Guinevere Evermore

by Sharan Newman

  “Can ye pay?”

  “I can chop wood for your fire and give you a song.”

  “Well enough. Shake off yer boots and come in.”

  The hut was crammed with humanity, most of it young, and Miniffer was grateful that they would let him have a bed. There didn’t seem to be places enough for those already there.

  “My son’s wives, and their bairn.” The woman nodded at the crowd. “The men all be bringin’ down the sheep, but they’ll be back before morning so ye can forget any ideas of dallyin’.”

  Miniffer doubted he could have found floor space to dally. He took off his cloak and moved into the seat they cleared for him. They gave him a bowl of barley soup and he gave them his songs. By the time he was done, the children were all asleep in little clumps on the floor, using each other’s bodies for blanket and pillow.

  “That were nice chantin’, lad,” the old woman said. “Good enough for court, I’ll be bound, even the one up the hill.”

  The fingers of all the young women moved simultaneously to ward off evil. Their mother-in-law gave them a scornful glance.

  “But ma’am, there’s wicked things up there. Old, dark, magic. You know it!” one protested.

  “There’s no evil up at Camelot!” the old woman snapped, and Miniffer’s eyes lit with excitement. “Any ghosts there be gentle, sad ones, only wantin’ to go back to the good days.”

  “And what of Merlin, the wizard?” another whispered. “They say he brought the big table through the Old Ones’ world and that they struck him down for it and trapped him. There’s lights up there, sometimes, bright flashes. It’s Master Merlin, atryin’ to break free.”

  “In the daytime? Use your wits, child. What sorta dark magic works in the sunlight?” The woman picked up her spindle, reminding the others that they had let their hands lay idle all evening.

  Miniffer leaned forward, “Is it close, Camelot? Have you been there?”

  The gnarled fingers deftly held the thread taut as the spindle dropped.

  “Aye,” she said casually. “Often, in the old days, until King Constantine moved the court to Dumnonia.”

  Miniffer was shaking with impatience. “What was it like? Did you see the Knights, the king?”

  “Aye . . .” A long pause. “It were beautiful then, great white towers and bright flags in the wind. They’d come ridin’ by, all shinin’ with silver and gold, and laughin’. The ladies were so beautiful and clean! Sometimes they’d stop at the well and they’d smile at me. Once the queen saw me gawkin’ at her hair and she laughed and tossed me her scarf.”

  She stopped as the others stared at her in disbelief. “Ye didn’t know that, did ye, girls? Well, I have it still. Here.”

  Pushing aside several of the children, she knelt before a rough wooden chest.

  Inside were extra lengths of wool. She reached far down to the bottom, rummaged a bit and came up with a leather pouch. Holding it reverently, she returned to her seat and undid the thongs.

  The firelight caught the shimmer of it, blue and silver, of a thread so fine it might have been spun on the wind. Miniffer’s gasp was echoed by the others.

  The old woman stroked it gently. “I wore it at me pledging with Tammas. It goes to me eldest granddaughter at hers, and I’ll hear no complaint from ye others. Ye may each touch it once, though. And remember, Arthur’s Guinevere wore it!”

  Miniffer let his fingers brush the delicate cloth. Then hej pulled back. Was this all the closer he could come to it, memories and relics? There must be more. He stood up.

  “Thank you for the food and company.” He bowed to the granny. “I must be going now. If you could point the way for me to Camelot . . .”

  They all gasped at his request, and some moved away from him with a shudder. The old woman grabbed his arm at the door.

  “Are ye daft, lad! It’s the middle of the night! Ye’ll not be able to see a thing and likely enough, break yer own neck trippin’ over the fallen beams and stones.”

  “You said it yourself,” Miniffer answered. “Majic won’t show itself by daylight. If I’m to find it, it must be now.”

  She shook her head in disgust. “Find yer death, lad, that’s all. But if ye last till cockcrow, come back. Tell me what ye saw and I might tell ye somethin’ more. Not all from Camelot are dead, ye know.”

  She gave him a sly smile that he found distasteful. He answered sharply.

  “I’m well aware of that. I’ve talked to one much closer to the court than you. Domin is his name.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Sir Bedevere’s son? I’d heard he’d come home. Well then, ye’ll not care to know where Sir Lancelot is.”

  “Lancelot?” Miniffer squeaked unprofessionally. “You know where he is? Tell me!”

  “First ye must stay the night up yonder.” She cackled. “Then ye must ask me nicely. Now come along. I’ll point the way.”

  • • •

  Miniffer drew his cloak tightly around his shoulders as he climbed the hill. The snow had ended and the sharp autumn wind had blown away the clouds, revealing a moon full and at its zenith. For this he was thankful. The old earthworks were overgrown and blocked in places and, without the brilliant light, he might have fallen just as the old woman had predicted. Sometimes, when he stopped to catch his breath, he thought he heard voices on the wind; laughter, singing, shouts, someone calling.

  “I’m coming!” he called back. “Please wait for me!”

  Miniffer snapped his mouth shut over the words. Had he really said that? By all the saints, he must be going mad! His heart pounded and his knees wobbled. He thought about going back, but pride and longing made him move on. At last he came out of the maze and stood before the gate of Camelot.

  Once it had been white, but time had beaten it to gray left it open at a crooked angle, stuck in mud and debris. A lone post was all that remained of the guard tower. Through the gap Miniffer saw a weed-grown courtyard. The buildings were in ruins. A balcony hung from a window by a single slat. The roof of the chapel had caved in. The weeds rippled in strange patterns, as if still trod upon by passing feet.

  Miniffer swallowed. He was frightened but could sense that the old woman had been right; the place was not evil, was lonely and grieving. Miniffer longed to wrap his arms about something; to comfort it. He unslung his harp and stepped into Camelot.

  Timidly he began to pluck the accompaniment to the Lament for Gereint. It was the sort of tale he hoped to compose, full of gallant battles against great odds. He tried to chant the words, but they caught in his throat. His fingers froze against the strings. Across the courtyard a door was open. Through it streamed a cold brightness.

  Miniffer searched himself mentally and managed, by gathering in every bit of nerve, to come up with enough courage to walk toward the doorway. Behind him whispers skitted along the lost paths.

  As he came closer, he realized that the light was caused by the moon, shining through a large opening in the ceiling. Glass shards still glittered from it. The light was focused on the only thing remaining in the great room; a table, perfectly round. Miniffer knew it at once. He wondered if it were possible for a man to die of happiness. As a pilgrim to a shrine, he approached and rested his hand on the letters, still legible in untarnished gold, ARTURUS REX. Weeping in pure joy, Miniffer fell asleep on the place where his god had once stood.

  The first shaft of sunlight caught on the glass above the table and reflected a bright beam right into Miniffer’s face. He woke with a start, thinking that he heard someone laughing. He looked around sharply, but no one was there and the sound diminished as the sun rose higher. Hope faded; he was alone.

  “There was magic here,” he insisted to himself. “I can feel it. This is the very place where Merlin wove his spells, where the Knights watched before they left to find the grail. Here . . . !” He started walking around it, his fingers tracing the fading letters. “Here was Sagremore, and Gareth and Percival and Gawain and Lancelot and . . .”

  The
letters had been bitten away at the next place, as if someone had spit curses at it until they had cut into the wood. There had been more here than just a name, Miniffer saw, and he knew whose seat it had been: Galahad’s. But who could have done this, and why? There was such a viciousness about it.

  “Modred did that, with his aunt, Morgause.” The voice behind him was mild, but Miniffer shrieked as if the devil himself had howled in his ear. He turned around and saw an elderly priest watching him in amusement.

  “I am sorry.” He smiled. “I thought you had heard me come in. My name is Antonius.”

  His smile shut as he gestured at the table.

  “I saw them in here night after night. They were determined to desecrate this bastion of Arthur. The things they did are not fit to tell, or to remember.”

  “But why Galahad?” Miniffer asked. “Why did they hate him so?”

  “Oh, I don’t think they hated him. No one could hate Galahad.” He sighed. “I met a lot of men in my day who were named ‘Saint’ by their followers, but Galahad was the closest thing to a pure and stainless being that I have ever known. And that was why they needed to erase his name.”

  “I don’t understand,” Miniffer said wearily.

  Antonius shrugged. “I can’t explain it, really, It was a time of evil. You would have had to have known them all and lived through that dreadful summer. It’s not something I would recommend.”

  “But Father, I want to know them all. If only I could have been born then!” Miniffer wailed. “Please help me. I’m a good poet. I was apprenticed seven years in the court of Powys. I’m going to make a saga that will tell Arthur’s story so that it will never be forgotten. What was it like? Please!”

  He looked so like a begging puppy that Father Antonius was forced to laugh.

  “I came late to Camelot and missed the best years, they say. But come with me and I’ll try to give you a bit of what you want. Are you hungry?”

  Miniffer consulted his stomach and found that it was still too unsettled for anything new, so he shook his head.

  “Thank you, Father. A woman down the road promised that if I came back this morning, she would tell me where I could find Sir Lancelot. I should go to see her first.”

  Father Antonius laughed again.

  “That would be old Magan,” he said. “I doubt she’ll be expecting you now. She saw me coming up here. Now don’t worry. I only came by to have a look at Camelot and say a prayer in my old chapel. I was on my way to Glastonbury. I’ll take you with me, if you like. That’s where Lancelot is now.”

  Getting to Glastonbury meant climbing another steep hill, this one treacherous with mud. Miniffer groaned every time he slipped and splashed some on his cloak.

  “How can I meet him looking like this?” he complained.

  The priest gave him an undecipherable glance.

  “He won’t mind, Miniffer,” was all he said.

  At the top of the tor was a small community of monks of the new Benedictine order. Some were chopping wood or carrying loads of peat, others worked to cover the gardens or boil down herbs. All were busy at something, even a poor, old blind man, who sat in the sun and laced up sacks of grain to store. Miniffer stared eagerly about for the great knight, but no one there looked as if he could have ever wielded a sword in his life. Where was Lancelot?

  Father Antonius gave him a gentle tug.

  “I have a message for the brother over there. Come with me a moment.”

  Grudgingly, Miniffer followed as they went to pay their respects to the sightless man.

  “It’s Antonius,” the priest said gently as he knelt by the aged monk. “How are you?”

  The man’s fingers stopped their work and reached out for Antonius’ hand.

  “Is she well?” he asked, and in his voice was a longing so great that it brought tears to Miniffer’s eyes.

  “Very well. She sent me to see if you needed anything for the winter. I have a flask of wine from the cellar at Cameliard for you.”

  The old man took a deep breath and shook his head.

  “All I need are the words you have brought. Thank you.”

  Antonius paused. “I have a man here with me who wishes to know about the early days at Camelot, of the battles and the Grail. Will you speak with him, Lancelot?”

  Miniffer nearly cried aloud. This blind, broken thing the supreme knight, Lancelot? It wasn’t true! It was a cruel trick. He glared furiously at the priest.

  The old man’s sightless eyes seemed to find him,

  “Those days shouldn’t be forgotten.” He spoke haltingly. “Arthur was the greatest man, the best friend I ever bad. He championed me when I was a pompous ass and he forgave me when I took from him the thing he loved most. But please don’t ask me to live it all again. I see them all too clearly. No, Father, tell him I can’t. Perhaps Guinevere will help him.”

  Antonius motioned Miniffer to stay silent.

  “Shall I take her any message?” he asked.

  For the first time Lancelot smiled. “She needs none. She knows.”

  When they were out of Lancelot’s hearing, Miniffer turned to Father Antonius in anger.

  “Why couldn’t you have told me he was like that now?” His voice was that of a hurt child. “What happened to him?”

  Father Antonius made him sit and gave him some bread und cheese. He gnawed his own meal for a bit before answering.

  “When I first saw Sir Lancelot, he was the shining example of Arthur’s men; brave, strong, devout. Yet by that lime he had already gone mad once for over a year, been on innumerable quests, and been deceived into fathering Galahad. All his life he was tormented, by others and by his own mind. He wanted something . . . well, I don’t pretend to understand another man’s soul. But he succeeded enough in his private quest that he was allowed to see the Grail unveiled. No human eyes could bear such glory. I don’t know why I brought you to him. Perhaps it was just to shock you into some sort of understanding, although I hope I’m better than that.”

  He took another bite of bread and continued.

  “I’ve heard the tales about Arthur, about his knights. In all of them they are greater than true men. They slay their foes without effort. They never doubt or fear. Only treachery can undo them. But Arthur was so much more than that! He was a man who felt and hurt and . . . Oh, damn!” He stopped in annoyance. “Yes, I will take you to Guinevere. Perhaps she knows the words. But please don’t embarrass me again!”

  “I won’t,” Miniffer promised sadly. “If she’s as toothless and stooped as old Magan, I’ll bow over her hand as if she were the fairest queen in Christendom.”

  Antonius snorted doubtfully, but said nothing.

  In the next few days Miniffer tried to get the priest to tell him more about his years with Arthur, especially the great quests and magnificent feats of courage he performed.

  “They say he fought off the Saxons for three days, alone, carrying a cross on his shoulders the whole time!”

  Antonius shook his head. “That was about the time was born, but I know the story. Only Arthur’s cross was on his shield, not his shoulders. Even he couldn’t swing sword under those conditions.”

  Miniffer pouted. “You weren’t there, though. He might have done it.”

  “Yes,” Antonius conceded. “I knew Arthur. He might have done it.”

  • • •

  Winter had settled in hard and fast by the time arrived at Cameliard, Guinevere’s family home. It was an ancient Roman villa, the first Miniffer had ever seen that was not in ruins. Before he could meet the queen, Father Antonius made him sit for almost an hour in the calderium, until the last few months’ dirt had floated away. Then he had to take a metal stick and scrape off another few years accretion. Finally he was allowed into the main room for the evening meal.

  At the table, several women were seated. Miniffer tried to pick out Guinevere, but forgot his intention when he saw the face of one near the center. She was past her first youth, perhaps thirty, he th
ought, but there was something about her that made him think of spring. Her head was covered and the veil drawn tightly across her forehead. He felt the need to push it back and touch her hair.

  “Who is she?” he whispered to Antonius. “Not even Helen could have been so lovely.”

  “Who else could she be?” the priest answered. “My Lady Guinevere, this is a bard of Powys who wishes to sing for you and speak with you. Miniffer?”

  Miniffer took out his harp, noting with fury Antonius’ amused expression. He gave them one of the old Celtic stories of the birds of Rhiannan. The women seemed pleased, but he had no idea, then or after, how he had sounded. He felt nothing but the presence of Guinevere. Looking at her, all the stories became possible again. She must agree to talk with him. She would know about magic, about demons and wizards and monsters slain by brave knights for her sake. With her help, he knew he could make Arthur’s court live forever.

  After the meal she sent for him.

  “Father Antonius has told me that you wish to create an encomium for my husband.” Her voice carried the Latin intonations of a former era. “I will try to help you. Tell me what you already know.”

  So Miniffer told her about the battles and the glorious quests; how each knight was brave and each woman virtuous. He spoke of Arthur’s dream of uniting all of Britain under one law, and how he almost achieved it. His face shone as he described how the sorcerer, Merlin, had prophesied Arthur’s coming and his eventual return. He sang of the Grail, and she wept. He whispered what he knew of Modred’s treachery, leaving out the rumor that Guinevere had aided him. When he finished, he was as dry as a pomegranate seed sucked of its juice.

  He waited, but the queen said nothing. He swallowed.

  “Lady,” he asked. “Is that the way it really was?”

  She wiped her eyes and looked at him steadily.

  “Yes,” she said. “That’s exactly the way it was. Let no one tell you anything else. Arthur was the greatest king ever to live; the noblest, the wisest, the kindest.”

  “And was there magic?”