The Idylls of the Queen

by Phyllis Ann Karr

  I glanced around at them again. I had made such a long explanation of it in hopes he would have betrayed himself by now, listening to me.

  Gawain sat watching me as if in stunned, unwilling belief. Mordred’s stare as good as told me that if I were having some sport with them my fate would make Lamorak’s look pleasant. Gaheris was still staring down at the table, his head propped up on his right arm, the arm that was slightly too long. Beaumains seemed confused, as if unsure whether to try to sneer at what I was saying or to applaud me for accepting his hero Lamorak’s innocence at last. Agravain was cleaning his fingernails with the tip of his dagger.

  “I think you’d better give me that dagger, Agravain,” I said.

  He glanced up at me and returned his attention to his manicure. “I think not, Seneschal.”

  “Then the rest of us had all better draw our daggers, too,” I said. None of them did it at my word, but Mordred moved his right arm a little to let me see that his dagger was already in his hand, half behind the tabletop. I decided to leave my own knife sheathed. All I wanted was their continued attention and at least a little willingness to believe what I was saying.

  “If Lamorak did not kill Dame Morgawse, the likeliest person to have tried to attack him in her bed was someone who already had some grievance against him. Also, in all probability, someone very familiar with Gawain’s castle, which more or less excludes any of Lancelot’s or Tristram’s kinsmen who might have been growing uneasy that Lamorak was a threat to their cousins’ glory. Probably our man was someone who not only knew the castle, but was a familiar and trusted sight around it—although I suspect that this time he came between nightfall and Lamorak’s arrival, and avoided being seen by any of the castle folk. Someone who could have seen his chance at the first suggestion that Dame Morgawse come to spend some time in her eldest son’s castle when her lover was nearby.”

  Agravain stopped cleaning his fingernails. Mordred brought his right arm up to the top of the table, turning the knife blade slightly to make it gleam in the candlelight.

  I pressed on. “The man who tried to surprise Lamorak in Dame Morgawse’s bed, and by mischance struck the lady, must have been one of her own sons.”

  To my surprise, Mordred sat unmoving. Beaumains shook his head, Gawain crossed himself, Gaheris gave no sign of having heard me and I wondered whether he was really feeling his recent illness. Agravain shrugged. “Small wonder you wanted to get this blade out of my hands. Or are you actually trying, for some reason, to goad us into killing you? We are still brothers, five against one.”

  “Let him speak,” said Gawain. “Sir Kay, I guarantee your safety.”

  “Aye, Seneschal, speak,” said Mordred. “Which of us do you charge? Or do you charge us all five?”

  “Mordred,” said Gawain, “you will lay down your weapon. You also, Agravain.”

  Agravain put his dagger on the table, gave it a spin, and folded his arms across his chest. Mordred tightened his fist around the hilt. “I will have my blade in my hand, older brother,” he said without turning, “as he makes his accusation.”

  Gawain rose. “You will lay it down.”

  Mordred looked at him then. They stared at each other for a moment, and finally Mordred drove his knife into the tableboard and turned back to me. “Now, Seneschal, speak.”

  “First, Mordred,” I said, “I am not going to accuse you. Nor Gawain—if Gawain had felt any grievance against Lamorak for being Pellinore’s son, he would have eased it in honest battle, not concealed it under a show of friendship. Nor was it Beaumains, for obvious reasons. That leaves Agravain and Gaheris.”

  “I grant you Gawain and Gareth,” said Agravain, “but most men, having gone as far as this, would have accused brother Mordred along with Gaheris and myself.”

  “Mordred loved his mother too much to have risked her life in such an attack,” I said. “He would have lain in wait for Lamorak somewhere between the postern and the bedchamber.” I did not add my other reason for excluding Mordred from suspicion, but he added it for me.

  “And what quarrel did I have with the sons of Pellinore?” Mordred demanded, turning on his brothers. “Let the rest of you carry on your feud with the family of Lot’s killer—the king of Orkney was not my father! I am a bastard, do you understand me? The unnatural bastard of another King, a King who used his power to ravish the queen of Orkney—Dame Morgawse was my only true parent! I had no quarrel with Lamorak de Galis until the night he butchered her!”

  “Except, of course, that he did not butcher her,” said Agravain. “As Sir Kay has been expounding to us, that unfilial deed was done by either Gaheris or myself.”

  “And I doubt you take anything seriously except yourself, Agravain the Handsome,” I said. “Besides which, when you have any energy to spare, you prefer making trouble with your tongue. No, I don’t think it was you.”

  I should certainly have had some outcry from the only brother left by now, but he still sat with his right hand propping up his head, and for a few heartbeats no one else spoke. Finally Gawain stated the obvious. “So, then, Sir Kay, you charge our brother Gaheris with the death of our mother?”

  “The accidental death. Seeing what he had done, he was naturally too horrified to prevent Lamorak’s escape. But, afterwards, he realized he could still accomplish Lamorak’s death, simply by letting the appearances speak for themselves to convince Gawain that Lamorak had murdered Dame Morgawse.” I hurried to finish my speech before their faces sank too deeply into my soul. “Both you and your brother Gaheris thirst a little too strongly for justice, Gawin. The difference is that while you insist on seeking justice with honor and in due proportion, Gaheris will take—or give—an eye for a tooth, and by any means he can find.”

  “Gaheris,” said Gawain, in the same tone he had used to command Mordred to lay down his dagger, “is this true?”

  Gaheris finally lifted his head from his hand and straightened his back. “Not entirely. He mistakes in one point. I did not aim at Sir Lamorak and strike our mother by mischance. I accomplished the stroke I had intended.”

  Mordred screamed, snatched his dagger from the table, and lunged at Gaheris. I had just time to catch him, knock the blade from his hand, and hold him back, while Gawain held Gaheris, who had shaken off some of his weakness and reached for Agravain’s dagger.

  “He had ensnared her!” said Gaheris. “He had trapped her soul with his cursed youth and grace—his strong, perfect body. That he was her paramour was a disgrace to God and our father—that he should become her husband—the son of our father’s murderer to wed the woman who gave birth to King Lot’s sons—that the seed of Pellinore should be lawfully planted in the same womb that gave us birth! Aye, I killed her—I freed her from his snares—and I spared him that night so that you should be cured of your meekness toward Pellinore’s accursed son, so that you should take your part in the honor of Lamorak’s death!”

  “And Lamorak must have kept the secret because Dame Morgawse had loved you, Gaheris,” I said. “Poor, silly Lamorak with his own overblown ideas of honor.”

  “Ihesu!” exclaimed Gawain. “Ah, sweet, holy Ihesu—we have murdered an innocent man!”

  “Lamorak?” cried Mordred. “God! brother, you fret for Lamorak when this—when our mother—Cry Ihesu’s mercy on Dame Morgawse’s soul, Gawain! I was the one who killed Lamorak, let me cry mercy for that in due time!”

  “I permitted it.” Half-staggering against the table, Gawain gave up his hold on Gaheris to Agravain, who had for once bestirred himself to come around the table. “Our mother is at peace,” Gawain went on. “We cannot avenge her death without slaying this pitiful, mad son she loved.… No, we will not injure him—Gareth—Kay—Agravain—let there be no more blood shed here, no bloodshed among brothers… but I, if I stay here longer, I may—let me make my peace with Lamorak’s ghost,” he ended, walking a little unsteadily to the door.

  Maybe I should have stopped him. But I assumed he was going to Sir Bernard’s ch
apel, to find a priest, shrive himself, and buy more Masses for Lamorak’s soul. Besides, I was busy holding Mordred from Gaheris’ throat.

  CHAPTER 33

  The Poisoner of Sir Patrise

  “The knight spoke with strong cheer,

  Said, ‘Ye be welcome, Sir Gawaine, here,

  It behooveth thee to bow…”

  —The Grene Knight,

  Percy Ms. version

  Hardly was Gawain gone and the door closed behind him than Mordred, who had remained comparatively quiet for a few moments, tried to break from my grip and reach Gaheris. Having outguessed him, I held him fast, so he used his tongue instead.

  “You—She loved you best, Gaheris Longarm! By God, I’m the bastard—the son of rape and incest—but you are a more unnatural son than I! To kill the dame who bore you—the mother who loved you, nourished you, trusted you—”

  “I killed her because I loved her too much to see her the love-toy of Pellinore’s son!”

  “God!” cried Mordred. “You killed her for jealousy! You would have—”

  “Quiet!” I shouted. “Quiet, the both of you, before we tie you down and brank you!”

  “Incest?” cried Gareth suddenly. I had hoped that word would go unnoticed in the rest of Mordred’s ravings.

  “A distant kinsman,” I said. “You don’t know him—neither of them knew they were related until—”

  “Liar!” screamed Mordred. “The truth, you say—you bring us together to teach us the truth of ourselves, and you lie? Aye, to protect your noble foster-brother! It was the King! It was your great, noble, beloved ruler Arthur that you follow for the love of God and glory! Aye—all you others, you’re only Arthur’s nephews—I am Arthur’s own son! Do you not envy me for it? I am the son of a brother who forced his own sister—and before heaven, I charge that this trueborn Gaheris is a more unnatural monster than I!”

  “Oh, God!” said Beaumains. “But they knew—surely they knew—”

  “You were too young, brother,” said Agravain, who did not seem particularly taken aback by Mordred’s revelation. “We knew they cast admiring glances on each other, but none of us knew their relationship, because Merlin, for reasons best known to himself, saw fit not to reveal who was our King’s mother until some time after he had demonstrated his own might by settling Arthur safely on the throne without benefit of parentage.”

  “And the lady was not quite so unwilling,” I said. “God rest her soul.”

  Beaumains sat and buried his face in his hands. Mordred strained in my arms and went on shouting at Gaheris, who answered him back in kind. Agravain shouted to me above the noise, “I liked your suggestion, Seneschal, of binding them—but would it not be simpler to strike them a few good blows to the head?”

  Le Fay and her advice to play the hare! I thought for some reason of Cob the charcoal burner, blessing Gaheris and the whole Round Table for his Norwegian palfrey. “And some day they’re going to remember us as the cream of chivalry!”—I think I muttered it aloud. Then something else came into my head—Gawain with the green sash and the lock of a dead woman’s hair that he always wore to remind himself of his sins and failings—Gawain going out, with this fresh load of undeserved guilt, to “make his peace with Lamorak’s soul”… a cowled, priestly figure sprinkling poison out of an aspergillum as if in benediction… and Pinel of Carbonek taking a drink of wine between the moment Patrise died and the moment Mordred proved where the poison lay…

  “Pinel!” I shouted. “Pinel of Carbonek—Lamorak’s closest living kinsman!”

  “What?” asked Agravain.

  “King Pellam’s nephew—Pellinore’s nephew, too, maybe even another of Pellinore’s bastards! Right under our noses and we forgot it the whole bloody time! And Gawain’s gone—”

  “What are you talking of?” said Gareth, lifting his head from the table.

  “Keep them apart—lock them away from each other—or let them get at each other if they can’t come to their senses!” Normally I would have wanted Mordred at my side, but not in his present state. “We’ve got to get up there!”

  “Have you gone raving, too?” inquired Agravain.

  “Idiots! Pinel is the poisoner—it was revenge for Lamorak’s death, and your silly, noble brother’s gone back up to give him another chance!”

  Gareth got to his feet. “It could not be Pinel—not a man raised in the sanctity of Carbonek—and on Sabbath eve?—”

  “Beaumains, if you have any love at all for your brother, stop babbling and come with me now—or at least hold Mordred for me—and if I’m wrong we’ll laugh about it later!” But if I was right, Gawain might already be dead.

  Gareth stood there gaping, babbling something more about the Sunday truce. I let go of Mordred and made for the door without looking back or listening to their din. They might kill each other for all I cared at that moment, and deserve it.

  Eliezer was still standing his post, holding Agravain’s sword and staring watchfully towards our cell. The noise carried loudly enough to the stairs, but I didn’t stop to ask how much of our shouting the old squire might have understood. “Did Gawain tell you where he was going?” I demanded.

  “No. Should I have—”

  “Yes! Come on!” I grabbed the sword from him and led the way. Unlike the knighted fools in the cellar, Eliezer followed without asking questions. We didn’t talk. I saved my breath for running, with the image in my mind of how Gawain must have looked years ago, kneeling in the snow before Morgan’s Green Knight, putting honor before sense to the last, waiting, true to the rules of a ridiculous game, to lose his head. But Pinel, unlike the Green Man, might really swap it off.

  As we neared Pinel’s pavilion, we saw his white warhorse standing ready-saddled in front of it, gold in the setting sun, with Pinel’s dwarf holding its head. At the sight, Eliezer sheered off from my side to head for Sir Bernard’s chess party, far away on the other side of the pavilion and apparently unaware of anything amiss. I ran on towards the closed doorflaps of Pinel’s pavilion.

  I brushed past the gaping dwarf and threw back the flaps. My guess had been right. Gawain was kneeling in front of Lamorak’s cousin. Pinel had his sword raised ready to split his enemy to the collarbone.

  I shouted and rushed into the tent. Pinel looked up, saw me, and hesitated an instant, then took a hasty swing at Gawain while he still had the chance. His aim went wide, missing Gawain’s head and cutting into his right shoulder—but in the moment I spent making sure Gawain was still alive, Pinel got past me and outside. By the time I got back to the doorflaps, Pinel had his foot in the stirrup and was swinging up into the saddle.

  I shouted. The dwarf glanced at me, let go the charger’s head, and started to run. I suppose he saddled his donkey and escaped into the woods, planning to meet his master again when he could, or else get back to Carbonek on his own. I never learned whether he reached home safely, nor how much in his master’s confidence he had been. Meanwhile, other folk were finally running toward Pinel’s pavilion through the lengthening shadows.

  I heard a groan and looked around. Gawain had somehow gotten to his feet and managed to walk as far as the door, holding his shoulder together and gushing blood in every direction. “Kay…” he said, and crumpled.

  “Just keep your arm on your fool body!” I said. Dame Tamsine, back from the woods, had almost reached the pavilion by now, with Astamore and Sir Bernard’s sons closing in from the other side, and I left Gawain to their care while dashing for my own tent.

  Eliezer, seeing Pinel’s warhorse saddled, had understood there might be a chase; and reasoning that, whatever was going on, I could better do without him in the pavilion than without a mount if I needed one, he had hurried on, after a shout to the chess players, to bring my steed. Between Eliezer and Gillimer, Feuillemorte was ready for me, and I blessed them for him. There was no time to put on my armor, but Pinel hadn’t had time to arm himself, either, beyond sword, lance, and shield. Without stopping to change Agravain’s
sword for my own Tranchefer, I caught my shield from Gillimer, threw it round my neck, vaulted into the saddle, snatched up my lance from Eliezer, and managed to join pursuit just before Pinel was out of sight.

  For some reason—maybe because he thought he could make better time or because he had stopped using his brains—he had chosen to cut across the fields and long meadow, keeping more or less to the open, rather than galloping at once into the woods, where I would have lost him right away in the twilight.

  Pinel’s mount was good—a better horse than he deserved—but my blood-red Feuillemorte is as fine and fast as ever Gawain’s own old Gringolet or Tristram’s Passe-Brewel were in their prime. I came within jousting distance quickly.

  Pinel saw he had no other choice but to turn and fight. Or maybe what decided him to start charging while I was still a spearcast away was the fact that, with my lance in my right hand and Agravain’s sword in my left—since I hadn’t taken time to mess with belt and scabbard—I had not been able to pull my shield around from my back and get it into place.

  I charged without shield, trying to get my own point home while forced for lack of armor to twist away from Pinel’s weapon—a maneuver I defy the almighty Lancelot himself to accomplish without more than his share of good luck. Without armor, also, it somehow seemed, beyond all reason, more like a boy’s training ride at the quintain with a blunted lance than deadly earnest. Maybe that was why, despite my intentions of aiming for Pinel’s chest, my point instinctively hit his shield instead. At least it was a solid hit—and the blasted weapon broke to splinters, so Pinel kept his seat, while I fell. It wasn’t Pinel’s lance itself that toppled me—it was twisting away from it at the last moment that got me off-balance—though if his aim had been better in that charge, I doubt I would have escaped unwounded to remount and ride after him again.