Slowly, Lancelot raised his head. Tears ran down his cheeks as he gripped St. Illtud’s arms as if they were the only things keeping him from falling into an abyss. Illtud winced, but did not attempt to throw him off. Lancelot’s eyes bored into the old man as he made his vow.
“With your help, good Saint, I will!”
In her elegant room in London, Guinevere cried out in her sleep and clung to Arthur, who held her softly, whispering assurance, all the while knowing her fear was not for him.
Chapter Twelve
Gawain arrived in London well before winter set in. He was the first of the knights to return and had to suffer the indignity of failure as well as the laughter at his misadventure with the sword over the bed and the girl in it. Durriken was already hard at work composing a tale with a rollicking enough meter to convey the outrageous silliness of the episode. Added to this was the undeniable fact that Gawain in the winter was never terribly alert. Even the allure of the city women was not enough to cheer him. Therefore, he spent most of the short afternoon hours sitting with Guinevere, the two of them seated on cushions on the floor, staring at the gray sky and wondering.
“He was well when you left him?” she asked for the thousandth time.
“He was well and eager to be off on the search. He told me he need not send you his love because all he had was left in your keeping,” Gawain replied for the thousandth time.
“Gareth seemed pleased that I was not going with them,” he added.
“Gareth doesn’t like me,” Guinevere said. Her voice was puzzled. Everyone liked her.
“He is a strange man. I don’t understand what he wants. I think he is simply jealous of those who might take something of Lancelot from him.”
“Then he should hate us all—Arthur, you, me, Galahad.”
Gawain shrugged. “Perhaps he does.” He thought a moment. “No, I’m being unfair to him. Gareth really is unhappy with himself. He wants to be a great knight. And, if he can’t be, then he wants his hero to be perfect.”
“Lancelot is perfect. Where do you think Galahad is now? Is he warm and fed and safe? Palomides wouldn’t let anyone hurt him, would he?”
And the pattern of responses started again.
The London winter was not as exciting as Guinevere had planned. Even the pleasure of arranging the wedding between Constantine and Letitia was not as enjoyable as she had thought. There was something going on which she couldn’t understand. People seemed to edge away from her when she sat by them. Whispers followed her through the corridors. The indulgent smiles which had always greeted her were thinner, as if painted on at the last minute. Only her oldest friends were the same: Cei, Lydia, Risa, and Gawain, of course. There weren’t so many now. Time and the Grail had moved them from her. But why? What was happening? She hurried to the dining hall one evening, late again. The blank stares which greeted her as she entered frightened her. She stumbled as she climbed the dais. Modred caught her by the arm and smiled encouragingly. She took a deep breath and smiled back. At least he was unchanged. Such a nice man! And so good for Arthur! They had been almost inseparable lately.
The first snow was settling on the city that night and Arthur, Cei, and Modred were having a friendly game of dice by the fire, with Constantine watching. Letitia was comparing fabrics for her wedding robes with Risa and Lydia. Guinevere was staring into the flames, longing again for word of Lancelot and Galahad. There was a knock at the door, which she ignored. Someone was always coming to Arthur or Cei for advice. Risa looked up.
“Why, Gareth! What are you doing back?” she cried.
Guinevere froze. She couldn’t find the courage to turn and look. Arthur leapt up.
“You look half-dead, man! What happened to you? Where is Lancelot?”
Gareth dropped into the chair Cei brought. His face was gray with fatigue and his cloak filthy and soaked with melting snow. He bent over and hid his face in his hands.
“Lancelot sent me away!” he said to the floor. “Can I have some wine? I’m so awfully cold.”
“What did you do?” Modred asked. “Run at the first sight of danger?”
Gareth straightened at the sneer.
“I did nothing! It was that Illtud. And even more than St. Illtud, it was her!”
He pointed stiffly at Guinevere, who still hadn’t moved. Arthur brought the wine and gave it to Gareth.
“Drink that and then tell us what you mean,” he said sternly and Gareth remembered that Arthur was a warrior even more than a king. He gulped down the contents of the cup.
“Lancelot can’t find the Grail because
she
is holding him away from it. Illtud told him that until he renounces everything of the earth, he will never be pure enough to find it. So he’s staying the winter at Llanylltud Fawr, doing penance for his sins, he says. Then he’s going out to seek the Grail and, whatever he finds, he’s never coming back. It’s all your doing, Guinevere. He has nothing to repent of, nothing! You seduced him and now he’s sitting naked in the snow and living on crusts to pay for it! You drove him mad once before, wasn’t that enough? Now you’ve driven him away forever! He doesn’t dare even look at you again! How can you sit there and . . .”
It was Arthur who hit him, but only because the other men were too far away. The chair tipped over and Gareth lay sprawled on the floor, weeping out his anger and grief. If only Lancelot had let him stay. He wouldn’t have minded the cold or the long hours of prayer or even the dismal food. But Lancelot listened only to Illtud, now. He had no need of insignificant Gareth. He had spoken so kindly, telling him to go on with the search. “I am not worthy, yet. I should not keep you from the quest because of my sinfulness.” As if Gareth cared a damn about the Grail!
Cei and Constantine lifted him up and dragged him from the room. He could see that Guinevere had still not even looked at him. What did she care? She had a husband. She could have a hundred other men. She had only taken Lancelot because he was the best of them all, and she had destroyed him.
Guinevere still stared into the fire, now broken by her tears into a million searing points. She felt Risa’s arms go about her, gently urging her to rise. She was too numb to do more than succumb to the pressure. Her mind was whirling. She looked to Arthur.
“Is it true?” she whispered. “Do you believe I have done this?”
“Never,” he answered firmly. But she noticed the second of hesitation. It stabbed her with a suddenness that nearly felled her.
“Risa, will you help me prepare for bed?” she asked. “I think I will say good night now.”
They all stood as she left and then looked at one another. There seemed nothing safe to say. Constantine took Letitia’s hand. She leaned against him, burying her face in the folds of his tunic. Lydia and Cei went to either side of Arthur, as if to protect him. Modred stood by the table, apart from the others, watching through narrowed eyes. It was as if the gods had planned it all for him. Now he only had to be wise enough to take what they offered and shape it to his own ends.
• • •
The floor in Guinevere’s room was warm. It was an old building, with hypocausts at the corners to send hot air under the buildings. Ordinarily, she luxuriated in the heat, unknown at either Camelot or Caerleon, but tonight it stifled her. She sat at the dressing table as Risa combed and braided her hair for the night. With great effort, she managed to hold still, all but her hands, which cupped each other over and over as if something precious were contained in them and in danger of slipping away.
Risa combed slowly, watching the pure gold of Guinevere’s hair glitter in the lamplight. That Gareth! Always needing to blame someone when he couldn’t have his own way.
“You mustn’t believe him, my Lady, dear,” she emphasized with a tug on the braid she was plaiting. “Lancelot may be overly zealous in his search for God, but he could never abandon you and King Arthur for it. He’ll be back in the summer, just as he said.”
“No.” Guinevere dropped the word into her hands. “Something is wrong in the world. Everything is coming undone. I’ve felt it ever since we came to London. He won’t come back.”
Risa said no more as she finished the braids. She was worried. Guinevere was right about something being amiss. There were rumors crawling around London, tales with distorted faces that whispered lies about Guinevere, lies just close enough to the truth to make them believable.
“My poor lady,” Risa thought. “What’s she ever done but be beautiful and innocent and fall in love with a man not her husband? As if they’ve had more than a night or two together in fifteen long years! And now they’re saying she lured Sir Lancelot with black magic and holds Arthur captive with it, too. If she were anyone but the Queen no one would care at all. I’ve had five children by three different men.” She paused and counted on her fingers. “Three? Yes, I’m sure Liagh is Cheldric’s, too. And there was hardly a raised eyebrow about the court. It’s that Modred’s doing! I know it, even if they won’t believe me. He wants me to meet him again tonight, and won’t I work on him until he tells me what he has planned to hurt my dear Guinevere!”
Her resolve comforted her and she finished her work briskly and left. Guinevere remained on her stool, staring into the hand mirror and wondering wistfully why people didn’t seem to like her anymore.
• • •
Percival was not having the quest he expected with Palomides and Galahad. Like Gareth, he had hoped for a dragon or hideous monster to slay, thereby winning the praise of the people and the glory of the heavens. At least they could have ridden heroically through the countryside, armour shining and plumes waving, as Lancelot had when Percival first saw him. At the
very
least they could be actively searching for the Grail, grimly following up every slender trail and clue.
So why was he out in the autumn wind, with only his tunic and trews on, straddling the point of a decrepit old hut, owned by an even more decrepit old man, waiting for Palomides to toss up fresh thatch bundles to mend the roof? From below, he could hear Galahad’s laughter as he slipped in the mud, sending the reeds flying. The old man grumbled and Galahad laughed again.
“Have patience with me, Father! I’ll learn this craft yet and we’ll have you dry and warm for the winter, won’t we, Palomides?”
“For certain!” Palomides grinned at the boy’s filthy clothes. “Another day or two, at most, and we’ll be finished. If we had not had your good teaching, Father, we would still be wondering how such thin pieces of stem could hold off the rain and snow. Our thanks to you!”
Percival shivered. Thanks! Little thanks he would get for slicing his fingers and freezing his rear off up here. How could those two stay so cheerful? From the very beginning they had acted as if they had been just set free. They began by overpaying everywhere for their meals and lodging. And, when the money was gone, they gave away their rings and cloak pins. Then, as it began to grow colder, they gave away their cloaks. And always with delight, as if casting off chains instead of throwing away the most precious things they owned.
When Palomides’ sword broke as he tried to pry up a stone to fix a wall, he and Galahad exchanged a look of excited glee. The shorter lever proved better at dislodging the stone.
“Brilliant!” Galahad cried, and proceeded to break the tip off his sword and continue with the work.
“How can you do this?” Percival asked them one night as the three of them huddled in an abandoned stable eating an inadequate dinner. “We’re going to starve or freeze to death at this rate, and there’s no way we’ll ever find the Grail.”
“But, Percival!” Galahad gestured with his loaf. “We’re getting ready to find it now. In another week or two . . .”
“Or year or two,” Palomides added. They both laughed.
“I’m sorry, lad,” Palomides continued. “Galahad and I are not taking this quest as seriously as we should. I know how important it is, not only for the wounds of the Fisher King and the enchantment on his daughter, but for all the world. And yet, every day we’ve been on this journey, I’ve felt closer and closer to something wonderful. We’re doing what we should be and I’ve never been so happy and contented in all my life.”
Galahad, chewing on the dry bread complacently, nodded his agreement.
“Just think of all the things we’ve learned and all the roofs and walls we’ve mended and wheat harvested between here and Camelot. And since we gave our horses to that poor trader we’ve been completely free! Can’t you feel it, Percival?”
“All I can feel is cold, wet, hungry, and thwarted,” Percival burst out. “We have a mission to follow and we’ve done nothing so far. It’s all very well to play at charity, but . . .”
“Charity?” Palomides and Galahad looked at each other. “Do you think we shouldn’t have taken any?”
“It seemed to make those people feel good to give us some food and a place to sleep while we fixed their homes.” Galahad scrunched his face in thought. “I don’t see that there was anything wrong in it. Perhaps he means that we shouldn’t have burdened others with our possessions.”
“No!” Percival shouted. “Can’t you understand?”
Apparently they couldn’t. They settled down into their sodden sleeping spaces as happily as if in their mother’s arms. Percival spent the long night counting the drips as they thunked onto his blanket and wondering why he couldn’t decide to leave these madmen to their delusion.
For the next few days, Palomides and Galahad were eager to defer to Percival’s wishes. When he offered a suggestion for an area to search, they agreed and followed along, almost as if they were humoring him. They continued until he suggested that they stop and then waited for him to make ready to start again. Percival knew that this couldn’t be the right way to go about it and that someone else was sure to discover the castle of the Fisher King long before they did. Yet, slowly, the joy radiated by the other two was beginning to warm him and he could not go out again on his own.
It was a dark afternoon in late winter. They had eaten nothing that day. A sharp wind sliced through them as they made their way along the road. Galahad was shivering and his lips were blue, but he seemed not to notice. Palomides had given the boy his blanket to wrap around his shoulders and now walked with his hands in his armpits in an effort to keep warm. Percival brought up the rear. His father’s sword still hung at his side. In his present state, the weight of it was draining him and he wondered how much longer he would last.