Guinevere Evermore (17 page)

Over the wind, they could hear the roar of an angry river. Percival’s heart sank. They could not ford it; they had no payment for the ferryman, even supposing there was one. He was so worn that he didn’t even realize that tears were sliding down his face, leaving brief trails of warmth on his cheeks.

The other two saw the water before he did. Galahad threw the blanket high in the air, leapt up after it and landed in Palomides’ arms. As Percival approached, they were jumping up and down and hugging each other. The bewildered Percival was swept up in their excitement.

“Is it the castle?” he cried as he struggled to get free enough to see what had set them off.

When he saw it, he blinked several times and then rubbed his eyes.

Sitting calmly upon the raging river, riding gently in place as the current dashed against it, was a delicate boat. It was shaped of dark wood, highly polished and carved. On its deck was a tent of tanned leather and silk and the single sail billowing over it was of bright blue satin. If Percival had known anything about boats, he would have noted that this one had no rudder. At the moment, he was thinking only of how nice it would be to get out of the wind. He wondered if the owner of the boat would let them rest there a while.

Palomides and Galahad were already racing down to the riverbank. The boat lay only a few feet out in the water. They stood admiring it until Percival caught up with them.

“Isn’t she beautiful!” Palomides roared over the wind.

“Better than anything I imagined,” Galahad agreed.

“Wait a minute!” Percival panted. “Is the owner there? Do you think he can hear us if we call?”

“Oh, there’s no one aboard the boat,” Galahad told him. "It’s for us, to go find the Grail in.”

“Galahad!” Percival exploded. “Even I am not that unworldly. We can’t steal a boat, especially one like this. Explain it to him, Palomides.”

“Do you think it will come closer if we ask it?” Palomides wondered.

Percival stared at him. Then he gave up. Better all be mad together than face the loneliness of solitary sanity.

“Boat! Oh, Boat!” he called, feeling a complete idiot. “Will you allow us to sail in you?”

Obligingly, the boat glided in until it was almost touching the bank. Galahad looked at the pristine elegance of it and carefully removed his muddy boots before he stepped aboard. The others followed.

Once they entered the tent, they felt the shifting as the boat began to move. Percival had a second of panic but the sight of a table surrounded by soft cushions and piled high with warm food blotted out any other consideration. The three of them sat down to eat. Before they began, though, Galahad called out to the air.

“Our thanks, kind benefactor. We place ourselves at your disposal and will go wherever your pleasure is to take us.”

They thought then that they heard the sound of small bells and laughter, but it faded quickly and they settled in to the dinner. Afterwards they lay down where they had sat and slept.

• • •

Percival woke first. He could feel the swift flow of the water beneath him. Light the color of autumn grain suffused the tent and warmed his body. He did not want to roll over and get up. This was the most comfortable he had been since they left Camelot. He burrowed farther into the cushions.

“Good morning, Cousin.”

The gentle voice set him bolt upright. Seated on a little stool near the entrance to the tent was a smiling young woman.

“Shall we wait for Sir Galahad and Sir Palomides to awaken before we eat, or are you too hungry to wait? It makes no difference. I can summon more hot food for them later.”

“N-n-no,” Percival managed. “I can wait. Who . . . who are you? How did you get here?”

The woman laughed. “I was sent for all of you, Sir Percival. I am Claris, the daughter of your father’s elder brother. Cundrie is my aunt. Your companions, by their deeds and by the love in their hearts, have proved themselves worthy of the Grail and, by staying by them, you have earned your patrimony. Therefore, I shall take you all to the castle of our grandfather, the Fisher King.”

Chapter Thirteen

Lancelot of the Lake, son of King Ban of Banoit, adopted child of the rarest lady of fantasy and the most illustrious knight of the Round Table, lay in his hut at Llanylltud Fawr and tried not to think of the woman he loved. He had starved his body, frozen it, beaten it, allowed it to become crusted with filth and grime. But his mind was cheating. Whenever he let it free from perpetual prayer, it thought of Guinevere. And his tired, battered, emaciated flesh would respond with longing. He pounded his fists against the wall. Would nothing but death release him?

St. Illtud paused in his evening rounds. Poor Sir Lancelot! He set his jaw. This wouldn’t do any longer. He was demoralizing the boys. It irked him considerably to admit defeat, but it was obvious that the traditional methods of rendering the body subservient to the spirit were not going to work here. He squared his stooped shoulders and went to the hut.

Lancelot stood respectfully as Illtud entered. The saint stepped back a pace. This was definitely not the odor of sanctity.

“My son,” he said sadly. “I have meditated long on your problem and I have come to the sorry conclusion that you cannot remain at Llanylltud Fawr. You have done everything I have told you. You have been an obedient student, St. Anthony and St. Simon would be proud of you. But your inner turmoil is just too strong.” He coughed repeatedly as Lancelot moved closer. “As I was saying, too strong to be in close contact with the young minds and souls entrusted to my care. In short, you are frightening the little ones.”

Lancelot sank down, his head nearly resting on his knees. His worn voice, even more than his appearance, smote the old man.

“What am I to do, then? Where am I to go?”

“Perhaps your salvation lies out in the world after all, my son. We must have faith that there is a reason for everything. You may find when you return to Camelot that you no longer have any feeling for the Queen but that of friendship.”

He stopped as Lancelot’s eyes fixed his.

“Perhaps not. But you must continue. If you remain as you are here, you cannot hope to live much longer and that will not help you. You will have died for love, not religion. Please, Sir Lancelot, go back! Take up the search for the Grail again. Your suffering may have been enough to earn it. If you no longer have the heart for that, might you consider going back to your father’s land?"

“Banoit? I don’t even remember where it is, only that Meleagant’s father, Claudas, conquered it long ago, when he killed my father.”

“One of the young men here is named Bors. He says that he is connected to your family in some way. He has told me that there is a fortress in the mountains of Banoit that has lain abandoned since your father died. There are those who would be joyful if his son came back to it. Bors has offered to accompany you there. He has no vocation for the priesthood. He has been promised to the daughter of an old friend and is eager to go home and begin the secular life. Shall I tell him you will go?”

“Yes.” A little more strongly, “Yes. I would like to see Banoit. I wonder if there is anyone still alive who remembers my father. But first I suppose I should wash and trim my nails and beard.”

Illtud clapped his hands. “Good! I mean, I’m sorry I couldn’t help you, but there is more than one path to salvation. You may find yours in Banoit. Now, it’s not the regular night for bathing, but I’m sure that we can arrange something for you. I’ll send Father Eulogius to shave you and cut your hair. No, no, he won’t mind at all. He does all our tonsuring. His great-grandfather was barber to the proconsul. No, it’s not too late. He’ll still be praying in the church. Don’t worry about anything, Sir Lancelot. I feel we’ve failed you here. We can, at least, help prepare you to return to the world.”

• • •

Two days later, a pale and gaunt but very clean Lancelot left Llanylltud Fawr. His sword and shield, tarnished by neglect, hung from Clades’ saddle. Bors, a cheerful young man of well-educated morals, rode next to him. For the first few days, Lancelot drifted within himself, speaking little, ignoring the land around them. Then he started to straighten. His hands began to curl as if they remembered the feel of the sword. One night, he took it from its scabbard and, with a corner of his spare wool tunic, began polishing it.

He spoke to Bors without looking at him, the fire glowing between them.

“I have never seen anyone from Banoit at Arthur’s court, Bors. I didn’t know there was anyone of my family still there.”

“We are not easily destroyed, kinsman. But we do not go to Camelot. Arthur is not our king. We owe tribute to Meleagant from his father’s defeat of King Ban, but he learned long ago not to intrude upon us too far. He is not of our tribe and he can no more truly conquer us than the Romans could.”

“Arthur is High King for all of Britain, for everyone. He pays no attention to the old tribes. He has united the whole island south of Hadrian’s wall. Under him we are one people,” Lancelot insisted.

The young man sighed. Illtud had taught him not to contradict his elders. But Lancelot should know what Banoit was like, today.

“Arthur should pay attention to the tribes, kinsman. In the mountains, in the North, even in Cornwall, they are uniting again. The bonds that hold us to our clans are more important to us than any idea of ‘country’ some outside ruler may try to impose on us. If Arthur had called us in the name of his ancestors, we might have answered. As it is, he is nothing to us.”

“Nothing to you but the dam which is holding back the Saxon invaders!”

“We haven’t heard that the Saxon wants to try to tame our mountains. We can fight off the Irish slavers without help. Banoit does not need another foreign king. But Lancelot, we
do
need a king of our own blood again. You are all that remains of the line of King Ban.” He leaned forward. “We would follow you.”

Lancelot felt his head spinning. His first reaction was a wild excitement. This boy was asking him to become a king. A king like Arthur! He would give commands and others would rush to obey. He would . . . Then he thought of Arthur’s face, the lines of care and weariness. He thought of the long nights Arthur spent working out strategies, answering complaints, while Lancelot slept, or sat with Guinevere. How lonely his friend was, even at the Round Table, where all men were considered equal. No, in one thing only did he wish to be like Arthur. Being King of Banoit would take him even farther from that. He was not intended to rule others. How could he be?

“Bors, I cannot even rule myself,” he laughed apologetically.

“Very few men are saints such as Illtud,” Bors replied. “Banoit would not ask of you what the Church asks. In the old days, if a man wished a woman who belonged to another, he would buy her.”

Lancelot rose, his naked sword ready to strike. Almost too late, Bors saw that he had overstepped himself. He drew his knife and scrabbled to get up.

“I’m sorry! I apologize! Truly, it is none of my affair. I only meant that a king who leads his people well would not be condemned for his private matters. Banoit will support you, Sir Lancelot, whatever you do. You are one of us! Please, forgive my hasty words. I don’t know anything about it!”

Lancelot halted. He was short of breath, just from anger. That frightened him almost as much as the anger itself. Shaking, he returned to his place by the fire.

“Arthur is my leader. I am sworn to him. He is also the best friend I have, the one man who accepted me without question, from my first day at Camelot. Don’t speak to me about this anymore!”

Bors had no intention of doing so. Even after months of self-denial, Lancelot was far more imposing than he realized. Timidly, Bors ventured an assurance.

“We would still be honored to have you among us, kinsman, in any way, for as long as you wished. And, if you ever need us, we will be at your side. I give you my word.”

Lancelot got up again and went over to Bors, who tried not to shrink back. The knight knelt and held out his hand.

“Forgive me, kinsman. I had forgotten that I am here now by your kindness and that I am going to Banoit by your charity. In this you both honor me and show me my most grievous faults. I give you my hand in friendship now. Will you take it?”

“Gladly, kinsman! Gladly!”

• • •

There was a rumor of spring in the air when they came to the river. The struggling sun touched Lancelot’s hair, making the silver in it gleam. They stopped to rest and eat before making the ford. While waiting for Bors to finish, Lancelot stretched out on a warm slab of stone from which he could see the brown, teeming water as it tumbled by. The reflected warmth was like a smooth hand on his back, pressing at his sorrow. He had followed Bors like a whipped dog. He could not go on and he dared not go back. The Grail had been no more than a symbol; he had wanted answers. Now he felt there were none. What had gone wrong? He had been the shining sword of Arthur’s court, the man who was the best of all the knights: just, honest, strong. Everyone told him so. He was the Right which must always conquer evil, the one who would save the world.

He was tired. Dear God! He was so tired.

He thought at first it was a trick of the light on the water, a bird swooping low. He rose onto his elbows. It did not vanish. Coming up the river, under billowed silk, was a boat from the land of dreams, a boat that ought to sail the stars. From it he heard the sound of laughter and singing. He wondered if they were friends of his Lady of the Lake, come out of the ocean to visit her. He smiled. It called him back to the simplicity of childhood. Then, as it drew nearer, his brow creased in puzzlement. The music sounded uncommonly like a drinking song popular at Caerleon the winter before last. And the voices . . .

He was instantly on his feet, hollering and waving at the approaching craft. Against all reason, it veered toward the shore, and from the tent Galahad’s head popped out.