Guinevere Evermore (13 page)

“All right. What’s going on?” His jaw was set and the man took a few steps back. Alia, however, was not intimidated.

“This is Rintuidd. He and I have been trying for years to get my family to let us marry. But there was that damned sword always stopping us. I was beginning to think I’d never get away. Finally, you came along and I’m very grateful. Now Rintuidd and I will just be going and you can get back to your Grail-thing.”

She remounted her horse and Rintuidd got back on his.

“Wait a minute!” Gawain yelled, trying to keep control of the situation. “You married me!”

She had already started off, but she paused to smile and wave.

“That’s all right; I married him first. Thank you again! Good-bye!”

And they galloped off as quickly as their horses could take them.

Gawain sat down in the road. He found a piece of rock under his hand and ground it into powder. He was too angry to move. That was enough. He had been duped again and this time it hadn’t even been an allegory, just a featherhead who wanted to run off with her lover. Slowly he rose and dusted himself off. He was giving up the quest and going back to Arthur. What difference did it make if he searched for a Grail or just a nice girl? Something always happened to make him look ridiculous. There was no point in trying any more. Damn! He had pulled a muscle in his shoulder when he swerved to avoid hitting Alia. Well, it could have been worse. He could have had to live with her the rest of his life.

Chapter Ten

“Isn’t it wonderful, Letitia? Aren’t you glad we convinced you to come to London?”

Guinevere leaned far out the window and gestured at the view of the city. All around were gleaming white stone buildings, interspersed with later, brightly painted wooden ones. The Basilica loomed impressively to the north, the bronze statues of the emperors and praetorians shining as if they still looked out on the vastness of the old empire. To the left was the old Mithraem. It had been cleansed of the influence of the sun-god and rededicated to Christ, but there were rumors that the old rites of Mithras still occurred there from time to time, especially during the longest of the winter nights.

“It’s all just beautiful,” Letitia answered. “But, Aunt Guinevere, London is so big! Doesn’t it scare you a little? Why, just within the walls, there must be five thousand people living!”

“More than that, Arthur says. And, on the south side of the river are all the farms and even some villas like ours. Now you must come and see what my room overlooks; there is an old Roman garden in the courtyard with pools and fountains, and the water is still running!”

They scampered like excited children through the palace built for a long-ago governor, investigating all the rooms and trying to guess their various purposes. Guinevere was enchanted. The last time she had been to London had been for her wedding, over twenty years before, and the confusion at the time had made her memories a blur. This time they would winter here and have the freedom to wander all over the town.

“Isn’t this better than being snowed in all season at Caerleon?” she asked Letitia as they went back to the balcony looking out over the city. “My wedding procession went along the Walbrook, there.”

She pointed to the stream that bisected the town. “The streets were lined with people cheering, and, just to confuse me more, St. Geraldus had his choir sing a prothalamium for me. It was the only time I ever heard them. I don’t know why he always complained about the sound; I thought it was beautiful.”

Letitia gave her aunt a sideways glance to be sure she wasn’t teasing.

“You
heard
St. Geraldus’ voices? But grandmother told me they were a heavenly choir. He was so good and saintly that God sent him the voices of the angels!”

“Well, yes, that is what people said. And he was a very good man. He always took care of me as best he could. I’m sorry you’re too young to remember him well. He told such wonderful stories! But as for the singers being angels, he didn’t think they were, and, I must say, they didn’t look very angelic to me, especially the lady in the green dress!”

“You saw them as well?” Letitia wasn’t sure if she should genuflect or run for help. Aunt Guinevere looked sane enough.

Guinevere laughed at Letitia’s expression.

“I always saw them. It was a long time before I found out no one else could, even Geraldus. He was a very dear person, Letitia. If people wanted to believe he heard angels, why shouldn’t they? He earned his keep at every house he visited, with his stories and songs and the news he brought.”

“But, if they weren’t angels, what were they then?”

Guinevere shrugged. “Some of the Others, I suppose, the Old Ones like Lancelot’s Lady of the Lake. I never thought about it, really. There are so many different beings around, you know.”

Letitia shook her head. She did not like her childhood saints made mortal. And she definitely did not like to think about invisible “beings” wafting about her. She preferred to change the subject completely.

“Do you know what I would like to do here?” she asked. “I want to go eat at one of the inns. And I want to have my dinner in the hall with everyone else, not up in my rooms like a lady!”

She glanced at Guinevere to see if she were shocked. Her aunt laughed.

“I think that would be fun. Arthur certainly doesn’t want us to become too elitist. Although you may not feel much like eating when you see the table manners of some of the Saxon traders.”

“Saxons! You mean they’re allowed inside the gates?”

“London is a trading town. The merchants will allow anyone in if they have something to exchange. But you have nothing to fear. Their axes are left at the gates. The city would not have survived so long if the shopkeepers here were stupid.”

Letitia’s eyes were wide. “I’ve never seen a real Saxon. After all that Grandmother has said about them, I’d just like a peek at one, but I never dared tell her. I know they killed my father, but that was in battle. He was a soldier. Mother does not hate them.”

“I know. But I can’t really feel comfortable around them, myself. Of course, if it hadn’t been for the Saxons, I wouldn’t have met Arthur.”

“I never heard that story!”

“You were only a baby, and there wasn’t much to it. A Saxon band kidnapped me for a few days and Arthur and his men rescued me. That’s all. That’s when the gatekeeper, Cheldric, lost his arm.”

“But that’s so romantic!”

“Is it? It didn’t seem so at the time. I just remember being cold and dirty and having to eat very badly cooked meat. But if you really want to see Saxons, there are plenty in London. Some of them even speak British. But don’t you get any ideas about them, my dear. It took poor Constantine long enough to make you agree to marry him. If you suddenly fall in love with a Saxon
eorl
I don’t know what he’d do.”

“Don’t be silly, Aunt.” Letitia smoothed her dress and hair as she went back into the room. “I just want to see what they’re like.”

“Certainly. As a matter of fact, you don’t even have to go to the inn. There will be some as guests at dinner tonight.”

“What! Why didn’t you tell me sooner? What should I wear?”

“From my experience, I’d say that their taste was for leather and lots of gold bangles, but that really doesn’t suit you. Why don’t you just wear the green-and-red check with the yellow trim?”

• • •

Dubricius, Bishop of London, ran his hands through his thin, brown hair. He grimaced. Hardly enough of it left to be worth tonsuring, he thought. He spared an idle moment to wonder if it were merely a coincidence that the hair should be shaved at just the places men first go bald. But no, that was unworthy. Why should the fathers of the church have cared? Most of them didn’t live long enough to worry about it, what with all the persecutions and martyrdoms. Dubricius, however, had managed to live in less dangerous times and had lasted into his fifties, an old man by most accounts. Although, he reminded himself, he wasn’t much older than King Arthur. He just looked it. Lucky man, the King! Gray, of course, one couldn’t expect him to avoid that, but still as shaggy as a winter ram. He could afford to shave every day, Roman fashion, without looking naked as an egg. Ah, well! God made His decisions and it wasn’t the place of His servant to question them.

Dubricius returned to his records and tried not to reflect upon the wisdom of a deity who would take away a man’s hair just when he needed it most to keep the cold out. He had work to do. He had to record the names of all the men he had ordained this past summer, most of them at Llanylltud Fawr. Illtud taught the boys well. Now, there was Samson, from a very devout family, and Paulus Aurelius, from a traditional one. Then there was Gildas, what was his background? Ah, yes, a son of Caius, as he remembered, not wealthy now, but good stock. The boy had a sound classical education, first from St. Docca and then St. Illtud. He should be kept in mind for advancement, perhaps for further education in Armorica.

Dubricius unrolled the scroll a little further and started recording the marriages. He hoped that his dating was right; the twenty-fourth year since Arthur’s victory at Mons Badon, that everyone knew. But Dubricius wanted to go beyond Britain, show a link with the rest of Christendom. Now, was Hormisadas still Pope? The last men he had questioned had said so, but they were nearly a year out of touch with Rome. And what about that Gothic, Arian, illiterate, upstart king, Theodoric? He must be close to seventy by now. One would think that God would have rid the earth of him long ago, but those sailors had been certain that he still lived.

The bishop shook his head and dipped his quill again. It was not his place to question the ways of God. He brightened suddenly. There were, though, plenty of men he could deal with.

The knocking at the door was far too insistent to be one of his acolytes. He would have to answer it. It was his duty to minister to those who needed him, even when they arrived inconveniently. With a sigh, Dubricius put the weights on the scroll to keep the ink from smearing and then got up to admit his visitor.

“Sir Modred!” he exclaimed in surprise. “Welcome! How is the King? Does the old governor’s palace meet his needs? Some parts had to be repaired last summer and you know how hard it is to duplicate the work of our ancestors.”

Modred ignored his pleasantries.

“I came because of your sermon yesterday,” he said. “You seem to feel that we are living in a time very dangerous to the Faith. I have been pondering your words.”

Dubricius blinked. A penitent? He hadn’t thought Sir Modred the type. He had been all business and little religious awe when they had planned the winter accommodations.

“Well, of course,” he hedged. “Any age in which there are still people who do not profess the true faith and live by its creed is a dangerous one. But I was speaking generally, really. I had nothing specific in mind and I certainly don’t agree with some of my northern brethren about King Arthur. The churches should help to pay for their own protection. And all that nonsense about his tolerance of the old religion. If we can’t convert men by example and reason, then they will never be truly won. King Arthur has always been a fine example. He attends Mass almost every day, carries the image of the Holy Mother on his shield. Everyone knows that Christianity is the source of his greatness.”

“Bishop, I am not accusing you of slandering the King,” Modred snapped with impatience. “I seek your guidance. You spoke of the danger of our becoming contaminated by the old ways, of Christians falling back into pagan sorcery.”

“Ah! Yes. That is another matter. Do you know that there are still women who make small sacrifices to the Mother Goddess in the hope of conceiving? We had the old temple to her torn down, of course, years ago, but they make little altars in their homes. And, just last month, there was a man whom I was certain was a devout Christian. We caught him and some of his friends in the church, the old temple to Mithras, you know, trying to dig out some idols that had been buried under the floor. There were statues of Mithras, Minerva, Serapis, and Mercury, and even a sacred knife, used to slaughter the sacrificial bulls. I buried them all again, put the stones back and reconsecrated the spot with the strongest of prayers. Eventually, those pagan gods will be so steeped in Christian presence that their power will be completely ended.”

Modred tried not to show his contempt. “Dreadful! And what did you do to the men?”

“I chastised them very strongly and we prayed together all night. Then I ordered them to give fifty chickens and three bags of pepper each to the church as atonement for their backsliding. I was really very outraged.”

Also low on pepper, Modred thought. He schooled his face to concern. “But, my Lord Bishop, what would you do if you thought someone were using the powers of the old gods to insinuate themselves into the governing of Britain, perhaps even trying to lead us all back into the darkness of those pagan times?”

He opened his eyes wide and looked pleadingly at the old man, the image of tortured uncertainty.

Dubricius ran his tongue in and out of a tooth socket. It had been pulled only recently and was still tender. It made him think before he spoke.

“That would be a very serious accusation, young man,” he said slowly. “Do you have reason to believe that someone close to King Arthur is trafficking with the Old Ones f
or the purpose of evil?
That is a very important distinction.”

Modred bit his lip and hesitated. “I . . . I don’t know. There are things about the court that I don’t understand. Perhaps it is nothing, but I could never live with myself if something happened and I had done nothing to prevent it.”

“Do you have any proof of your fears?”

“No, not yet.” Modred was annoyed. He had expected the old man to be panting after the heretic with little urging. He would have to contrive to get St. Caradoc down here and some of the other militant bishops.

“Then, my son, there is little we can do. If you can bring me some evidence of sorcery, then I could convene a synod of the few bishops left in Britain and some of the other saints of the church. We would then have the perpetrator brought to trial. But it is a very grave accusation. You must have proof.”