Percival's Angel (15 page)

Lancelot's Squire Mell is Fey!

He may be the Lady's lost son, Lugh!

Think about this later.

Side by side, Merlin and Niviene shine steadily, grandly, like two huge stars. But I remind myself, the Humans around them do not see them shine. Alone in the foremost crowd they sport no jewelry: no necklace, bracelet, earring, finger ring, buckle, or brooch proclaims their worth. Only the stern message of their white robes and mistletoe crowns keeps the pressing crowd a little away.

Sun chases shade; auras fade.

The quietness of this crowd surprises me. Where I find Humans gathered I expect noise. But these folk are almost silent, eyes on the chapel door, faces…solemn. Looking up into these big, still faces, I almost feel thoughtful minds behind.

Aha! A murmur runs like a gentle stream down the street.

The chapel door opens.

Within is darkness; within the dark, a golden flame; within the flame, a Human figure.

The crowd sighs, admiring.

Can Humans see auras after all?

Maybe they can sense auras, as I sometimes sense deeply invisible Spirits.

Percival emerges from darkness into winter sunlight. Sunlight devours and quenches his golden flame. Tall he stands on the top chapel step; big and broad and bright—all the things we Fey laughed to scorn. These Humans murmur admiration.

Percival! You came to your right world!

Grave, radiant, he steps down into the path left open, and progresses—that's the world—toward King's Hall.

First Gawain, then Lancelot, moves to escort him. One on each side they lead him between the mages and me, past Gwenevere, to the King.

For while we all watched Percival, King Arthur has appeared on the top step of King's Hall.

Big and dark, bright-bejeweled, he awaits Percival, sword naked in his two gloved hands.

Naked sword? Why does the King need a sword?

Sudden dread shivers up and down my spine.

Nothing is so strange that Humans will not do it.

Maybe at this ceremony the King decides whether Percival is worthy to be a Knight; then, depending on his decision, he either knights him, or slays him on the spot.

I haul Victory by her thong up out of my gown.

As I have done before, I point her at Percival's back, pouring Power into Percival.

Nay! If there were real danger, the crowd would emanate excitement. And the only excitement I feel here is reverent joy.

And my Percival can well defend himself, even without Bee Sting, which he has so foolishly laid aside.

Pouring Power on Percival between concealing fingers, I look again at Arthur.

In glowing, growing sunlight, King Arthur's triple aura shines red as new-shed blood closest to his rugged form; farther out shimmers a wide orange band; and farther yet—higher, wider than the doors of King's Hall—a faint gold band twinkles like sunlit water.

I have seen the King's aura before; but not magnified and solemnized by ritual, nor enriched by the crowd's pooled Power, as now I see it.

Holy Gods!
I drop Victory back down inside my gown. Not even Victory can defend against such Power.

Who ever guessed a Human could shine like that?

***

Close, closer, to the King.

Arthur stood on the top step of the King's Hall door, sword in hands, watching Percival's approach.

Goddamn! My hour is come!

Percival had always believed it would. It had to come, this hour of triumph, vindication, and final acceptance. From his forest meeting with Sirs Friendly, Suspicious, and Wounded, he had never for a moment doubted that this was his appointed fate.

But now, as the crowd stood aside for him; now, as his friends came beside and escorted him; now, as the King awaited him, he marveled.
Saint George! How is this possible?

For I came here Nobody, from Nowhere, a fool in a soup-kettle helmet. And now after two short seasons of learnings and adventures, I am to be knighted! A few moments, and I will be truly, rightfully, Sir Percival of the Round Table.

Pure astonishment assailed him.

Eyes on the King, he hardly saw the faces he passed. But one small lady on the right, gowned in red-embroidered blue, drew the corner of his eye.
That one looks familiar.

He passed and forgot her.

Power punched the small of his back like a treacherous fist. He faltered and almost missed a step.

Then, beautifully, the Power moved through him.

What ailed me before? This is right, this is perfect; doubt, now, at this high moment, would be sin!

They were come to the first step below the King.
Lo, how he shines!

Another moment, and he will knight me.

This is the King I will follow faithfully, worship, die for. For him I came out of the forest. For him I will find the Holy Grail and place it out of his reach, for it might harm him.

The sun itself seems to shine from him. Am I seeing his aura, as Lili would?

Now, this one gesture I have dreaded.

But this is not hard. This is easy, because it is right.

Percival knelt on the step below the King.

Arthur raised his sword.

Goddamn! True Knighthood comes down like a falcon, like a harrier—

Down came the sword and rested flat, like a friendly hand, on Percival's right shoulder. Joy burned down Percival's right side.

The sword rose, arced over his head, and descended on his left shoulder.

Angel Michael, Saint Hubert, Saint George, let me not faint for joy!

Joy flowed like molten gold through Percival, crown to toe.

From above, Arthur's great voice called out to Percival, to the crowd, to the Kingdom, “Rise, Sir Percival!”

And Sir Percival rose.

There rose around him joyful babble from the crowd; and from somewhere in the back, men's voices joined in song; and a shriek.

Shriek?

“There he ish!” A woman's voice shrilled. “Right there! That'sh the one I told you—”

Song and babble died away.

A man roared, “I demand my rights! I demand my rights now and instantly, from the King!”

***

Late at night I leave the mages' hut and make my way home through narrow, twisting, ill-smelling streets. I carry no lamp. To my Fey eyes this half-moon darkness is like twilight; and lightless, I am close to invisible to the few quarrelling, drink-fogged Humans I pass. This is as well; for in little Ranna's gown, and at this hour, I might draw those stragglers as a doe draws dogs.

I come home to Percival's chamber in the long barracks behind King's Hall, knowing what I must do, and almost pleased to do it. Almost excited.

Niviene explained to me the “rights” which aggrieved Sir Agrain demanded.

In windy morning light, he told Arthur and the whole of Arthur's Dun that Sir Percival had forced a way into his tent, stolen his goods, and despoiled his food and wife. For this, he must be let kill Sir Percival. He has the right.

Percival shook his golden head. He insisted he had not forced entrance, the tent was open; he agreed that he had eaten and drunk, uninvited, because he was hungry and thirsty. He had removed a coverlet, because he was cold. But he strongly, forcefully, and truly denied despoiling any wife.

(The wife, meantime, kept crying out, pointing at him and fainting behind her concealing veils.)

King Arthur looked gravely from one Knight to the other. I thought any moment he would say, “Well, no great harm's been done. You are both Knights of the Round Table, and good men don't grow in gardens. Embrace now, Good Men, and be friends.”

He said, “Noon tomorrow. Tournament Field.”

Niviene explained. “He had no choice, Lili. This is the rule in such cases.”

“You're saying that crowd that loved to see Percy knighted will now watch him be killed!” (Not if I could get him away this night!)

“Not in cold blood.”

“Cold blood?”

“Percy will defend himself. He will win, and kill Sir Agrain.”

“And the crowd won't mind that either.”

“Right.”

“Why don't I get him out of here. I have some Grand Mushroom in my pouch. I could—”

“He would never, never forgive you.” That's true.

“Niviene! I must be sure Percy wins!”

Then Niviene told me how to be sure.

Here I hurry down our street toward our door.

Each of these Knights' chambers opens into the street by its own door. Someone has found ours.

A figure muffled in cloak and veil hesitates before our door. It lifts a hand to the door-string; but at that instant I slip in between hand and door.

“Who are you?” I whisper.

The figure springs backward as though a serpent had risen before her; for it is a she, that I see by pale moonlight. Good thing she does not screech and wake the street!

I whisper again, “Who would wake Sir Percival at this hour? And the night before his fateful combat!”

She lifts a corner of her veil to peer down at me. “I know you…” she mutters.

“But I don't know you.”

“Oh, you musht! You were there in the crowd when Shir Agrain and I rode up, and I shaid—”

“Ah. Yes. You yelled, ‘That's him! That's the one!' Now I know you.”

Aha! The Goddess brought this one to me just in time!

She cocks her head, shrugs delicately. “I shaw you there. But I never thought you were…with him.”

“Hush.” I don't want anyone wakened, alerted. If I know Percival, even on this night he lies drunk with sleep, not to be waked but by a lightning strike. But this barracks is a wasp nest, full of chambers. Anyone might hear us.

I take hold of her wrist and draw her out into the street. “Let's find a corner where we can talk.” My eyes rove the narrow street.

“Didn't come here to talk…” I've heard that before.

Down at the corner is a small ale-shop booth.

I know what you came for, Lady, just in time for me. All I need do now is let you take him.

But first, let me know more about you. For all I know, you carry a Bee Sting in your pocket.

I lead her, captive by her delicate wrist, into the ale-shop booth. We sit down together on a customers' bench. We whisper and murmur. (Sometimes I catch myself finger-talking, as I would do with one of my own folk.)

She says, “You shee, it'sh like this. Shir Pershival came into my tent, Shir Agrain's tent, when he wash away. Shir Agrain wash away. And I wash there.”

“I know that.”

“Oh, yesh, you heard all that thish morning! Let me go on, then.” She wiggles, settling herself more comfortably. “When my Lord came back he found everything eaten and my ringsh gone, and the coverlet gone. And he wash very angry.”

“Mmmm?”

“And he shaid, ‘What more is gone, Lady?' You know what he meant.”

“Mmmm?”

“And he beat me.”

“What?”

“Shee, he thought I had lain willingly with Shir Pershival. Only then he wasn't Shir—”

“But you never lay with him at all.” Willingly or not.

“No, I shertainly never did! But how do you know that?”

“Why, because I was there.”

“You?” She leans closer, studying me through her veil. “Come to think, he had shomeone with him…a boy.”

“Me. That was me.”

“Indeed!” She looks me up and down, down and up. “You aren't a boy now!”

“But you say, he beat you. Why did he do that?”

She clucks softly like a hen. “Well, you know, I belong to him. And he thought I had…” It's little Ranna, all over again. I seem to hear her whisper, “
If my father knew…(shudder!) What good would I be to him then?
”

What good is this lady to Sir Agrain? Whatever good she had for him, it's lost.

She whispers, “I wouldn't mind if it wash only that one time—”

“Hush!” I grip her wrist again. She falls silent immediately. A good thing, because that regular
thump-thump
around the corner is a detachment of guards, coming this way.

She gasps, “Oh!” And shrinks down on the bench.

“Be still. They won't see us…”

I raise a mist of invisibility around us. Coldly it drifts between us and the four men who march past. They swing their lanterns to light alleys and corners, and into our booth. They tramp on, past the barracks and around the next corner.

The lady draws breath and dives straight back into her story. “I wouldn't mind if it wash jusht that one time. One hash to expect that.”
One does?
“But he won't believe me. He beatsh me every day. Look.”

She draws her veil off her face.

That thin, once-cool face is bruised all down the right side. The right eye is swollen shut. The lower lip hangs flabby, revealing knocked-out teeth.

My stomach drops inside me.

Weakly, I repeat her words. “Every day?”

“That'sh why, when I shaw Shir Pershival with the King, I cried upon him.”

“You what?”

“I shrieked, ‘That'sh him!' Sho he would fight Shir Agrain, and prove I never lay with him. And then I thought…” She lets her veil drop. I am grateful. “I thought, why shouldn't I really do it? He won't believe I was virtuoush. Sho, why be virtuoush?”

Wordless, I shrug.

“Beshides, you know, when Shir Pershival took my ringsh he wash lovely! Shoup-kettle helmet and all, he wash perfectly lovely! I almosht wished then…But now he'sh knighted and armed, all right and tidy, why now he'sh a God! A veritable God! And you know, in the dark, he won't shee me. He won't notish—”

I draw deep breath. “Listen,” I say, stemming her flood of words. “He's mine. You can't have him. I won't let you.”
Why not? It would certainly simplify my task!
“But we can stop these beatings.”