"Never been with a woman, have you? There are many here..."
Galahad gasped. "I don't love any of them yet."
The tall warrior's voice became gentler. "Sorry, lad, don't mind me. Do as you please. Now, about the pipes..." He went on to the work at hand, and Galahad set about finding the world of music through this Pan.
When Gawaine talked, he jested a great deal. But Galahad saw that when he played the pipes, he was serious.
Gawaine's sword struck Galahad's. He pushed aside the youth's sword as if it were made of stale bread. “You must do far better, or you'll be dead,” Gawaine told him. “Go practice with Gareth.”
Galahad sighed.
“Yes, I know he's as large and strong as I am. That's why I charge you to fight with him every day.” Gawaine turned to the group of young warriors that watched his every move. “Gareth, practice every day with Galahad, and don't go easy on him.”
“Willingly.” Gareth smiled at Galahad.
“And start now,” Gawaine added. “Don't groan, Galahad. I know you're tired. But the enemy won't let you rest in a battle.”
Gawaine sauntered over to Peredur and Bedwyr, who also had been training the young men. He drank from his flask.
“They aren't too bad,” Peredur said.
“Galahad is fast, at least.”
“He'll need more than speed,” Gawaine said.
“We must talk with you.” Bedwyr looked Gawaine in the eye. “We've been discussing the kingdom. We suppose that Arthur has secretly named you as his heir, but he needs to do so publicly. You should tell him that.”
Peredur nodded. “It's only right that there be a formal heir to ease people's worries and prevent speculation.”
Gawaine sighed. “Of course I won't ask to be named formally. How would that look? I don't even want to be king, much less to be thought lusting for the title. If you're so anxious, you ask him.”
“I have.” Bedwyr compressed his mouth. “But he won't listen to me. He puts me off with tales of finding the sword and tells me that it will find a new king when the time comes. That's nonsense.”
“He wants to be immortal,” Peredur said. “He's a great king, but he needs to assure the succession.”
“I wouldn't keep a barren wife, not to mention a barren queen." Bedwyr offered Perdur his flask.
"I would," Peredur replied stiffly, declining the drink. "Marriage is sacred. I wouldn't have abandoned Claudia if she had failed to bear a child."
Bedwyr snorted. "But we're talking about a kingdom. I suppose Arthur doesn't worry because he has you, Gawaine. You would be a fine king, though there's nobody like Arthur."
Gawaine shifted his feet. He wanted to walk away. “True, I could never be as great as Arthur. And I'll probably die first in some fight.”
"And you're only a nominal Christian,” Perdur said. “I wouldn't mind if Arthur picked someone else, but I can't imagine who that could be.”
"What about Gareth?” Gawaine asked. “He has every virtue and is a fine fighter, and he's just as closely related to Arthur."
Bedwyr shook his head violently. "Pah! He's fitter for a monastery than a throne. Arthur would never choose him. And there are those who'd prefer a king from the south. King Mark of Dumnonia might contest any of the Orkney clan."
"I hope it doesn't come to that." Peredur sighed "Yes, it is sad that Guinevere couldn't bear a child, poor lady."
“I am tired of this subject. Gossip does no good.” Gawaine strode off. He agreed that it would be best if he did not have to be king.
Young Percy was friendly with Galahad when he no longer had to sleep nearby. Galahad was just right—reverent, but not excessively pious, and always ready for a jest.
"Lancelot of the Lake likes you a great deal. You're very fortunate," said Percy when they rested after practicing fighting each other with swords. Sitting on a bench, they leaned back against the practice room's stone wall.
"I am, but he likes you, too. You were lucky enough to know him when you were a child," Galahad replied, sighing with apparent envy.
"I did," Percy affirmed, puffing out his chest. "He taught my brother and me all about the forest. We lived in the forest, you know, and wore the skins of animals. I was the only one at home who could protect my mother."
"Yes, I've heard you tell how knew nothing about warriors until Lancelot came. You tell the most fanciful tales of anyone here." Galahad grinned, poured some water from a jar to a cup, and offered it to Percy.
Embarrassed, Percy looked at his boots, which he regretted were not as new as some of the other young warriors' boots. "I admit I exaggerate the story a little. But Lancelot really did teach me to think as if I lived in the skins of animals."
"But why do you say that you lived only with your mother? I have heard that your father lives all the time at home with his family, unlike many other fathers." Galahad poured another cup of water and drank from it.
"Oh, God's truth, does everyone know that?" Percy moaned, holding his head. "How embarrassing. It sounds as if he were a poor farmer, not a warrior. He truly did fight in the Saxon War, though." It had seemed better never to refer to his father than to admit that he had not fought in many years, not since the war.
"Your story about the visiting the fisher king's caer, riding on a magical boat, and seeing a magical goblet is perhaps a little exaggerated, too," Galahad suggested, smirking.
"No, that's the truth," Percy insisted, looking away into the air beyond Galahad. "I really found him when I was with the great Lancelot. The fisher king was old and lonely, and we comforted him." He remembered an enchanted golden cup and a caer of silver and gold. Some might think they looked like a bucket and a fisherman's hut, but such people did not see with the eyes of faith. Some might believe that the fisher king's disguise as a poor fisherman was his true aspect, but Percy would never be so deluded. Would they even deny that the boat he had ridden with Lancelot moved by itself, or that it had gone on to the Holy Land after Lancelot had jumped out of it and bade him to do the same because of a foolish fear that the boat might sink? Was Galahad one of the unbelievers? Percy sighed.
"And what does Lancelot think of your telling the story?" Galahad asked.
"He smiled at me," Percy said proudly, "and told me, 'Hold onto your dreams, Percy, and you won't be just an ordinary young warrior.'"
Percy jumped up and moved about the room. Could he dare to ask Galahad the question he had been longing to put to him?
"I've heard that..." Percy's voice was a little less certain, but if Galahad was going to ask about his father, he might as well ask about Galahad's. "I've heard that Lancelot might be your father? Is that possible?"
Surprisingly, Galahad laughed, as if the question were foolish. "No, it isn't. I certainly don't look like him, do I? I wish I did. People say that I look like an elf."
Percy was moderately proud of his own looks, from his abundant dark brown locks to the dimple on his chin. With a slight feeling of pity, he regarded the skinny Galahad. "Yes, that sums it up. But really, you look very pleasant."
Galahad groaned. "Elfin looks are not exactly what attract women."
"Oh, I'm sure that won't matter if you become a great warrior," said Percy, trying to be kind. "Women love great men no matter what they look like."
"Thanks," said Galahad, still not sounding cheered.
"You might shave off that beard," Percy suggested. "It isn't much of one, and it only increases the elfin look."
"I'll never do that," Galahad said, patting the wispy tuft.
"You're stubborn, but likeable now that I don't have to sleep near you," Percy said. "I've never heard anything like the way you scream in your sleep. Don't sleep with a lady before you marry her, or she'll never marry you!"
Pardon my moaning in my sleep," Galahad replied. "It was good of you to ask the lord Cai to get me an alcove of my own. They put me in a place where I can't disturb anyone."
Percival shrugged. "It was a matter of our sanity. Your noises ma
de nights unbearable for everyone else in the hall. Just don't ever ask me to go on a mission with you, or sleep far off if you do."
"Don't worry, I shall." Galahad chuckled rather than being offended by this insulting comment, and Percy was a little embarrassed at having been so rude.
Merlin wandered away from the table long before the supper was finished, as was usual for him. He had partaken only of a little trout and some greens. The warriors slashed at roasts with their knives, but he paid them no heed. He stared at Lancelot in confusion, as he usually did, then shook his head. Something about Lancelot was strange, but he didn't remember what it was.
Supper tonight was different from other nights. A pale, dark-haired young lady rose from her bench at the other end of the great hall and drifted after him. He noticed her but pretended that he did not.
He murmured theorems from geometry under his breath and walked towards the ramparts. The girl approached him and touched his sleeve.
"Lord Merlin?" Her voice was deferential and perhaps a trifle timid, but she must be bold to follow a man in the starlit night.
Turning his head, he regarded her through weary eyes.
He saw a girl of marriageable age, whose dark hair and gray eyes like his own might mean that there was some trace of the Old Ones' blood in her. Her gown was brown and simple, but finely cut, and an amber bead hung on a chain round her neck.
"Yes, child? You had better return to the ladies and not go wandering around the caer."
The girl stayed where she was. "Please, my lord, my name is Nimue and it's you I want to speak with. My mother was schooled at Avalon."
He looked at her with greater interest. Few people now spoke to him about the once sacred island of Avalon, now deserted by the holy and desecrated by the presence of Christian monks. "Did she, now? And what was her name?"
She named a name that he vaguely recalled. The old man nodded, inviting her to proceed. He took her arm and walked on the ramparts with her, looking at the star-studded summer sky.
An owl that lived in one of the towers flew out on its nightly quest, and it reminded him of the story of Blouddewen, the woman made of flowers who was turned into an owl for her faithlessness. So many stories warned of women, and he had been cautious about them.
The girl's voice was full of the aching earnestness of the young. "My mother and my father are both dead. She told me a little about the old ways, and I want to learn more. But those who knew them are dispersed. I know the whereabouts only of the Lady Morgan of Cornwall, and you. My uncle, who is my guardian, would never send me to her caer, for everyone calls her a witch. But I was able to persuade him to send me to court because he thinks I can make a match with one of the warriors. He doesn't know that all I want is to study with you." She looked up with eyes full of hope.
Most unaccustomed to having young women regard him in such a way, or indeed to having them pay him any heed at all, Merlin spoke more gently than was usual for him. "My mind weaves back on itself now, but if I can help you, I shall. What do you want to learn? Astronomy? Geometry? Healing? Engineering?"
"I want to learn about the gods. I want to know why things are the way they are." She was all attention.
He shook his head. "That is what everyone who has thought much wants to know. Can you expect me to have the answer? I know only some of the questions. If only Ninian were here. She might be able to help you more than I can. But where did she go? I don't remember." Merlin looked about him, as if she might appear around a corner. He cleared his throat. "Oh, to be sure, she's in a convent. But I ramble. Do you still think you can learn from such a one?"
Nimue nodded.
"Well, we shall see, we shall see." For some reason the night air did not hurt his joints as it usually did.
"I am not going to spin today. Instead, I'll spin words with Master Merlin, for he will teach me," Nimue made bold to say to Lysanda, the lady who supervised the girls' spinning.
"We'll see about that," snapped sharp-faced Lysanda. "You must have the queen's permission."
Guinevere soon passed through the room where the ladies were spinning. She spent little time there, but said a few kind things about the spinning and needlework.
"Lady Guinevere!" Lysanda called out. "This girl has taken it into her head that she is going to take lessons from Master Merlin. It is improper for a girl to take lessons from a man, let alone that old pagan, isn't it? What would he teach her?" She sneered.
The queen raised her eyebrows. "Lessons with Merlin? Whatever for?"
Nimue did not quail. Perhaps the queen would not be as narrow as Lysanda. "My mother had lessons on Avalon when she was a girl, and I want to learn some of the old ways."
Guinevere nodded. "If it's old ways you want to learn, surely no one could tell you better than that ancient man. Why shouldn't a girl learn from a man?" she asked Lysanda. "I learned Latin and Greek from a priest, and that was proper. Surely Merlin is as wholesome as any priest. In all the years that I have lived at Camelot, I have never seen him show the least interest in any woman."
One morning, the golden-haired lady Gwyl came to Guinevere's room. She was Arthur's favorite mistress, and Guinevere liked her well, and was glad that some women truly wanted to be with him.
"I wanted to say farewell to you," Gwyl said. Her eyes were red. "You have been very kind to me."
Guinevere jumped up from the table where she had been reading. "You're leaving? Has Arthur sent you away? Or are you leaving him?" She knew it was unlikely that a mistress, especially one whose means were limited, would leave, but she liked to think that the woman might have a choice, too.
Gwyl laughed sharply, almost a bark. "Of course, he doesn't want me anymore. So I shall leave."
"How dare he, after the years you have been with him! I'll speak to him about it!" Guinevere exclaimed immediately, putting her arm around Gwyl.
Gwyl accepted the arm but remained rigid. There were delicate lines on her face and her waist was a trifle thicker than it had been, but she still was a beauty. "No," she said firmly. "If he doesn't want me, I don't want to stay. But I would like my son Colles to continue training as a warrior here, and my daughter Felicia to stay as one of your ladies."
"Of course, if you want, but won't you be lonely without them?" Guinevere scrutinized her face solicitously.
"I'll miss them, but I won't be entirely lonely," said Gwyl, returning Guinevere's look without embarrassment. "I have no intention of living without a man in my bed. But that's no way to raise my daughter. It's best if she stays here with you."
"You deserve better." Guinevere hugged her, but she let her leave.
When Gwyl had left, Guinevere sighed. It was unlikely that Arthur would have another mistress whom she liked so much. She smiled at the thought of all the jewels that had found their way to Gwyl's box of fancy things.
But, above all, Guinevere feared that Arthur might want her in his bed when Gwyl was gone. She would never be unfaithful to Lancelot, of course, but she didn't want a battle with her husband. Fortunately, she had always been so frozen in bed with him that he could hardly imagine she would give him much pleasure.
7 THE SAXON GIRL
One summer day, Arthur called Lancelot and Gawaine to his private chamber. The herbs and flower petals strewn among the rushes on the floor did not disguise the smell of wet dog. One of Arthur's Irish wolfhound pups, which sprawled beside his chair, had damp fur, no doubt from his morning run.
Making a slight gesture towards the hanging on the wall that depicted a battle scene, the king said, "I haven't heard much in recent years about Saxon raids, but I would like the two of you to travel along the borders of their lands, speak with the British people there, and make sure that the Saxons aren't disturbing them. Also, I need them to pay more tribute. Gawaine should go because, as my closest kinsman, he can speak for me. He is likely to succeed me—don't make gestures of dismissal, Gawaine, you know you are. And Lancelot is perhaps a little more diplomatic."
They nodded
in agreement, but Lancelot felt less than enthusiastic about asking for more tribute.
"They should pay all they can," Gawaine said. "I don't trust those devil-spawn Saxons. If they're quiet it probably means they're preparing for another war. But if they have to give more tribute, they won't be able to make as many war plans."
"Certes we cannot trust that they will never make war again." Arthur nodded. "It is good for them to meet you and know that there is a strong man to replace me should anything happen."
Gawaine grunted. "Your words only make me pray more earnestly that you will live forever. I have no desire to shoulder your burdens."
The sun pouring in the window belied their words. Another war seemed impossible. The dozing wolfhound pup added to the feeling of peace.
"You will be meeting with Saxon thanes," Arthur said, glancing at Gawaine's arm. "Therefore you should put off wearing the gold you have taken from the bodies of Saxon warriors you killed."
Gawaine touched one of his Saxon armrings. "Very well. I have enough gold to wear without them."
Lancelot smiled. Indeed he did. She wore little ornament herself, and had given all of her plunder from the Saxon War to the Church and the poor.
Lancelot hoped that her journey with Gawaine would be as pleasant as earlier ones, when he hadn't known she was a woman.
In a room brightened by only one candle, Guinevere watched Lancelot step into her breeches and pull on her boots. Not for an instant did Guinevere cease her scrutiny, for it would be long before she saw the dear face again. She wanted to moan about Lancelot's departure, but refrained.
Lancelot turned to the bed, and Guinevere leapt up and flung her arms about her. They held each other for a moment, then Lancelot moved away.
"May your journey be safe."
Guinevere tried to keep anxiety out of her voice.
"It will be. This time there is no danger. I'll be back in a month or two, never fear. I shall miss you as I know you will miss me." Lancelot looked into her eyes one last time, then opened the secret door and, pulling it behind her, went quietly down the steps.
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