The Once and Future King (63 page)

‘So His Holiness has made their peace for them,’ said Mordred savagely.

‘Aye.’

They were in the Justice Room, Gawaine and himself, waiting for the last stages of the negotiations. Both were in black – but with the strange difference that Mordred was resplendent in his, a sort of Hamlet, while Gawaine looked more like the grave—digger. Mordred had begun dressing with this dramatic simplicity since the time when he had become a leader of the popular party. Their aims were some kind of nationalism, with Gaelic autonomy, and a massacre of the Jews as well, in revenge for a mythical saint called Hugh of Lincoln. There were already thousands, spread over the country, who carried his badge of a scarlet fist clenching a whip, and who called themselves Thrashers. About the older man, who only wore the uniform to please his brother, there was a homespun blackness, the true, despairing dark of mourning.

‘Just fancy,’ Mordred went on. ‘If it had not been for the Pope, we should never have had this beautiful procession with everybody carrying olive branches and the innocent lovers dressed in white.’

‘It was a guid procession.’

Gawaine’s mind did not move easily along the paths of irony, so he accepted the sneer as a statement of fact.

‘It was well stage—managed.’

The older brother moved uncomfortably, as if to ease his position, but returned to the same one from which he had started.

He said doubtfully, almost as if it were a question or an appeal: ‘Lancelot says in his letters that he killed our Gareth by mistake. He says he didna see him.’

‘It would be just like Lancelot to lay about him at unarmed
men, without looking to see who they were. He was always famous for that.’

This time the irony was so heavy that even Gawaine took it as it was.

‘I ween it dinna seem likely.’

‘Likely? Of course it isn’t. That was not Lancelot’s line. He was the
preux chevalier
who always spared people – who never slew a person weaker than himself. That was the high road to Lancelot’s popularity. Do you suppose he would have suddenly dropped this pose, to begin killing unarmed men regardless?’

With a pathetic effort to be fair, Gawaine said: ‘There seems to be nae reason why he should have killed them.’

‘Reason? Was Gareth our brother? He killed him as a reprisal, out of revenge because it was our family that had caught him with the Queen.’

More carefully, he added: ‘It was because Arthur is fond of you, and he was jealous of your influence. He planned it fair, to weaken the clan Orkney.’

‘He has weakened himsel’.’

‘Besides, he was jealous of Gareth. He was afraid that our brother would poach on his preserves. Our Gareth copied him, which did not suit the
preux chevalier.
You can’t have two knights without reproach.’

The Justice Room had been prepared for the final pageant. It looked barren, with only two men in it. They were sitting in a curious way, one behind the other on the steps of the throne, which meant that they did not look each other in the face. Mordred looked at the back of Gawaine’s head, and Gawaine at the floor. He said with a slight choke: ‘Gareth was the best of us.’ If he had turned round quickly, he might have been surprised at the intentness with which he was being watched. The younger face was at variance with the music of its voice. If you had looked closely, you might have noticed that Mordred’s manner in the past six months had become stranger.

‘Dear fellow,’ he said, ‘and to be killed by the very man who had his faith.’

‘It will teach me ne’er to trust the Southron.’

Mordred altered the pronoun with an imperceptible emphasis.

‘Yes, it will teach us.’

The old tyrant swung round. He seized the white hand so as to press it, speaking with confusion.

‘I was used to thinking it was Agravaine’s mischief – Agravaine’s and yours. I thocht ye were over prejudiced against Sir Lancelot. I am ashamed.’

‘Blood is thicker than water.’

‘It is that, Mordred. A body may clatter about ideals – about right and wrong and matters of that ilk – but in the end it comes to your ain folk. I mind when Gareth used to rob the priest’s wee orchard, by the cliff…’

He tailed off lamely, till the thin man prompted him.

‘His hair was almost white when he was a boy, it was so fair.’

‘Kay used to name him Pretty Hands.’

‘That was meant for an insult.’

‘Aye, but it was true. His hands were bonnie.’

‘And now he is in his grave.’

Gawaine flushed to the eyebrows, the veins swelling at his temples.

‘God’s curse on them! I willna have this peace. I willna forgive them. Why should King Arthur seek to smooth it o’er? What business has the Pope within it? It is my brother that was butchered, none of theirs, and, God Almighty, I will have the vengeance!’

‘Lancelot will slip through our fingers. He is an oily man to hold.’

‘He shallna slip. We hold him this time. The Cornwalls have forgiven over much.’

Mordred shifted on the steps.

‘Have you ever thought what the Table has done to Cornwall and Orkney? Arthur’s father killed our grandfather. Arthur seduced our mother. And Lancelot has killed three of our brothers, besides Florence and Lovel. Yet here we are, selling our honour, to reconcile the two Englishmen. It seems cowardly!’

‘Nay, it isna cowardly. The Pope may force the King to take his Queen, but there is nae word in his bulls about Sir Lancelot. We gave him sanctuary to bring the woman, and we will also let him go. But, after that…’

‘Why should we let him escape us, even now?’

‘By cause he has safe—conduct. Guid sakes, man Mordred, we are knighted men!’

‘We must not stoop to dirty weapons, even if our enemies do.’

‘Aye, just. We will let the boar have law to run, and then pursue him to the death. Arthur is failing: he will do our will.’

‘It is sad,’ said Sir Mordred, ‘how the poor King seems to lose his grip, since all this business started.’

‘Aye, it is sad. But he kens the difference yet of right and wrong.’

‘It is a change for him.’

‘Ye mean, to fail his powers.’

‘You guess so quickly.’

His sarcasms were as easy as teasing a blind man.

‘He canna have it every way. He never should have sided with that traitor at the start.’

‘Nor married Gwen.’

‘Aye, the fault lies with them. It isna we who sought the quarrel.’

‘Indeed, it is not.’

‘The King must stand for justice. Even if His Holiness should make him take the woman to his bed, we have our right towards Sir Lancelot. Man, he has done strong treason when he took the queen, as well as when he slew our brothers.’

‘We have every right.’

The burly fellow took the other’s hand again, the pale one in the horny sexton’s. He said with difficulty: ‘It would be woeful sore to be alone.’

‘We had the same mother, Gawaine.’

‘Aye!’

‘And she was Gareth’s mother too…’

‘Here comes the King.’

The pageant of reconciliation had reached its final stages. With trumpets blowing in the courtyard, the dignitaries of Church and State began to filter up the stairs. The courtiers, bishops, heralds, pages, judges, and spectators were talking as they came. The cube of tapestry, an empty vase before, began to flower with them. It flowered with bald—faced ladies in headdresses which looked like crescents or cones or the astonishing coiffure worn by the Duchess in
Alice in Wonderland.
In bright bodices with their waists under their armpits, in long skirts and flowing sleeves, in camelin de Tripoli or taffeta or rosete, the delicate creatures swam into their places with an aroma of myrrh and honey – with which they had washed their teeth. Their gallants – young squires in the height of fashion, many of them wearing Mordred’s badge as Thrashers – came mincing in with their long—toed shoes, in which it was impossible to walk upstairs. At the foot of the steps they had slipped out of them, and their pages had carried them up. The impression given by the young men was mainly of legs in stockings – it had even been found necessary to pass a sumptuary law, which insisted that their jackets should be long enough to cover the buttocks. Then there were more responsible councillors in extraordinary hats, some of which were like tea—cosies, some turbans, some bird wings, some muffs. The gowns of these were pleated and padded, with high ruff—like collars, epaulettes and jewelled belts. There were clerks with neat little skull—caps to keep their tonsures warm, dressed in sober clothes which contrasted with the laity. There was a visiting cardinal in the glorious tasselled hat which still adorns the notepaper of Wolsey’s College at Oxford. There were furs of every kind, including a handsome arrangement of black and white lambs’ wool, sewn in contrasting diamonds. The talkers made a noise like starlings.

This was the first part of the pageant. The second part began with nearer premonitions on the trumpets. Then came several Cistercians, secretaries, deacons and other religious people, all burdened with ink made by boiling the bark of blackthorn, parchment, sand, bulls, pens, and the sort of pen—knife which scribes used to carry in their left hands when they were writing.
They also had tally sticks and the minutes of the last meeting.

The third instalment was the Bishop of Rochester, who had been appointed nuncio. He came in all the state of a nuncio, though he had left his canopy downstairs. He was a silk—haired senior, with his cope and crosier, alb and ring – urbane, ecclesiastical, knowing the spiritual power.

Finally the trumpets were at the door, and England came. In weighty ermine, which covered his shoulders and the left arm, with a narrower strip down the right – in the blue velvet cloak and overwhelming crown – heavy with majesty and supported, almost literally supported, by the proper officers, the King was led to the throne on the dais, its canopy golden with embroideries of the dragons ramping in red – and there, the crowd now parting, Gawaine and Mordred were revealed to meet him. He sank down where he was put. The standing nuncio seated himself also, on a throne opposite, hung with white and gold. The buzz subsided.

‘We are ready to begin?’

Rochester’s priestly voice relieved the tension: ‘The Church is ready.’

‘So is the State.’

It was Gawaine’s rumble, faintly offensive.

‘Is there anything which we ought to settle before they come?’

‘It is a’ fair settled.’

Rochester turned his eyes to the Laird of Orkney.

‘We are obliged to Sir Gawaine.’

‘Ye are welcome.’

‘In that case,’ said the King, ‘I suppose we must tell Sir Lancelot that the Court is waiting to receive him.’

‘Bedivere man, send forth to bring the prisoners.’

It was noticed that Gawaine had put himself in the habit of speaking on the throne, and that Arthur let him do it. The nuncio, however, was less subdued.

‘One moment, Sir Gawaine. I have to point out that the Church does not regard these people as prisoners. The mission of His Holiness which I represent is one of pacification, not of revenge.’

‘The Church can aye regard the prisoners as she pleases. We are for doing what the Church has said, but we shall do it in our ain poor fashion. Bring forth the prisoners.’

‘Sir Gawaine…’

‘Blow for Her Majesty. The Court sits.’

In the middle of music like a bad pageant, and of music answered from outside, the heads turned round to the doors.

There was a rustle among the silks and furs. A lane was made with shuffling. In the archway, now open, Lancelot and Guenever waited for their cue.

There was something pathetic about their grandeur, as if they were dressed up for a charade but not quite fitted. They were in white cloth, of gold tissue, and the Queen, no longer young or lovely, carried her olive branch ungracefully. They came shyly down the lane, like well—meaning actors who were trying to do their best, but who were not good at acting. They kneeled in front of the throne.

‘My most redoubted King.’

The movement of sympathy was caught by Mordred.

‘Charming!’

Lancelot looked to the elder brother.

‘Sir Gawaine.’

Orkney showed him his back.

He turned towards the Church.

‘My lord of Rochester.’

‘Welcome, my son.’

‘I have brought Queen Guenever, by the King’s command, and by the Pope’s.’

There was an awkward silence, in which nobody dared to help their speech along.

‘It is my duty, then, if nobody will answer, to affirm the Queen of England’s innocence.’

‘Liar!’

‘I am come to maintain with my body that the Queen is fair, true, good and clean to King Arthur, and this I will make good upon any challenge, excepting only if it were the King or Sir Gawaine. It is my duty to the Queen to make this proffer.’

‘The Holy Father bids us to accept your proffer, Lancelot.’

The pathos which was growing in the room was broken by the Orkney faction for the second time.

‘Fie on his proud words,’ cried Gawaine. ‘As for the Queen, let her bide and be forgiven. But thou, false recreant knight, what cause had’st thou to slay my brother, that loved thee more than all my kin?’

Both the great men had slipped into the high language, suitable to the place and passion.

‘God knows it helps me not to excuse myself, Sir Gawaine. I would rather to have killed my nephew, Sir Bors. But I did not see them, Gawaine, and I have paid it!’

‘It was done in despite of me and of Orkney!’

‘It repents me to the heart,’ he said, ‘that you should think so, my lord Sir Gawaine, for I know that while you are against me I shall never more be accorded with the King.’

‘True words, man Lancelot. Ye came under safe—conduct and sanctuary, to bring the Queen, but ye shall go hence as the murderer ye are.’

‘If I am a murderer, God forgive me, my lord. But I never slew by treason.’

He had intended his protest in innocence – but it was received at more than its face value. Gawaine, clapping one hand to his dagger, cried: ‘I take your meaning in that. Ye mean Sir Lamorak…’

The Bishop of Rochester lifted his glove.