Return of the Grail King

by Theresa Crater

  Perhaps it was not the ground, but the seed. But would men ever admit to such a thing? She would speak to Leigh, ask her if she had a remedy. Arthur would probably drink it, revolting as it might be, if they kept it between themselves. He was desperate for a son. He had stopped saying he did not care if the first was a girl or boy. Now, he wanted an heir.

  As she climbed a small hill that led up from the creek, she heard a snuffling in the woods. She froze. Looking around, she noticed a myrtle bush rustling. She moved back behind the thin trunk of a young black pine and crouched down, glancing around to find better cover. It seemed to be a large animal, given how much the undergrowth was moving. Perhaps a boar or bear. Either one was dangerous.

  Then she heard a whistle. Lancelot stepped into view from the other side of the hill, a bow and quiver hanging from his shoulder. “Here, girl,” he called, and a Clumber Spaniel ran out from the bush, legs and stomach wet with muddy water. She stood panting, tail wagging, then shook and threw water everywhere.

  Her much larger mate galloped down the hill and slammed into her shoulder, playfully snapping at her mouth, trying to induce a tussle. Two smaller Welsh Spaniels came up around Lancelot’s legs, then sniffed the air and took off straight for Guinevere, braying as they ran.

  Lancelot notched an arrow.

  She stood and stepped from her meager cover, waving her arms. “It’s me, Guinevere.”

  Lancelot lowered his bow. “My lady, we mistook you for dinner.”

  The dogs surrounded her, rubbing against her legs, tails a blur. The larger dogs headed for her with a yelp, but Lancelot ran down from the top of the hill and headed them off so they wouldn’t jump up and smear her clothes. He held his hand out to pull her up a slight incline. When she took it, a warm tingle ran up her arm. She pulled away, but he grasped her firmer, thinking she’d stumbled.

  “My lady?” he questioned.

  She allowed him to lead her to the deer trail, not needing help, but not wanting to make him question her again. And really, not wanting to break contact. “You are hunting, I see,” she said, trying to force her attention away from his wide shoulders, his handsome face flushed from running with the dogs.

  “I thought to bring back a few birds. Pheasants or quail. Perhaps duck.”

  “Are you headed for the lake?”

  “Yes, would you do me the honor of walking with me?”

  She looked down at the ground, into her basket, hesitating, anything to avoid those luminous brown eyes.

  “Or do you need to get back with your harvest?”

  “Oh, these will keep. I’ve wrapped them in a damp cloth.” She looked up and found him studying her, his lips curved in a tentative smile. “All right.”

  “Excellent,” he said.

  They walked back down the hill and Lancelot offered her his hand when they came to the creek, but this time she declined and jumped from rock to rock, nimble, keeping her balance, then waited for him on the other side, laughing.

  “I see you have good woods craft, my lady.”

  “Please, you may call me Guinevere.”

  Lancelot bowed with a flourish, a mischievous gleam in his eye. “Guinevere it is. Where did you grow up, Lady—uh, Guinevere?”

  “On the Isle of Anglesey, my lord.” She said this last with emphasis.

  “Please, call me Lancelot. Is Anglesey very different from here?”

  “Milder, perhaps, because it is so close to the sea, although the damp in winter can penetrate to the bone. The isle is a rolling, green land with small hills. A few mountains, but not like Yr Wyddfa. I grew up near the sea where we had marshes.”

  “Lovely,” he said, looking at her as if he were not discussing the island at all.

  “And you, Lancelot. Tell me of your homeland.”

  “Llydaw is close to the ocean, so we have many cloudy days. But when the sun comes out, it is glorious,” he said.

  They walked on, chatting about their favorite childhood games and pastimes, until the dogs gave voice and flushed out a covey of partridge. Guinevere fell silent and watched. The birds took flight and Lancelot pulled an arrow quickly, notched it, and took aim. He felled a large bird, then a second in rapid succession.

  He shouldered his bow again. “We’ll leave the rest to make more birds,” he said, somehow making simple good sense sound suggestive.

  Guinevere blushed.

  He pretended not to notice and whistled for the dogs to bring the birds to him. He strung them together, threw them over his back, and they walked back as the sun prepared to set, the dogs running ahead, then coming back to nose their hands and urge them to hurry. Dinner awaited, they seemed to be saying, but neither Guinevere nor Lancelot wanted to move any faster.

  They drew closer together in the quiet gloaming, their conversation lulled, and they settled into a silent communion. Guinevere found herself walking closer to him, although the path grew wider and easier to traverse as it rose out of the woods and stretched across the open field. Lancelot’s presence was like a small fire in the gathering cool of twilight, subtly warming her, making her breath come faster than the walk demanded. A silver sickle moon rode the western sky accompanied by the jewel of one bright star.

  Footsteps approached in the dim light and Lancelot put himself in front of her.

  “My lady?” came Ronan’s voice.

  “I’m here,” she answered. “I found Lancelot on my forage and went further into the woods with him on his hunt.”

  “When you didn’t return as expected . . .” Ronan trailed off.

  “I’m sorry to have worried you,” she said, moving away from Lancelot and drawing herself straighter.

  “Thank you, Lancelot, for looking after the lady,” Ronan said.

  “It was my pleasure.” His voice, husky in the night, sent a shiver through Guinevere.

  “Are you cold, my lady?” Lancelot reverted to more formality with Ronan next to them.

  Guinevere shook her head no, not trusting her voice. His presence had awakened something deep within her and she didn’t want to surface from the easy familiarity they had found between them. Yet, the settlement stood before them. She must gather herself, go in, greet people normally, see if dinner was ready.

  Lancelot seemed to understand and walked forward, putting an arm on Ronan’s shoulder. “I’ve found two fine partridges, but we might be too late for cook to include them in dinner.” He hoisted the birds up.

  “Never too late for partridges,” Ronan said, and the two men walked together, talking of hunting, Lancelot praising the pair of Welsh Spaniels.

  Cook took the birds and roasted them, so they had them after the stew. The men drank mead into the night and Guinevere excused herself early, curling up in her bed, remembering the tone of his voice in the dark, the touch of his hand when her footing was not sure, the solid warmth of him beside her.

  After that day, Guinevere took to walking with Lancelot in the afternoons when she could be spared from overseeing the household. She mentioned to Hester one morning as they sort through the spinning that she needed to keep their royal guest entertained.

  “I’d love to entertain him,” Hester swooned.

  Guinevere laughed. “He is quite handsome.”

  She showed him her favorite spots—the meadow overlooking the lake, dotted already with wild flowers. The ancient oak that stood slightly apart from the other trees in the wood as if they revered the ancient one and didn’t want to crowd him. She found reasons to walk close to his men as they sparred in the courtyard, listening to the ring of swords, watching for his dark crown of hair, standing almost a head taller than most of his men. His sword fighting was like a dance, graceful, almost elegant, but he struck with deadly skill, swift as an adder lying in the shadow of the woods, but noble as the hart with a full crown of antlers.

  In the evening, he sat next to her, easily holding the whole gathering in thrall with a story from his home. They listened to Heilyn, whose sight was fading, but whose fingers still knew
his harp, as he sang the old tales of glory or sang songs of woe or of love. She bent her head to him to hear his soft words of praise for the song or her eyes. He was familiar to her, as familiar as the scent of baked bread in the morning or the sound of a lark singing its joy to the rising sun. It was as if they had been in the middle of a conversation that had been interrupted and now they came back to it naturally, as if they were not just meeting, but returning to an old acquaintance.

  They rode together, Guinevere on her smoke gray mare, he on his prancing black stallion, often dismounting and walking the horses part way so they could walk close together, making small talk, sometimes just enjoying the closeness of walking arm in arm. One day, before boosting her up on her mare, Lancelot grasped her waist and, turning her, held her body against him, staring into her eyes. “Guinevere, if I had only found you sooner.”

  She looked away, down to her feet, at the side of her horse, anywhere but in the pool of those deep, dark eyes. “My lord,” she said, hoping to recall him to propriety, but he lifted her chin with his finger and kissed her, softly at first.

  He drew back. Her eyes filled with tears.

  “Guinevere?”

  “I never thought to feel this. It was my duty to marry him. I love Arthur, but—”

  His lips stopped her tumble of words. She clung to him, the warmth in her belly bursting into fire. Their kiss deepened and he pulled her to him.

  They heard hoof beats from down the hill and drew apart, Guinevere gasping, her body demanding to be satisfied. Two destrier stallions came into view. The riders wore Arthur’s livery. “Oh, no,” she whispered before she could stop herself.

  As the riders drew near, Lancelot hoisted Guinevere onto her mare and mounted his stallion, restive to challenge the newcomers. She did not recognize the men.

  “My Lady Guinevere,” one knight spoke, dipping his head. “Arthur sent us to guard in his stead. He sends his apologies to you and Sir Lancelot.” His voice lilted up at the end of the sentence.

  Lancelot rode forward. “Lancelot du Lac, nephew to King Hoel.”

  The man looked from Lancelot to Guinevere’s flushed face, then a rather sinister smile curved his lip. “King Arthur will be delayed at least another two months.”

  Guinevere mastered the spark of pure joy that shot through her at this news.

  “He has sent me to guard Camelot until his return.”

  She studied the man’s face. There was something familiar about it. He had the same aquiline nose as Arthur, the same thin mouth.

  Could it be? she wondered.

  “Have I made your acquaintance, sir?” she asked.

  “At the wedding, my lady, but there were so many people there. My name is Mordred, son of King Arthur and a priestess of Avalon.”

  Chapter 15

  Elizabeth dreaded the upcoming ritual, dreaded allowing the grief of Isis to sink deep into her heart, dreaded slogging through the search, through the well-known story. Didn’t she have enough worries with two precious lives on the line without having to mourn the loss of Osiris? Usually this ritual was for the initiation of a priestess. Tonight, what would it accomplish?

  Elizabeth had tried to contact Michael in Egypt once more. Tahir told her that Michael was not available, that he was going after Anne. When she’d asked what that meant, he said it was a secret of his order, something he could not discuss, even with a high initiate such as herself. She’d have to trust him, just as she had to trust Dr. Abernathy leading the rite, and Winston as Anne’s doctor, all the members of the lodge she’d worked with all this time. As she had to trust Anubis. And Isis.

  She thought of handing her part over to Winston’s wife, Cordelia, who was as well trained as she was, but she felt the disapproval of Anubis even as the thought crossed her mind. So she showered, then dressed in the tattered robes of a wanderer and spread ash on her face, appropriate for the grief of Isis.

  Downstairs in the ballroom, the rest of the lodge were gathered, sitting in meditation, assuming the roles assigned them for the ceremony. Elizabeth released her ordinary consciousness easily, knowing the lodge was in the capable hands of Dr. Abernathy as high priest. He led them into the temple, handing each a scepter or head piece appropriate to the Neter they would play. Anne lay in the corner, quiet, lost in her own dream of Camelot and her forbidden love.

  Abernathy nodded to the nurse, who silenced the monitors, but sat close enough to keep an eye on them. The quarters were called, then he began reciting the litany. Each person stepped forward to recite their assigned piece, with Elizabeth repeating what she’d already seen in vision—her marriage with Osiris, his mating with Nephthys, the birth of Anubis, and Set’s murder of his brother.

  “Each person at the banquet tried the box to see if they would fit. One was too tall, another too short. One was too fat, another too thin.”

  Good Lord, it’s like Goldilocks, Elizabeth thought, her irritability getting the best of her. She pushed down a hysterical laugh.

  Get a grip on yourself. There has to be some good reason for us to perform this ritual tonight. Otherwise, Anubis would not have insisted.

  Abernathy continued, not seeming to notice. He spoke of how Isis searched while Elizabeth moved through the temple, asking participants for a great box made of cedar and inlaid with ebony, gold, and silver. Only the children had seen it, they said, floating down the Nile. At last, Elizabeth sank into the story, and the next person she approached seemed not to be a lodge member at all, but a blue-skinned being with pendulous breasts and a large belly, but sporting a beard. Lotus flowers grew from the Neter’s head.

  Isis greeted the androgen. “Hapi, Lord of the River, Lord of Fish and Birds of the Marshes, have you seen my lord? Set has murdered my love and nailed him in a coffin of cedar. Have you seen the Lord Osiris?”

  “I carried the body of the Great Osiris, encased in his coffin of black and red, gently in my waters. One day we reached the great green sea.” Elizabeth had a dim sense that Bill Hardy was speaking to her as Hapi, but then Isis surged forward, more strongly than she ever had before. Elizabeth pushed back a bit. It was never safe to allow a spiritual being to have full reign, even her own spiritual guardian.

  “Hapi, son of Horus, we thank you for your kind service to my lord. Do you have knowledge of where the coffin went after that?”

  “I heard two ibis birds talking as they searched my waters for supper one evening. They had flown over the shores of Phoenicia where a great tamarisk tree grows. One said there is something hidden within the tree, something that sings a song of Egypt.”

  “I must sail to Phoenicia.”

  The lodge sang of the ocean, then fell into a crooning chant that sounded much like waves in the sea.

  David and Alycia stepped forward and acted out the discovery of the great tamarisk tree by King Malcander and his wife, Queen Astarte. The tree had grown around the casket of Osiris, hiding it from all eyes. The only hint of his presence was the scent of juniper berries and pine nuts.

  “How beautiful this tree is. See the green shine of the leaves. Listen to the birds singing in its many branches,” said King Malcander.

  “It is a tree worthy of our royal hall,” the queen said.

  Abernathy’s voice rang out, the deep resonance filling the temple. “And so the tree was cut and placed in the palace of Byblos as a great central pillar, and it became famous throughout the land. All who heard about it desired to see it, and many made the pilgrimage.

  “One day, an old woman, haggard and bent, dressed in rags, appeared at the gate.”

  Isis raised her voice. “I have come to see the tamarisk pillar and desire entry.”

  The lodge mimed the soldiers guarding the gates. “Only the great ones can come in. You are a beggar, a low woman.”

  “We cannot allow one of such bad character to enter.”

  Isis raised her hand, and a light came forth, striking the soldiers in the eyes, so that they cried out and saw the truth of who stood before them.


  “Great Goddess, please enter.”

  But before she did, Isis forbid them to speak of her true identity.

  Abernathy took up the tale again, his voice resonating through the hall. “When Isis approached the tree, she knew it contained the body of her lost love, but she had to find a way to remove it.

  “Isis went to the town baths to refresh herself from her long journey, and there washed and plaited her hair. The maids who served in the palace marveled at this and asked if Isis would do the same for their hair, never knowing they asked a Goddess for help. When the maids returned to their work, the beauty of this new style and the scent of lotus and myrrh that rose from the maids struck Queen Astarte. When questioned, they told the queen about the lady at the baths, and Astarte sent for her.”

  Elizabeth stood before Cordelia, who said, “I have it in my mind to ask you to come as nursemaid to my children, little Prince Maneros and my little baby Dictys, whose health is failing.”

  As Elizabeth felt the power rise in the ritual the Lodge of the House of Isis was enacting, Nina began her own solitary ceremony, calling in the directions and sealing her own temple in the attic of her brownstone in Washington, D.C. Riding the high of the success of her theft, she channeled that energy to call all the seductresses from legends around the world. She bent over a flat, silver dish filled with water that she’d gathered from White Spring, calling each by name.

  She listened for the sound of waves washing ashore on the Isle of Anthemusa, the famed island of the Sirens. They heard the wind gust and a sail snap full. They knew sailors were trying to pass them by, so they rushed as one down to the waters and sang, intertwining their voices together in a complex weave that burrowed down to find the hidden desires of each sailor, weary from work and the company of only men. Their song promised rest for toil, ease for tired muscles, lying back in warm water to be massaged and stroked into complete relaxation. To dine on the richest of food, the headiest of wines, until those hungers sated, the deeper desires would be fulfilled, one after another in an entwining of bodies in as many combinations as the sailor could imagine.