Arthur, still dreaming under the lake, neither knew nor cared about the matter. Guinevere heard of it and laughed. What difference did it make? For at last, she and Lancelot were together and free to spend eternity wandering joyfully among the stars.
The End
The Palace by Moonlight
Miniffer coughed noisily, scratched his nose, coughed again, took a long gulp of milky-white ale and cursed the universe. He started with the splintery bench he was sitting on and worked outward to include the whole of creation. It took most of the night, but it was satisfying work and he had nothing better to do. As his imprecations grew in range, his voice grew in volume until he attracted the notice of the bleary few in the dilapidated inn who still remained awake.
“Stuff it, Miniffer,” Old Tamas said genially. “We all know what you think of life. You’ve bellowed your damnations so often they ha’n’t no more power than a whore’s blush.”
“Too true,” one-eared Urbgan sighed. “It’s not like anyone here disagrees. Things ha’ gone mightily hard since Arthur’s time. So give us a night’s rest. We got our own swearing to do.”
Various grunts and belches indicated that the majority agreed, and so Miniffer reluctantly desisted, still muttering into his glass about the degeneration of government, society, and life in general in the thirty years since Arthur had left the earth. It had gotten so that a well-trained bard, capable of reciting the genealogies of all the great houses of Dumnonia and Powys, not to mention Cornwall; of chanting the most stirring sagas of military splendor; of giving the slyest turns to the old favorites of love and betrayal . . . a man like that, Miniffer grieved, was reduced to sleeping under the table in a disgusting inn which hadn’t had a cleaning since Vortigern the traitor had married his Saxon bitch and started all the troubles a hundred years ago.
Even while descending into his nightly stupor, Miniffer couldn’t stop himself from thinking like a showman.
The next morning he was awakened, as usual, by the tavern dogs licking the grease from his face and hands. This was accompanied by a sharp kick in his midsection. The innkeeper, while not a tidy man, had grown tired of having a sodden poet cluttering up his establishment.
“Out, you!” He emphasized his suggestion with another kick. “We know all your stories. We’re sick of hearing how great it was in Arthur’s day. Arthur! Wha’ do you know of Arthur? You wasn’t even born when he died.”
Miniffer roused himself, carrying his head with him gently.
“Arthur isn’t dead!” he insisted. “He's just gone away awhile. He’ll be back; you’ll see. Leading all his knights, charging down through this valley . . . in all their shining, wondrous, holy splendor. And he’ll—”
“Will you leave it for once, Miniffer,” the innkeeper sighed. “Those days is dead, like all them knights and whatall. And I never heard they was so great, anyways. My own grandmother used to tell how one of those knights came riding by one day and had his way with her without not so much as taking off his boots. Don’t sound so holy wondrous to me.”
Miniffer started to make a comment on the probable veracity and virtue of said grandmother, but reflected in time how close his host’s foot still was.
Sitting in the glaring sunshine by the side of the road an hour later, Miniffer wished he had spoken. The innkeeper’s words were being echoed far too much lately. It wasn’t right, after all King Arthur had done, for him to be forgotten so soon. Or remembered like that! As if a knight would ever rape someone’s grandmother! It was all due to the lack of respect for learning these days. They weren’t turning out proper bards anymore. Not like in the old times.
Miniffer forced down the bile in his throat, then, upon consideration, let it do as it wished. After some unpleasantness, he felt better. Well enough, in fact, to lift his head from the ditch in time to see the messenger ride by and to be spattered with dust raised by the racing horse.
There, Miniffer thought, as he pulled himself indignantly back onto the road. That’s what we’ve come to! No thought at all for a poor bard who might have been blinded by the flying pebbles. He shook his fist at the retreating rider.
“Here, you!” he shouted. “You could have killed me, charging by like that! Why don’t you watch the road, you big—”
Miniffer stopped in horror as he saw the rider pull his horse up and turn around, coming back to confront the quaking poet.
“Sweet Saint Catherine,” Miniffer moaned. “I don’t need this. I thought he was too far away to hear.”
There was nowhere to run, so Miniffer sat down in the dusty road and awaited his doom. Soon he felt the hot breath of the horse on his neck and heard the clink as the rider dismounted. A hand dropped heavily upon his shoulder, raising him to his feet with no intention on his part. A large, ruddy, exceedingly young face confronted his.
“Have I hurt you?” the rider asked worriedly. He looked at Miniffer carefully, as if trying to decide how much of the damage he could reasonably be blamed for. “I am sorry! I didn’t see you there, with your head in the ditch. I expect I thought you were just a log or something. I’m Brien. king’s rider from Dumnonia. Are you all right?”
He peered more closely, coughed, and pushed Miniffer to arm’s length.
“Whew! You smell like you’ve spent the last month in an ale keg! Oh, sorry! I didn’t mean to offend.”
Miniffer, mindful of the weight on his shoulder, smiled wanly. “No offense taken, sir. Actually, I think it was closer to two months. One loses count of the days in such Stygian dark.”
Brien let go of him so quickly that he collapsed into the dust. With more apologies, he picked the bard up again, brushing off the top layer or so of detritus with his hands.
“Sorry!” he said again. “I didn’t expect you to talk elegant like that. You sound like old Durriken at the court, you know. Look, let me give you a spare tunic of mine. It’ll be a bit big but—”
“It will cover the holes in my trews,” Miniffer finished. “Thank you, but I’m not a beggar. I earn my way. Now, if you’d care to hear a saga of Arthur or a tale of Gawain while you eat your midday meal, I might be persuaded to accept it as remuneration.”
“‘Remun . . .’?” The youth’s face clouded, then cleared. “Oh, you mean payment! All right, tell me about King Math, who could only live if his feet were kept between the legs of the maiden, Goewin, unless, of course, he was fighting, and the time Gawain and Gwydion raped Goewin and Math changed them into a stag and a hind so that they coupled and produced Hyddwn, the fawn, who, when baptized, turned into a human boy and then—”
“Hold, lad!” Miniffer covered his ears in genuine horror. “Is this what my art has come to? That’s nothing but a lewd tale, fit only for the kitchens and stables.”
“It’s very popular at King Constans’ court.” Brien muttered.
“No doubt it is,” Miniffer sniffed. “But in Arthur’s time such things were kept in their place. At the king’s court only tales of valor and honor were allowed. That’s why all who served him, even to the lowliest potboy, lived pure and holy lives.”
Brien decided that good manners had gone far enough, especially to a smelly, ragged, cast-off human being such as this.
“I don’t believe a word of it,” he stated firmly. “My own grandfather was a soldier for Arthur and would have been a knight, if he hadn’t lost his arm in a battle with the Saxons. He could have told you a thing or two about Camelot and the court. I think you’re addled. Here! Take the tunic. You can pay me when you’ve learned some real stories.”
With that, Brien roughly thrust the tunic over Miniffer’s head and shoulders and, mounting his horse, galloped off.
“Insolent, ignorant, bastard!” Miniffer yelled at the top of his lungs when he had freed himself from the tunic. But by then Brien was a good mile down the road. Miniffer sighed and started wearily in the opposite direction. His heart ached even more than his head.
Sick of the world and heedless of danger, Miniffer turned into the great
forest, tracing his way along leaf-deep paths, eating what came by and falling often in the busy spring rivulets. The water tasted dreadful, of bark and moss, and he thought tenderly of the innkeeper’s new ale, but with a wistful yearning of the sort he felt for vanished Camelot.
One day he came to a quiet glade, high in the hills. Bees murmured hypnotically, and the grass was soft and embroidered with wild flowers. Miniffer stopped and looked around. Gently he set his harp on a cluster of daisies. Then he lay down. It was almost too much effort to close his eyes.
I believe I will die here, he thought softly. He felt his body begin to merge with the earth and was content. No point in living in such a cruel, ugly world where glory had been murdered and honor was a jest. One tear slid across his temple and through his hair. He composed himself for the end.
“Hello? Hello! Wake up, man! Are you all right?”
Miniffer was annoyed. That was no way to welcome a poet to the afterlife. He opened his eyes.
Looking down on him was a sun-beaten face with eyes burnt almost to gold. They lit like candles when they saw Miniffer was alive and the man grinned in delight as he put an arm about him and lifted the poet shakily to his feet.
“A good thing I came out to check Timon’s bees or I might not have found you,” the man continued. “I haven’t seen any travelers about here for years. Can you walk a bit? My home isn’t far.”
Too befuddled to think, Miniffer let this strange being half carry him to a stone hut set among the trees. A stream ran by, making a curious music that confused him still further. His host brought him inside and laid him gently on a cot covered with soft lambs’ wool. Miniffer wriggled down into it and gazed in wonder at the man who had succored him.
“Excuse me,” the poet stammered. “But have I died yet?”
The great laugh that greeted his question reassured him somewhat, and the reaction of his stomach to the smell of fresh bread convinced him. His host ripped a hole in one loaf and ladled a scoop of vegetable stew into it. He gave this to Miniffer with a wooden spoon.
“I see I found you none too soon.” He laughed again. “I was going to apologize for the lack of meat, but you seem not to miss it. Now, while you’re restoring your body, I’ll introduce myself. My name is Domin. I came to live up here about ten years ago, when I came back from searching for the Grail. Timon the Roman lived up here then, all alone after his sister died and I decided to stay. Lucky for you that I did, eh? Oh, wait, here, let me help you!”
Domin rose in alarm as Miniffer choked on his bread.
“N-no. I’m all right.” Miniffer coughed. He swallowed. “It’s just . . . did you say the Grail?”
“Yes,” Domin answered. “I went with my father, at least Mother said he was my father, and we agreed to believe it. Anyway, we went north into the land of the Picts.”
His voice became more remote. “We saw things I stilt cannot explain, strange monsters and fire that danced in the sky. The Picts caught us and enslaved us for a time, until Father earned our freedom by saving their queen from a bear. We stayed too long, and when I came back, everything was changed and poor Mother had died. We never saw the Grail. Galahad found it, they say, I think the Round Table tried to tell us he would. We just didn’t understand.”
Miniffer’s breath came quickly. His stew dripped unnoticed into his lap. He tried to speak, but he kept squeaking.
“You knew Sir Galahad?” he managed to force out.
Domin was puzzled.
“Of course. We played together. Is that strange? He was the best snowball fighter at Caerleon, but I always had to give him a leg up climbing trees. He was a fine boy. Never reminded us that he was Lancelot’s son and the queen’s favorite. Lord, was he good at wangling extra rations from the cooks!”
Domin laughed again. Miniffer stared. Sir Galahad, the finder of the Grail, the boy knight, holiest of all, wangling drumsticks? This couldn’t be! Who was this man? How dare he! And yet . . .
“Did you really live at Camelot?”
Domin smiled at him. “You’re very young. I see that now. Not much over twenty, are you? Yes, I was born at Camelot, and I would wish nothing greater for anyone. My mother was lady’s maid and friend to the queen. I was sent off to my grandfather’s farm until I was seven. But that year Galahad came to be fostered by Guinevere and they sent for me, to be his friend. God’s eyes! That was a time to be a boy!”
Miniffer forgot that he was hungry, forgot his longing for ale, forgot that he had ever wished to die. He leaned forward, his mouth opened as if to catch the memories on his tongue.
“Tell me all about it,” he begged.
Domin smiled sadly. “I was still a boy when I left. By the time I came back, it was all over. Gawain and Gareth and Mordred were dead. Arthur was gone. The plague had gotten most everyone else. Queen Guinevere still lives, I think, and Lancelot. Gaheris is in Iberia, a bishop they say. The last time I saw Camelot, the walls were overgrown with vines, and peasants in the fields told of ghosts on the ramparts. It was too long ago. I don’t remember what you want to know.”
But Miniffer wouldn’t be cheated.
“Gawain. Do you remember Gawain? Was he as strong as they say? Did he really slay the Green Knight?”
Domin was silent awhile, “Gawain,” he breathed. “He was . . . like a god. He strode though life in an aura of gold. It would scorch your eyes to stare at him in the noon sun. And he could laugh! All the jokes they played on him and he still laughed. Even fate played with him. Poor Gawain! The Green Knight was a joke too. I remember it, though I couldn’t have been more than eight. That great, ugly head rolled across the floor and jeered at us all, then calmly hopped back on its body. I was so frightened that I wet myself. And Gawain knew he had to hunt the Knight out and bare his neck for the axe. He took advantage of it too. He bedded half the women at Camelot that year, since it was to be ‘the last time.’”
“But that’s not the way I heard it!” Miniffer wailed. “They say he spent the year on a quest.”
Domin reached up to a shelf and took down a flask. Miniffer brightened as he saw the honey-dark mead pour into the cups. Domin handed him one.
“I warned you. Truth is never like the tales. I know. I’ve heard a hundred versions of how Modred betrayed and battled Arthur. There were a thousand heroes there that day. I don’t know how Modred could have dared attack, since every man I’ve talked with swears he fought for the king. You’d think the traitor would be afraid to challenge Arthur without an army.”
Miniffer sipped his mead and comfort slid through his body. It gave him the courage to ask the question he feared most.
“What of Arthur?” he asked. “No one saw him die, they say. The tale speaks of a huge ship with a wild and fierce crew that sailed down the river, swooping him up and carrying him off to help in the wars against the false emperor in the east.”
Domin nodded. “I have heard that. It may be true. There are so few still alive. It was a long time ago. Each person has his own story, his own belief. For all I know, each of them is true. I’ve given up wondering. All that matters to me is that the bees stay in my meadow and my hearth glows bright this winter. The rest is only dreaming.”
He yawned and smiled at Miniffer, who couldn’t grasp it. Domin was an ordinary man, aging, his hair getting thin. He was dressed like a peasant, in gray woolen tunic and trews. How could he have been part of Arthur’s world? And yet, the glow on his face when he spoke of Gawain . . . It was something to mull over.
Miniffer stayed on, unwilling to lose the nearness to lost wonder. He worked for a while in Domin’s gardens. He helped cart mulch for last autumn’s leaves and raked it into the turnip beds. He pulled weeds and went into the woods to hunt for berries. His fingers, which had been cramped by holding a harp or a cup, slowly straightened. His chest expanded from breathing deeply in exertion. He was beginning to look like a man again. And all the time he wondered about Arthur.
One day he and Domin followed a narrow path to a glade t
hick with berries. Miniffer sat on the lush grass, reaching into the thorns as carefully as possible to pluck the largest fruit. Absently he looked down and yelped with pain as his arm was jabbed and scratched.
“Domin! Look at this!” he cried.
“Oh, now. You’ve hurt yourself,” Domin tutted in sympathy. “Do you want to go back home and wash it?”
“No, no, it’s nothing!” Miniffer pointed to the earth under the bushes. “I mean the flowers. What are they?”
Domin frowned. “I don’t know, exactly. I never saw them anyplace but here, Timon called them ‘Guinevere’s Roses’ and had a tale about how she grew them with the old magic. But it may not be true.”
“And yet they still bloom.” Miniffer gazed at the strange, warm blossom.
“Yes,” Domin agreed. “Each year, they still bloom.”
He put down his basket and studied the poet’s face a long while.
“I think, Miniffer,” he said. “That it’s time you were on your way.”
• • •
Domin sent him back to the world better garbed than when he had left it. His harp had been oiled and restrung. Brien’s second-best tunic patched and washed, and a new cloak made for him of the thickest, softest wool. As winter was coming in, Miniffer was grateful for the warmth. But Domin had given him something more, a purpose. Like the knights after the Grail, Miniffer sought the unattainable. And he sought it with the pure flame of absolute belief.
He would find the truth about King Arthur, Merlin, the knights, the ladies, all those days of glory, and he would compose a tale of them that would ring in the souls of all who heard it.
The first snow of the year was falling when Miniffer knocked at the door of the shepherd’s hut. He heard the grumbling as the bolt was drawn. An old woman peered at him through a crack.
“What be ye wantin’?” she croaked.
“Directions and a bed for the night, good woman,” Miniffer answered.
The door opened a bit more as the woman leaned out for a better look.
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