig to a snake. Slowly, he peeled back the covers.
“Hello!” The girl smiled at him, but it took him a moment to notice. The first thing that caught his eye was the fact that she was stark naked. It didn’t look like one of Gareth’s tricks. The girl made no effort to cover herself but went on talking.
“You certainly are a heavy sleeper. I’ve been trying most of the night to wake you up. I got all your clothes off and you didn’t even blink.”
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