• • •
Two days later, a pale and gaunt but very clean Lancelot left Llanylltud Fawr. His sword and shield, tarnished by neglect, hung from Clades’ saddle. Bors, a cheerful young man of well-educated morals, rode next to him. For the first few days, Lancelot drifted within himself, speaking little, ignoring the land around them. Then he started to straighten. His hands began to curl as if they remembered the feel of the sword. One night, he took it from its scabbard and, with a corner of his spare wool tunic, began polishing it.
He spoke to Bors without looking at him, the fire glowing between them.
“I have never seen anyone from Banoit at Arthur’s court, Bors. I didn’t know there was anyone of my family still there.”
“We are not easily destroyed, kinsman. But we do not go to Camelot. Arthur is not our king. We owe tribute to Meleagant from his father’s defeat of King Ban, but he learned long ago not to intrude upon us too far. He is not of our tribe and he can no more truly conquer us than the Romans could.”
“Arthur is High King for all of Britain, for everyone. He pays no attention to the old tribes. He has united the whole island south of Hadrian’s wall. Under him we are one people,” Lancelot insisted.
The young man sighed. Illtud had taught him not to contradict his elders. But Lancelot should know what Banoit was like, today.
“Arthur should pay attention to the tribes, kinsman. In the mountains, in the North, even in Cornwall, they are uniting again. The bonds that hold us to our clans are more important to us than any idea of ‘country’ some outside ruler may try to impose on us. If Arthur had called us in the name of his ancestors, we might have answered. As it is, he is nothing to us.”
“Nothing to you but the dam which is holding back the Saxon invaders!”
“We haven’t heard that the Saxon wants to try to tame our mountains. We can fight off the Irish slavers without help. Banoit does not need another foreign king. But Lancelot, we do need a king of our own blood again. You are all that remains of the line of King Ban.” He leaned forward. “We would follow you.”
Lancelot felt his head spinning. His first reaction was a wild excitement. This boy was asking him to become a king. A king like Arthur! He would give commands and others would rush to obey. He would . . . Then he thought of Arthur’s face, the lines of care and weariness. He thought of the long nights Arthur spent working out strategies, answering complaints, while Lancelot slept, or sat with Guinevere. How lonely his friend was, even at the Round Table, where all men were considered equal. No, in one thing only did he wish to be like Arthur. Being King of Banoit would take him even farther from that. He was not intended to rule others. How could he be?
“Bors, I cannot even rule myself,” he laughed apologetically.
“Very few men are saints such as Illtud,” Bors replied. “Banoit would not ask of you what the Church asks. In the old days, if a man wished a woman who belonged to another, he would buy her.”
Lancelot rose, his naked sword ready to strike. Almost too late, Bors saw that he had overstepped himself. He drew his knife and scrabbled to get up.
“I’m sorry! I apologize! Truly, it is none of my affair. I only meant that a king who leads his people well would not be condemned for his private matters. Banoit will support you, Sir Lancelot, whatever you do. You are one of us! Please, forgive my hasty words. I don’t know anything about it!”
Lancelot halted. He was short of breath, just from anger. That frightened him almost as much as the anger itself. Shaking, he returned to his place by the fire.
“Arthur is my leader. I am sworn to him. He is also the best friend I have, the one man who accepted me without question, from my first day at Camelot. Don’t speak to me about this anymore!”
Bors had no intention of doing so. Even after months of self-denial, Lancelot was far more imposing than he realized. Timidly, Bors ventured an assurance.
“We would still be honored to have you among us, kinsman, in any way, for as long as you wished. And, if you ever need us, we will be at your side. I give you my word.”
Lancelot got up again and went over to Bors, who tried not to shrink back. The knight knelt and held out his hand.
“Forgive me, kinsman. I had forgotten that I am here now by your kindness and that I am going to Banoit by your charity. In this you both honor me and show me my most grievous faults. I give you my hand in friendship now. Will you take it?”
“Gladly, kinsman! Gladly!”
• • •
There was a rumor of spring in the air when they came to the river. The struggling sun touched Lancelot’s hair, making the silver in it gleam. They stopped to rest and eat before making the ford. While waiting for Bors to finish, Lancelot stretched out on a warm slab of stone from which he could see the brown, teeming water as it tumbled by. The reflected warmth was like a smooth hand on his back, pressing at his sorrow. He had followed Bors like a whipped dog. He could not go on and he dared not go back. The Grail had been no more than a symbol; he had wanted answers. Now he felt there were none. What had gone wrong? He had been the shining sword of Arthur’s court, the man who was the best of all the knights: just, honest, strong. Everyone told him so. He was the Right which must always conquer evil, the one who would save the world.
He was tired. Dear God! He was so tired.
He thought at first it was a trick of the light on the water, a bird swooping low. He rose onto his elbows. It did not vanish. Coming up the river, under billowed silk, was a boat from the land of dreams, a boat that ought to sail the stars. From it he heard the sound of laughter and singing. He wondered if they were friends of his Lady of the Lake, come out of the ocean to visit her. He smiled. It called him back to the simplicity of childhood. Then, as it drew nearer, his brow creased in puzzlement. The music sounded uncommonly like a drinking song popular at Caerleon the winter before last. And the voices . . .
He was instantly on his feet, hollering and waving at the approaching craft. Against all reason, it veered toward the shore, and from the tent Galahad’s head popped out.
“I told you it was his voice!” he insisted to someone inside. “Father! Come and see! We are going to find the Grail!”
Behind him, Lancelot heard Bors’ whistle of disbelief.
Lancelot could not move. The face of his son had been illuminated in a way that both exalted and terrified him. The Grail! Could it be that he was being given another chance?
Inside the boat a hurried debate was going on.
“Galahad,” Claris insisted. “I was sent only for you and your companions. Sir Lancelot was not mentioned. Therefore, he can’t be worthy of the Grail.”
“Of course he is!” Galahad assured her. “He’s my father!”
“He must be worthy; he’s the one who brought me to Camelot,” Percival added. “I would never have found the castle the first time if Sir Lancelot hadn’t helped me.”
“I see. And what do you say, Sir Palomides?” the woman asked.
“Lancelot is a good man,” the wanderer answered firmly. “And he is my friend.”
“Then we must let him come with us,” Claris decided, worriedly tugging at a stray lock of hair. “The final decision will be made at the castle. But I don’t think, Galahad, that it is the Grail that your father truly wishes to find.”
On the bank, Lancelot was waiting breathlessly. Bors stared first at the boat, as delicate and ephemeral as a butterfly, and then at the face of the man next to him, transfigured by joy.
“You can’t mean to trust your life to that thing!” he exclaimed. “It will break apart on the rocks further upstream! That is . . . Sir Lancelot, it’s riding against the current; how does it do that?”
Lancelot didn’t answer. Galahad was on the deck again, dancing his impatience to be with his father. As the boat came no closer to shore, he leapt from the side into Lancelot’s open arms, knocking him over.
“Why, Father! You used to catch me like that all the time!” Galahad chided when they had
righted themselves. “Are you well?” he added, when he had studied him more closely.
“Yes, my son! God Almighty! When did you become a man?” Lancelot cried. The boy’s gentle eyes looked out at him from a mature face. No, not exactly, for the barest aura of blond beard was only beginning on Galahad’s cheeks. And yet he had an air about him that comes only with long years of understanding.
Galahad laughed, a sound so young and innocent that Lancelot thought his first impression had been mistaken.
“I have been learning to work with my hands, Father, instead of fight. You have no idea how much more wearing it is. Percival says it has aged him to senility.”
“I didn’t know you had a son, Sir Lancelot,” Bors interrupted. “Your heir would also be welcome at Banoit.”
Galahad bowed as Lancelot introduced them.
“Banoit?” he considered. “I would like to see it, but I can’t, you know. The boat is waiting for us. It is taking us to the castle of the Fisher King. Will you come, Father?”
“Yes, of course, if they will have me. I don’t know if I can climb aboard, though. I’ve grown weaker and it does not seem to be coming near enough to let me step on.”
“I will help you. Come, take my arm. Haven’t your shoulders borne me far greater distances?”
And Galahad lifted his father over the rapids and set him steadily onto the deck. Bors started to make the sign against evil and then stopped. The boy’s feet had not touched the water, surely a use of old magic, and yet Bors found his hands spread instead, palms up, and he was filled with a longing to follow.
“May all the gods protect you, kinsman!” he called. “And should you return from this voyage, remember that you will always have a home in Banoit!”
• • •
Inside the tent, Lancelot fell into a healing sleep that may have lasted hours or days, for all he could later remember. He had caressing dreams that were mostly made up of song and pale mist. Now and then there would be a clear image of Guinevere as she had been that day in the forest and he felt once more the surge of freedom they had known then. Once he knew he was with Arthur, as they crept through the brush, hunting pheasant. His friend was pointing at something and grinning, but Lancelot couldn’t see what it was. The rest was hidden in the cool, green fog.
Slowly, he became aware of the world around him. It was twilight and he was alone in the motionless boat. He jumped up in panic. They had gone on without him!
He pulled on his boots and pushed his way out of the tent.
The boat was moored at a wooden pier on an island in the river. On the pier stood Palomides, Percival, and Galahad. They were watching as a procession approached them. The faces of the people were glowing in the torchlight. Men and women alike wore long robes of white. Around their shoulders were cloaks of brilliant red and gold. Suddenly, Lancelot was afraid. He wanted to join the others, but could not make his feet take the leap onto the pier.
Galahad turned to him and held out his hand.
“Come, Father. They are going to bring us before the King. ”
Lancelot took a deep breath, and jumped.
They were led into the castle, just as Percival had described it.
In the Great Hall, they were brought before the couch of the Fisher King. He was wizened and weak from his endless agony, but he extended his hand in welcome to them.
“You have returned, son of my son,” he greeted Percival. “And you have brought the one whose coming we have awaited so long. Well done!”
Palomides stepped forward and knelt to the King.
“I have searched my whole life for that which you serve,” he told him. “I beg you to let me stay among you.”
The old man lifted himself up on one elbow. He smiled.
“Sir Palomides, you are deserving of more than that. Oh, steadfast pilgrim! If you survive the watch, you will be given what you most desire.”
Lancelot stood apart from the others. He hoped his presence would somehow be overlooked. But the King beckoned him nearer.
“Sir Lancelot, it is not such a dreadful thing to be no more than a man. From your weakness has come our hope. It is true that your son is the knight of the Siege Perillous?”
Lancelot nodded.
“We had feared he would never come. For this gift, you will be allowed to keep the watch also, Sir Lancelot. I cannot tell you what will happen then. The result lies in the Grail alone.”
All this time Galahad had been paying more attention to the designs along the walls and floor of the hall than the formalities. In the silence, he realized that it was his turn to be introduced. He stepped up to the couch. His face changed.
“Sir!” he cried. “You are wounded. How awful! Who has done this to you? I will avenge you. What must I do?”
A great sigh of release came from the servitors but the King silenced them with a gesture.
“Come closer, child. You have already begun. But there is no warrior for you to battle. I was wounded by my own pride and for it my people and my land have suffered. There has been no death and no new life here since I was struck down. But now you have come. Already I feel stronger. But wait! I keep you all standing when you are in need of food and rest. Claris! Take our guests in to dinner.”
The three older men ate the exquisite food absently, all waiting for the procession Percival had described. Galahad seemed to have forgotten about it and chatted happily to Claris and the King.
At the end of the meal, there was another breathless silence as the procession passed through the hall. But it was not exactly as Percival remembered it. First came Cundrie, her hideous face now covered by a veil. On the silver patens she carried were piled grain and fresh fruit. Behind her walked the man carrying the spear, a trail of blood in his wake. Lastly came the boy holding the covered Grail. The light from it shone through the cloth and outlined the veins in the boy’s hands.
Galahad watched, puzzled. “That is the Grail, Sir?” he asked the Fisher King.
“Yes, and I am its guardian.”
“But what is the Grail for, Sir? Whom does it serve?”
“The questions!” the King cried joyfully. “At last!”
The pealing of the bells vibrated through the hall, overpowering the shouting and laughter from the Grail servants. Cundrie threw off her veil as her beauty was restored, and the Fisher King rose from his bed, his strength regained. Galahad watched in amazement, totally unaware of his part in the transformation. For how could mere words cure a people? He laughed and danced with the others, happy for their sakes. Now Percival could forget his guilt. But still Galahad yearned to see the Grail uncovered. Could they take the cloth off now?
The Fisher King, gasping from the unaccustomed activity, sat down beside him.
“You were thinking that you still wished to know the answers to your questions?” he asked Galahad.
“Yes, Sir,” the boy answered.
“I, too, Sir,” Palomides added. “I rejoice in your recovery, but you are but the guardian of the portal which is opened by the Grail, are you not?”
“Very astute, Sir Palomides!” the King nodded. “You have studied the mystics well. And now you wish to cross through that door? You also, Sir Galahad?”
“More than all the world!”
“You are very young, it seems to me. Fortunately, it is not my choice. You must go to the tower and watch for three nights running, one night for each window. Then you will learn if you may be given what you seek.”
“And what of Sir Lancelot?” Palomides asked.
The Fisher King shook his head. “He may watch with you, if he wishes, but somehow I doubt that his way to the other side will be so easy.”
So, while Percival remained below to learn about his new role as heir to the Fisher King, the other three ascended the staircase to the top of the tower. There they found only a bare room with windows looking north, west, and south. The wooden planks which made up the floor were warped with age and damp and creaked at their step but Lancelot j
udged that they would hold. They set their blankets at the center and composed themselves to watch.
Lancelot took the southern view, and all night long all he saw was the twisting fog. Once in a while, it would press against the thick glass and seem to shape itself into a face or a limb, but then it would dissolve and float away. From the gasps of amazement Palomides and Galahad were uttering, it was clear that the other windows provided better views. But the next night, at the window Galahad had used the night before, he still saw only mist.
The final evening they dined again with the Fisher King. Although he had been healed, his skin was pale as night-grown flowers, and he was too weary to eat. Galahad sat beside him and took his hand.
“What is it that weakens you so?” his voice was high with concern. “Can no one help you? I thought you had been cured, now that you have found Sir Percival again.”
The old man leaned his head back against the cushions and closed his eyes. His transparent hand patted the boy’s arm.
“You will understand soon, child. I have been cured. I’m free now to leave this ancient body and seek my master. I have no more pain and only await the signal to go. Then my grandson, Percival, will become the guardian, and irry he be a wiser one than I have been.”
The three knights climbed the stairs for the last time. Lancelot watched the other two racing ahead of him, eager for whatever wonders they had been watching before. He dragged his left foot up another step and forced the right one to follow, slowly, slowly until he reached the top.
They each took a new window. Galahad laughed and Palomides sighed happily. Lancelot resigned himself to the enigmatic mist.
It was still there, swooping and blowing outside the window as if a storm were raging. Glittering ice crystals blew past. Lancelot shivered, although the tower was sealed and warm. Despite his determination to see out the watch, he blinked more and more slowly. His head nodded, then jerked up. What was that, a reflection?
He turned around, but saw only Galahad and Palomides, each engrossed in their visions. He leaned closer to the window. There was an image there, distant but in bright colors: a boy, the center of loving attention, petted and adored. The fog became the diamonds and thin silks of the Lady’s palace. Lancelot saw himself, spoiled and precious. He watched the image flow as he began to understand guilt and become obsessed with giving himself pain to compensate for the voluptuous pleasure of the immortals. Then he saw King Arthur’s brave, pure knight, arrogant at being the best, proud of his piety and, at the same time, disgusted at his own pride. Lancelot writhed as the too-accurate images of his own life appeared in the window. In them, he rushed out again to save the kidnapped Guinevere, sure that only he could accomplish the deed, and watched as her scorn showed him the truth of his motives. The madness that followed was as blurred as his memory of it, only a naked, wild man, living by instinct, not reason. It was superseded by the face of Guinevere, transformed during his illness from an idol for him to adore and serve to a woman who needed to give love as well as take it.
Guinevere Evermore Page 14