The Idylls of the Queen
Page 21
“I believe I do.” She smiled. “Some of them, at least, which I keep sorted and ready on the surface without the weight of emotions to bear them down.”
As I thought it over, Ironside, even if he did decide to turn to treachery, seemed more likely to fulfill his old vow with weapons—a sword in the back in an ill-lit passage—than with poison sprinkled on a dish of fruit. Besides, the cleric had seemed too small for Ironside, though it was hard to tell in Morgan’s tiny images. Astamore, we now knew, could have had the knowledge to prepare the poison himself without relying on a witch or herbwife who might betray him. A young and comparatively small-boned man, he would be no match for Gawain or Gaheris in the field, nor even, perhaps, in a sneak attack in bad light. The question was whether he might secretly judge the death of his uncle Bagdemagus worth avenging. Dame Nimue could learn that with a touch of her finger to his forehead if she would deign to do it, which she might not without further evidence.
Astamore, also, was traveling with an Orkney not that much better loved than Agravain and Mordred. If Astamore felt the need to avenge his uncle strongly enough to have tried poison, he might try striking at Gawain through one of his brothers. Their family ties are such that Gawain would feel the murder even of his least-loved brother more keenly than his own, but not many others would mourn Gaheris’ death beyond consolation. Dame Lynette might even celebrate her widowhood.
Pinel, on the other hand, was traveling with Gareth Beaumains, the Innocent, the Aloof-from-His-Brothers, the one most likely to be exempted from any blood feud. On the whole, I would have preferred joining Astamore and Gaheris, to prevent further mischief and pick Astamore’s brains if we could. And, I suppose, partly because if Astamore were guiltless as I hoped, he would be better company than Pinel the Loudvoice of Carbonek.
But Pinel seemed to be our least-known suspect of the three; so if he was also the nearest to us in distance, I decided it would be most practical to accept that as a Heaven-sent directional omen.
Mordred sat watching me and patiently toying with his tokens. “All right,” I said, “give her Gareth’s bloody—which was it?—bandage. Gareth may even have something of his great hero Lancelot’s that we can use from there.”
Mordred tossed the bandage almost carelessly to Nimue. She snapped her fingers, which seemed to guide it through the air to her hand. Producing her copper-tipped dart, now clean of Dame Morgan’s dark hairs, she bound the bandage to its point and held it up by its chain. It jounced for a moment, but Nimue blew on it and it settled down to point southeast.
“Weathercock!” Mordred leaned over his saddle to mutter at my ear. “And we called Gaheris the weathercock of the family, did we not?”
“You also explained him to me as suffering from an over-strong sense of justice.” Either Gaheris was guided by the winds of opinion, blowing now from this direction, now from that; or he followed a consistent, if somewhat warped, inner devotion to justice—to me the two attempts at pinning down his character were mutually contradictory.
Mordred, however, reconciled them without blinking. “Gaheris, the Weathercock of the Winds of Justice. Would it not be strange if I were mistaken—if that bloody bandage had once wrapped Gaheris’ wound, not Gareth’s, so that Dame Nimue’s weathercock dart brought us to the weathercock brother?”
“If you’re going to keep a collection like that,” I said, “you should be very sure you know where every gewgaw came from.” I wondered how many more of us Mordred held represented in his collection of mementos. He must have been keeping it almost since the business at Peningues: that lock of Gawain’s hair had not yet showed any silvering. I wondered about other things, too. Meanwhile, we followed Dame Nimue’s dart to the southeast, going at her magically-speeded trot.
We soon came to a minor Roman road and took it south to Watling Street, which we followed for a good part of the way even though it veered slightly from the direction of the small arrow. Even Dame Nimue’s art of rapid travel was faster and smoother for having a good road beneath us instead of mud, roots, weeds, and rocks. During the day we passed a party of merchants, a few knights—probably from local castles, nobody whose shields I recognized, at least at the speed we were going—and a number of peasants, none of whom seemed to notice us though sometimes our column had to move closer to one side of the road in order to pass without touching them. I assume that some spell of invisibility went along with the rapid traveling.
Towards evening, as the dart began to hum again, we left the road for the woods once more. As dark fell, Nimue’s servants lit torches to keep the rear of the column together. Nimue preferred no torches near her since her dart had begun to glow and she could see more clearly without further artificial light. So we stumbled along behind her, going more nearly at natural speed because of the darkness. Finally, as the dart’s hum reached its loudest, we came out in a clearing where a couple of pavilions were pitched, looking peaceful, with several fowl left unattended on spits over the cooking-fire.
As Dame Nimue’s retinue crowded into the clearing behind us, Beaumains and Pinel came out of the nearer pavilion, more or less prepared to adapt their greeting to the company. Gareth carried his shield and wore breastplate and swordbelt clapped on over his tunic. Pinel was in full armor and carried his sword drawn. Gareth’s squire pushed through after them with his master’s helmet ready.
“Did you think we were Saxons, Saracens, or mounted robbers?” I asked, dismounting.
Gareth put down his shield and motioned his squire to help undo the breastplate. “We heard a large company coming. Friendly or not, we couldn’t tell, but it seemed best to prepare against the worst.”
“Well, I don’t much blame you,” I replied. What Saxons had penetrated to this part of the country were cleaned out long ago, but our group could have been a robber-baron’s band of cutthroats or even someone like Lancelot with the playful habit of cutting down friendly knights in their pavilions for the pure high spirits of it, before asking names. “Gillimer, go turn those fowls before they burn,” I added, seeing that Gareth’s squire was occupied unarming the two knights again while, by the sounds, Pinel’s dwarf had gone to harness the warhorses in case they were needed and now was busy unharnessing them.
“But how did they hear us coming, Dame Nimue,” asked Mordred, “when nobody else we passed today did?”
Nimue was twining the chain around her little arrow. “The charm of escaping folks’ sight fades with lessening speed and, not wishing to take our friends by surprise, I lifted what was left of the charm of silence as we approached their camp. But why fret over a few burned fowls, Seneschal?” Flexing her arm and fingers to work out the cramps of holding the arrow up by its chain all day, she motioned to her people and they began finding places for our own pavilions.
“This is Dame Nimue?” Pinel took off his helmet and stared at her by fire- and torchlight. “The Saxons and the Saracens might be driven back,” he said in his richest and loudest voice, “but it seems there are still heathens in these southern woods. What are you doing, brothers, in the company of that Paganess, the Lady of the Lake?”
Dame Nimue stiffened. “Pagan, am I, Sir Knight? It’s a proud name, and I do not object when it is given me in respect, but I am not such as your voice implies, Sir Grail-worshipper of Carbonek.”
“You learned your witch’s craft from that Satan’s son Merlin, did you not?” Pinel rejoined, despite a poke in the ribs from Gareth.
“That’s enough, Pinel,” I said. “Your King trusted Merlin, and Dame Nimue has been the court’s good friend since before you were a page.”
“My lord Sir Arthur may have trusted the Devil’s son, or pretended to trust him, out of fear. My lord uncle King Pellam has never trusted anything Pagan or devilish.”
“Sir Father Petroc,” said Nimue to her priest, “it is not too late for Evensong, I think?”
“I sang it to myself, my lady, as we rode.”
“Sing it again,” said Nimue, “for all of us.”
“Neither, my Pelleas. We will have good Father Petroc sing Evensong for the dull soul. Better a good Pagan than a bad Christian, Sir Pinel of Carbonek,” she added.
“I will not attend your Devil’s Vespers,” said Pinel. “In Carbonek, we know that oil and water do not mix.”
“Oil is mingled with water during the high mysteries of Easter Eve. Oil burns brightly, though buoyed up by water. And your Fisher Kings blent more of the old ways with the new than you guess, Sir Mudhead.”
“Enough!” I said, as Pinel opened his mouth again. “Pay no attention to him, Dame Nimue. He talks to give himself something to think about—half the time there’s nothing rattling around in his brainpan except the sound of his own voice, and he himself probably doesn’t understand the sense of most of what he says. As for you, Sir Mudhead of Carbonek, you’re going to hear Evensong with the rest of us, like a good little boy, and hope it does you some good. And you, Beaumains, you could at least show the courtesy to blush for your companion.”
“The sword of He-Who-Comes is sharper than your tongue, Sir Kay,” Pinel began, but Gareth cut him off:
“For the love of Ihesu, Pinel, show courtesy. Whatever her creed, the Dame of the Lake is a gentle lady and our good friend.”
“Show her courtesy, Sir Mudhead of Carbonek,” I added, thinking Nimue’s name for him as good a one as I could have invented myself, “or she can have her choice of champions against you, and by God, if she chooses me, we’ll see whether He-Who-Comes bestirs Himself to save you from my lance and sword.”
Pinel glanced around at us and finally sheathed his sword, muttering, “Brothers of the Round Table should not draw iron against one another.”
Mordred, who had sat watching it all without taking part, chuckled. “Pinel, if you aspire to take Dinadan’s place as the buffoon of the Round Table, you must learn to make yourself ridiculous by choice rather than happenstance.”
CHAPTER 26
Kay’s Memories of the Deaths of Morgawse and Lamorak
“Sir Lamorak saw there was none other bote, but fast armed him, and took his horse and rode his way making great sorrow. But for the shame and dolour he would not ride to King Arthur’s court, but rode another way.”
—Malory X, 24
Nimue’s priest sang Evensong by torchlight and we patched up a sort of half-armed truce. Probably the fact that Nimue’s pavilions offered a lot more comfort than his own helped settle Pinel down. Dame Nimue found a chance, however, to murmur secretly to me, “I could wish that unpleasant knight to prove the poisoner.”
“Read his memories,” I said. “Maybe he is.”
She laughed. “Ah, no, Sir Kay! You must show me clearer reason than your general doubts to make me slip my spirit into that boggy mind.”
I think I grinned. “Yes, he’s the blustering mudhead you called him. While he was still at Carbonek, the Sangreal probably took one of its flights abroad whenever it heard him coming. Well, if we let him talk loudly enough, maybe he’ll dredge up some secret for us from the muddy shallows.”
That night I dreamed of Dame Morgawse’s murder; but it had not been Morgawse who was killed in her bed by her lover Lamorak, but Guenevere, murdered by Lancelot. I awoke weeping in the darkness, convinced for a time that Du Lac had decided not to fight Mador de la Porte, and chosen a worse way of using his sword to save the Queen from the fire. Even when I remembered which queen had been murdered, I still lay for a while believing it had happened recently and Lancelot had done the deed. I wondered whether Morgan le Fay really loved Lancelot after all, since she had refused to show me the night of her sister’s death as if she would protect the murderer.
By morning my mind was more clear, but without much hope. The least slip in my reasoning or Mordred’s, and we were chasing idle suspicions of the wrong men completely. Out of an entire court, not to mention the city of London—and there was even the possibility of a witch coming in from the countryside just long enough to work his or her mischief—what was the likelihood that the traitor was one of the three, or half-dozen, or even full score we thought most probable? Only that they had been among the Queen’s guests and might have some deep grievance against Gawain. And it was Mordred who had arranged his chosen company to meet at Astolat—Mordred, who expected the Queen to be saved by the might of Lancelot’s spear and sword, or Bors’, or possibly Ywain’s; Mordred, who at best regarded this whole expedition as a pleasant pastime to take his mind off a mischievous old prophecy about himself, and whose choice had been further limited to those knights he could manipulate into traveling with his own brothers. Mordred, who said he had considered me his chiefest suspect. What hope had we of stumbling onto the truth with reasoning like that? And Dame Nimue, it seemed, for all her magic, could work only with the material we suggested to her.
As for the murder of Dame Morgawse, it had happened years ago, before the Grail Quest, and, as her sons had always believed, Lamorak de Galis probably had been the one to kill her, in twisted vengeance for the death of his father Pellinore at the hands of Gawain and Gaheris. Who could blame Dame Morgan, after all, for not wanting to watch the bloody end of her own sister? Not a pleasant sight even for a sorceress like Le Fay. Besides, she was right. Even if Patrise’s death had been a freak result of the long feud between the sons of Pellinore and those of Lot, what mattered was not whatever really may have happened, but what the sons of Pellinore and Lot believed to have happened, and it needed no magical vigils on the past to know what they believed.
Aglovale and Tor believed as a matter of course, as Dornar and Percival had also believed when they were alive, that their brother Lamorak could never have done anything so treacherous and unknightly; and, therefore, it was someone else who had murdered Dame Morgawse. Gawain, Agravain, Gaheris, and Mordred believed just as firmly that Lamorak had killed their mother in pure treachery. Gareth stayed aloof so as not to anger Lamorak’s friends and kinsmen, most of whom, especially after Lamorak’s death, were also adherents of Gareth’s idol Lancelot.
A disinterested observer would incline to the opinion of Lot’s sons. Dame Morgawse had come down from Orkney, at the invitation of Gawain and his brothers, to stay in one of his castles near Camelot while the court was there. Gawain’s idea, and Dame Guenevere’s (although they had talked of it with very few before the event and never mentioned it at all afterwards, so that most folk forgot it) was to arrange a marriage between the queen of Orkney and her lover, and thus end the long feud. As everyone expected of the paramours, Lamorak—who had let it be believed he was more than willing to wed—took his first opportunity to visit Morgawse alone in the castle by night. He went into the castle alone, leaving his dwarf with the horses at a privy postern, and when Lamorak came out of her room again, she was beheaded.
According to the dwarf’s story, Lamorak had returned outside within the half-hour, badly shaken and babbling something incoherent about horror and treachery. He had leaped into the saddle as he was—half-armed and helmless, with only his sword belted around his bare tunic—without even stopping to tighten the girth, and ridden off at a gallop, keeping his seat by pure horsemanship—not back to Camelot, but in the other direction. After a few moments of hesitation between following his master and entering the castle to learn what was wrong, the dwarf had returned to court for help, naturally seeking out Gawain as the castle’s owner. Gawain and Mordred, finding their mother dead, had gathered their other brothers (excepting Gareth Beaumains, who was absent, fortunately for himself since it spared him a difficult decision) and set out after Lamorak at once, trusting the funeral preparations to me. Unable to find Lamorak that same night, they returned for their mother’s burial and then set out again.
De Galis, however, had disappeared from sight. He did not surface again until Duke Galeholt’s long tournament in Surluse. Lamorak rode into the lists the third
day, disguised in plain armor and a blank shield, but most folk soon recognized him by his size and his style of fighting. Arthur had not planned to be at the duke’s tournament, having business elsewhere, so Dame Guenevere was presiding alone over our party. Out of respect for her, Duke Galeholt, and his friend Lancelot, Gawain insisted the King be summoned. Arthur arrived in two days’ time, but when Gawain and his brothers tried to appeach Lamorak formally of treason in their mother’s death, Arthur refused to bring Lamorak to trial, attempting to smooth the matter over with hopeful words of truce and peace. And Dame Morgawse had been his half-sister, as well as one of his youthful romances. Lamorak loaded himself with tournament honors, fighting as coolly as if he had not been involved a short time ago in his paramour’s death, while Lancelot, Palomides, and others, who were trying to protect their friend or simply keep the truce, prevented Gawain and his brothers from getting near Lamorak in the medley fighting.
So after the tournament, Gawain, Agravain, Gaheris, and Mordred followed Lamorak into the woods. According to the two squires Lamorak had picked up in Surluse, one of the Orkney brothers had killed Lamorak’s horse and one of them had finally killed their knight from behind; but the lads did not know the shields of Lot’s sons, except Gawain’s, well enough at the time of the battle to say which was which, and they did not speak of the affair except when they could not avoid direct questions. Maybe they were afraid of Orkney vengeance on themselves, or maybe they were grateful to Gawain and his brothers for leaving them alive and bringing them to Arthur’s court. Gawain said nothing abut the actual fighting except that Queen Morgawse was avenged, and her other sons said nothing except that Gawain had fought Lamorak fairly.
Out of respect, as Gawain said, for the warrior Lamorak had been, they had refrained from separating the corpse to bring back the head, but left him buried whole at the nearest woodland chapel, about a mile from the scene of battle. Gawain even had Masses offered for Lamorak’s soul, and when Lamorak’s brothers suggested to his face that this showed a guilty conscience, he replied only that Lamorak might have killed Dame Morgawse in a fit of madness rather than in planned malice.