Though Eliezer refused to acknowledge the rift among the sons of Lot, I was sure it existed. So much was obvious from how often, or how seldom, the brothers were seen in each other’s company. Gawain and Gaheris had once been boon companions. Almost disregarding—in so far as he was capable—Agravain, the brother between, Gawain had even seemed to regard Gaheris as his indispensable Conscience (as if he needed any besides the one in his own head), especially after the accidental murder of Sir Ablamar’s lady, which happened when Gaheris was still serving as his older brother’s squire. Though other men would resent an exterior conscience, having trouble enough with the inner one, and though the version Gaheris told of the poor dame’s death was probably unduly harsh on Gawain, they remained boon companions, being seen almost as often in each other’s company after Gaheris was knighted as when he was Gawain’s squire. Looking back through the years, I was more and more convinced that the time they had ceased to be seen much together dated from their return to court with the report of King Pellinore’s death.
The rift with Agravain and Mordred seemed to date from the Grail Quest and the death of Sir Dinadan, though Mordred himself had largely avoided the company of his oldest brother since the Peningues tournament—since the time, as I now knew, that he had begun to wall himself off from ideas of honor so that he could let the priest’s words fester in secret.
Their sins aside, not one of the lot was worthy of his oldest brother—Agravain with his vain and lazy arrogance, whether or not it masked some secret energy for devising schemes like spreading slander about the Queen; Gaheris with his veering moods and his warped oversense of justice; Mordred, who might have been a good knight if he had only indulged a little of Gawain’s heretical skepticism about priests’ prophecies. The only possible exception among the brothers was Gareth Beaumains the Beloved, who is about Gawain’s equal—some say his superior—in arms and honor, but who is also a simple-minded dolt. And Gawain’s special love for Gareth was one-sided. Beaumains might have been shunning his brothers’ fellowship on principle since the death of Lamorak, but it made little difference in practice; even before Lamorak’s death, he had rarely been seen with any others of his family, preferring to puppydog around after Lancelot and Lancelot’s kinsmen, most of whom had little use for the other sons of Lot, largely because they saw Gawain as a rival for the fame of their adored Du Lac.
And yet Gawain called this cocksure, glory-seeking, berserking, unreliable Vanishing Wonder, Lancelot du Lac, his dearest friend. And Lancelot returned the affection, at least ostensibly, all rumors of blood-guilt and treachery in Gawain notwithstanding. It was, nevertheless, a kind of absentee friendship, holding across the miles, and manifesting itself whenever the two happened to be in the same place at the same time, but not leading to much travel together for adventure. Lancelot was too independent-minded, Gawain too mindful of Arthur’s reliance on him and of his duty to be available, if possible, at the King’s need. Or possibly the two Great Ones feared to learn more of each other, finding it safer to keep up their friendship at a distance. No, Lancelot had not crowded out Gawain’s fellowship with his brothers as he had Gareth’s.
But though the younger brothers, Beaumains excepted, maintained outward loyalty to the head of the clan and joined him at need—as in running down their mother’s murderer—to show the world a united front, within the family circle itself, Gawain must be alone among his brothers. Maybe Lot and Morgawse had used up all their virtues in their first-born.
* * * *
If Gaheris and Astamore had not joined us the next day, Saturday, after the arrival of Agravain and Ironside, I intended to let my plans for gathering the brothers fall by the wayside and start back to London, whether or not the rest of them chose to join me or to wait at Astolat. But the missing pair arrived early Saturday afternoon.
Their reason for being late was that Gaheris had fallen sick their second day out, apparently of drinking bad water from a serpent-infested stream, and it had taken a nearby hermit eight days to bring him out of danger and to the point where he could ride by easy stages. He was still too weak to wear armor, and his squire Melehan, Mordred’s oldest son, had to help him off his palfrey. At that, Gaheris was fortunate. The time Lancelot drank from a serpent-venomed spring, he lost his hair, beard, and fingernails before sweet Damsel Amable managed to effect his cure, which took her several fortnights.
Astamore, fully armed on his warhorse, rode in beside Gaheris as if ready to protect the whole party should danger threaten.
“Did you search the stream and find the serpent?” I wanted to know.
Astamore removed his helmet and shook his head. “No. The first thing was to search for help—thank God and Our Lady that Melehan found Sir Alfin’s hermitage. But Sir Alfin told us it had happened before in the streams near his house, and he and his folk drank only from their own cistern.”
“It was a good thing,” I remarked, “that Gaheris was the only one of your party who drank from that stream.”
“Aye, thank God!” Astamore’s squire Osmond crossed himself. “We had it at our lips! My lord even showed us what leaves to rub our mouths with, in case any of it had already gotten on our lips and tongues.”
Mordred and I had our chance to talk it over alone while Gaheris and his party were resting and being fed. “I think you told me,” I began, “that Gaheris was too much on his guard to eat or drink anything Astamore didn’t share with him.”
“Anything prepared. Naturally, Gaheris would suspect no harm of a flowing spring. And, as I understand, Astamore seemed on the very verge of drinking.”
“And then knew right away which herbs to pick for rubbing his mouth and the squires’.” I shook my head. “No, it seems he hasn’t forgotten what Morgan taught him of herb lore.”
“And how could he have poisoned the flowing spring?” said Mordred. “Did he also find some chance to put the serpent into it? You tried to blame Patrise’s death, also, on a serpent in the food cellars, did you not?”
“Yes,” I said. “Brash of Astamore to try that same trick so soon.” We hadn’t found any serpents in the London fruit cellars, of course, and now Mordred and I knew, along with Dames Morgan and Nimue, how the fruit must really have been poisoned; but the poisoner and the rest of the court knew only that I had suspected serpent venom.
Mordred stretched out on his cot and began balancing his dagger on his palm. “He must have felt safe, knowing how blame for the first poisoning had been cast on the Queen.”
“Cast by that bloody Mador de la Porte. If the rest of the court can really believe his accusation—”
“Try to put your passion aside again for a moment, Sir Seneschal. The brave Sir Mador, whom we all used to love and admire dearly, has, I believe, been an ornament to Arthur’s court longer than has Dame Guenevere. If he should win the combat, as is not impossible unless Lancelot appears in time to replace Bors, not only will the Queen’s guilt be established according to law—do sit down and calm yourself—but it will also be accepted, however mournfully, in the minds of the court and populace. Who meanwhile, we may assume, hardly know what to think. Thus, Mador’s victory would have effectively masked a second mysterious death by poison from all but a little harmless gossip. Even should the Queen’s champion win, the matter of Gaheris’ death would have remained sufficiently clouded that the murderer could hope to escape mortal retribution. A serpent-venomed stream in the forest is more plausible than a serpent-venomed apple from Sir Kay’s cellars, and brother Gawain is not another Mador de la Porte, to bring a charge of treachery without better evidence than this, even to avenge a brother. No more is Beaumains, and though Agravain might bestir himself in the matter of Gaheris’ death, it is far from certain.”
“And you?”
Mordred managed to shrug without unbalancing the knife on his palm. “Brother Gawain accepting Astamore’s story of a serpent—and though Gawain can understand blows dealt with sharp steel, he has difficulty understanding blows dealt with poison—he w
ould probably forbid the rest of us to challenge Astamore on nothing but suspicion. Besides, Astamore probably meant to delay his return to court until after the Queen’s trial, and possibly, if her innocence were proved and the new death thus laid open to a trifle more questioning, he may have planned to follow the example of the illustrious Lancelot and disappear on some private adventure for a year or three. Or he may have a mind so subtle that he reasons beyond the obvious and trusts that a second poisoning so soon after the first, seeming too foolhardy to be attempted on purpose, should escape suspicion by its very suspiciousness.”
“The court doesn’t think that subtly,” I said. “Mador de la Porte has proved it.”
“Ah, but I think that subtly. I even think subtly enough to wonder whether Astamore was secretly dismayed or sincerely gladdened when his victim’s squire found Sir—what was his name?—Alfin’s hermitage.”
Perhaps the fact that I had originally judged Astamore to be a good, honorable young fellow accounted in part for my heaviness now. “Gawain was the only one of you involved in Bagdemagus’ death,” I said. “Whatever you expected, Mordred, I didn’t expect Astamore to try to avenge his uncle by striking at Gawain through his brothers.”
“But is it not fortunate for Her Grace that he did?”
“God, even Bagdemagus’ worthless son Meliagrant was more direct in his aims than this! If nothing else, Astamore would have hurt his chances of getting at Gawain himself.”
Mordred tossed his dagger from his hand and sat up. “Your mind is too honest, Seneschal. Even the business of the late Sir Lohot taught you nothing of traitors’ ways. Shall we descend on your Astamore at once and put him to the question?”
“His ring,” I said. “That bloody ring with the outsized stone he’s always turning on his finger!”
“Yes… A ring, and a habit, not unlike my own. And so he would not even have needed a serpent for his ally, merely a practiced flick of the setting in his ring. Clever.” Mordred frowned for a moment. “How shall we best steal that ring to examine it? By night as he sleeps, or at once, this afternoon, by some ruse?”
“Right now,” I said, “by going straight to him and demanding it!”
I started up, but Mordred caught my shoulder and held me back.
“Gently, Seneschal, gently! Alarm him with an outright accusation, and we may have to rack him in earnest, knight and king’s kin or not, before we have the truth from his lips. There is a better way.”
“You have about as long as it takes to say an Ave to explain it.”
He took a few paces inside the pavilion, less, I think, to aid his thoughts than to get himself between me and the doorway. “Whom can we best trust, and how much need we tell them? A few words to our kind host, a hint to Dame Tamsine, or perhaps pretty young Damsel Elaine, of Astamore’s thirst for womanly companionship… yes, he’s fetching enough in person, they’ll be ready to stay near him for no other reason… Perhaps to hear him harp with Pinel?” He shook his head. “No, best not attempt to include Sir Loudvoice of Carbonek in the interlude, or he might drive the damsels away even from Astamore… but a game of chess, and Sir Bernard will be hovering near, of course—yes, that will hold our Astamore as securely for the evening as would chains and bonds, while we six enjoy our rendezvous in the cellar.”
“Don’t be too sure of that gathering,” I said. “If we can make sure of Astamore’s guilt—”
“He knows of our gathering; I’ve already told Gaheris. And poor Sir Bernard has had his people at work preparing a proper place for us all morning. It would put Astamore more on his guard were we to call off our business now than were we to carry it through.”
“Not if we use Gaheris’ condition for an excuse.”
“A few hours’ rest, and brother Gaheris will be sufficiently recovered from his morning’s ride.… And we can make sure of my son Melehan, of course; I can trust him to obey me without overmany questions, and as the squire of Astamore’s companion, he is very happily situated to be seen about their pavilion, or to raise the alarm in case our man should attempt to fly—which may, after all, be the best way we can hope for him to reveal himself. They will probably engage Astamore in one of the better pavilions, too, leaving my son, with luck, a clear chance to search Astamore’s own rather bedraggled—”
“You don’t expect him to take his ring off and leave it in his bedding for Melehan to find?”
Mordred waved his hand. “No, no, of course not. I fear we must wait for Astamore to sleep if we hope to examine his ring without his knowledge. He probably emptied it into the stream in any case, and may not have filled it again. But if Melehan could find some other trace, perhaps a vial wherefrom he fills the ring… Should we offer them the use of our own fine, borrowed pavilion? No, best not, it might warn him… still, if we offered our host and his family the use of a fine pavilion of the Lady of the Lake’s for the evening…”
“All right,” I said, “we’ll play the game by your moves for this evening. But by God, Mordred, if Astamore escapes us, you’re going back and taking the blame for Patrise’s death on yourself to save the Queen!”
“If Astamore escapes us, I’ll cheerfully promise you that, Seneschal,” he replied. “But our family gathering tonight is your move in the game, is it not?”
“It started that way.” I tried to force my thoughts back to the gathering of the clan that I myself had called for. “No weapons,” I said, remembering Gaheris’ pale face and the bandage over Agravain’s left eye. “I don’t want any weapons in that cellar with us. Make sure they know that.”
Mordred cocked one eyebrow. “No weapons among brothers?”
“None.”
“And if we must suddenly rush forth to pursue Sir Bagdemagus’ nephew?”
“It won’t take us that much longer to catch up our weapons on the way from the cellar to our horses. Meanwhile, we’ll have to depend on Ywain and Ironside, our host, maybe Pinel, and your reliable son Melehan with the other squires to join the chase.”
“And what, I wonder, will you reveal to us this evening, or propose to us, or persuade us to promise?”
I saw I had been treated to a sample of Mordred’s own powers of persuasion. He looked forward to the gathering of his brothers, and would not be cheated out of it even when what we had just learned of Astamore made it appear superfluous. “Come and find out,” I said.
“And will you forbid us even our daggers?”
I would have preferred no weapons of any kind. The Saxons had been known to play unpleasant tricks with concealed daggers at supposedly peaceable gatherings. I hoped we were at least too honorable for that sort of thing; but, on the other hand, daggers are very easily concealed, and I hardly wanted to tempt anyone to bring in a hidden blade. “Use your own judgment about your daggers.”
Mordred smiled and went out whistling. I suppose, having my promise to go through with my own move, he wanted to give me no chances to renege on my word. He seemed to regard tonight’s gathering as a child regards his first wooden sword. I pitied him.
CHAPTER 32
The Truth of the Deaths of Sir Lamorak and Dame Morgawse
“Sir wit ye well, said Sir Kay, that my name is Sir Kay, the Seneschal. Is that your name? said Sir Tristram, now wit ye well that ye are named the shamefullest knight of your tongue that now is living; howbeit ye are called a good knight, but ye are called unfortunate, and passing overthwart of your tongue.”
—Malory IX, 15
Thinking it over, I knew Mordred was right that openly demanding Astamore’s ring would destroy our chance of tricking a revelation out of him; but, unwilling to let it go at that, and unable to wait in idleness, I decided to try the game of subtlety myself. I was not oversuccessful at it.
Leaving our pavilion, I searched until I located Astamore, seated alone on a rock at the edge of the nearest grain-field and thrumming his lute. I strolled up to him, as if casually, and the first thing I noticed, even from a distance, was that the familiar ring was missing fr
om the third finger of his right hand. He had never taken the thing off, as another lutanist would have, to play his instrument, but only to put on his gauntlet for battle. When I came closer, however, I saw—hardly to my comfort—that the overwrought silver band was still around his finger, but the huge blue stone was gone.
At least this development made it unnecessary for me to use any of the excuses I had been trying to develop for asking to see his ring without arousing his fears. I needed only to ask how he had lost the stone from his ring.
“I gave it to Sir Alfin,” he confessed, “in return for his hospitality and Gaheris’ cure.”
“A hermit asked for pay?”
“No, but it isn’t a wealthy house, and I gave it to him as a prayer-offering. Gaheris gave him the great topaz from his helmet when he was well enough to ride,” Astamore went on, absently twisting the denuded silver band on his finger in the old way. “It made my stone look rather small. Well, the joy will be in winning another gem someday for the dear old ring.”
I went on talking with him for an hour. He might very easily, of course, have thrown the hollow poison-stone away and made up a tale of giving it to the hermit, but you would never have guessed it from his talk. He was either as subtle as Mordred credited him with being, or utterly guileless. He made me doubt my old estimation of Dame Bragwaine, who had seemed equally guileless. He also shook my conviction that he was indeed our poisoner.
Nevertheless, when I got away from his company and reconsidered the three of them—the jolly giant Ironside, Pinel of the Clattering Tongue, and the honorable-seeming Astamore with his early practical knowledge of poisons, I kept coming back to the conviction, little as I liked it, that Astamore must be the one we had to hold fast.
Mordred’s plans for Astamore’s entertainment were only partly successful. Dame Tamsine was already rambling with Ironside in the woods, and Mordred sent his son Melehan to spy on them, less for lingering suspicion than for the sake of symmetry. Sir Bernard and his children declined the luxuries of our pavilion, at least until after nightfall, preferring to take advantage of the beauties of the late afternoon and set up their chessboard outside, Astamore giving young Damsel Elaine a lesson while her brothers looked on over her shoulder to point out her mistakes as she made them. Ywain, who was keeping the sword Excalibur in trust for his cousin this evening, sat polishing the gems of its hilt and conversing with the baron of Astolat, while Sir Bernard’s old bard provided music in the background. Pinel, who had sustained a long, shallow cut in his left shank in the mock tourney two days before and, since it was far from serious, had refused on principle to let the “Pagan woman” close it up for him with her magic, now pled that it and his other bruises were troubling him, and retired to his own borrowed pavilion to drink a bowl of his host’s precious wine and take a nap. Keeping up the symmetry of our game to the last, I took Gillimer enough into my confidence to tell him to hover around outside someplace where he could keep a watch on both Pinel’s pavilion and Astamore’s chess game—but to watch the latter more closely, even to following at a distance if Astamore got up to go answer a call of nature.
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