Guinevere: The Legend in Autumn (23 page)

“I will not have it said that the Prince of Orkney lacks the courage to face an Old God now that he’s found the new one,” he answered brusquely as they circled the green sides of the burial mound and came to a halt before the narrow opening.

“Come forth,” the Orcadian shouted, trying to make himself heard above the whine of the stone. “Come forth and see that Gawain of the Round Table accepts your challenge, in the name of King Arthur and the White Christ.”

The whine of the stone stopped abruptly, but no one emerged, so after a bit Gingalin spoke up again. “You’ve met the conditions of the challenge, M’lord. Surely if the Green Man refuses to come out, you can go home.”

But Gawain was not satisfied, and girding up his courage, he pushed his way between the two rough stones that formed the doorway slot.

***

“The inside was much bigger than I’d expected,” the King’s Champion recalled. “A torch guttered at the far end, casting shadows and gleamings across a scatter of gold on the floor. A skeleton was laid out in one corner, and several piles of bones near the doorway looked new enough to have come from recent encounters. But the thing that held my attention was the crouched form of a little man testing the edge of an ax against his thumb. He was as much covered with leaves and branches as he was with hair, and when he stood up, he grew in size until his head nearly touched the ceiling.”

“Ah, you have come to face your death,” the creature cried, his voice rumbling hollowly through the tomb while his shadow towered above Gawain. “For that I pay you honor.”

In the guttering light the ogre bowed formally, seeming to shrink again to less than normal size. Gawain kept a firm grip on his sword hilt, reminding himself and the Christ that it was cast in the shape of a cross.

“The agreement was a return stroke on my part, I think” the Green Man said casually, “that altar will make a suitable block.” Gawain’s glance followed the little man’s gesture toward an ancient stone that stood in a dark corner, its sides blackened by countless spillings of blood. “Please extend your neck.”

For a moment a savage thought raced through the Champion’s mind—Old God or no, when the Green Man was shrunken like this, anyone with a lick of sense and half a sword-arm could cleave him in two. Gawain’s hand twitched to draw his blade, and his ears rang with the sound of laughter and relief.

***

“But the White Christ stopped me,” the King’s Champion said softly. “He reminded me that I was there on a matter of honor, so I knelt before that accursed altar and I stretched my neck out, waiting for the Green Man to deliver his blow. The Old God came to my side, and I could see his shadow cast against the barrow wall, flickering in the torchlight. He stretched and lengthened into gigantic form, his two-handed ax held aloft, and when the curved blade began to swing downward, I closed my eyes and gritted my teeth, praying the end would be quick.”

Gawain let out a long sigh, but we held our breaths, waiting for him to go on.

“The giant checked his swing at the last second, and rocking back on his heels, hooted with laughter. ‘You flinched,’ he cried. ‘I saw you—you flinched. Sir Gawain—you’ve a coward’s heart, after all.’”

I gaped at the Orcadian, thinking that anyone would do the same. Arthur leaned toward his nephew and asked incredulously, “He
laughed
?”

“Aye, great, gusty bouts of demoniacal laughter, as though it was some fine joke. By then I thought I was as much in danger from a madman as from a giant of the Otherworld. But we went through the same ritual again, only this time I did not flinch, and the ax completed its fall. The blow came down beside my neck, not on it.”

“That, my good sir,” roared the Green Man, “is for not telling me my wife had given you her girdle.”

The ogre had shrunk back to mere human size, and when Gawain slowly raised his head, it was Bercilak’s gleeful laugh that filled the barrow. “Thought you’d protect yourself with a little Prydn magic, eh? Well, I can’t blame you,” he allowed, carefully checking the blade of the ax to make sure it had not been nicked when it hit the stone altar. “But by rights you should have given it to me last night, you know. Honor and all that stuff.”

Amazement was turning into relieved laughter among the Companions, and Gawain stood shamefaced in the middle of it. “So in the end, I lost my honor by keeping the secret of the lady, even though I met the challenge of the lord.”

“Nonsense,” Arthur exploded. “You put too fine an edge on the matter.”

The laughter was turning to a cheer, and Gaheris jumped to his feet to toast his brother. “To the bravest, and most courteous Companion of all,” he cried as everyone joined in the merriment.

“But why would Bercilak set up such an ordeal?” I asked

Gawain looked aside and answered slowly. “He said it was to fulfill the last wish of a Prydn queen who had died in childbirth. She had sent her mixed-blood infant to Bercilak with the request that he raise the youngster until he should be old enough to act as squire to his father…but only if the man proved courageous to the end. I’m not sure that I deserve the honor,” the Orcadian concluded, “but the lad has taken the notion that I am his sire and begged me to bring him back to Camelot. May I present him now—Gingalin, whom I am pleased to call son.”

I looked more closely at the dark-visaged youngster, thinking he might well be Ragnell’s offspring. There was an impudent bravado in the way he answered the questioning stares of the Companions, and Gawain gave him a fond grin. “Besides, he’s proved himself an excellent squire.”

So there was more cheering and a toast for the newfound son, and our Hall was filled with joy for the better part of the night. To have the hero home again after such an encounter was miracle enough, but to have acquired a son as well was a pure wonder.

So you met the challenge, O Prince of Orkney, and the fame it has brought you is more than a little deserved. May your prayers help me meet mine on the morrow with an equal dignity.

Chapter XVIII

The Next Generation

After Gawain’s confrontation with the Old God, a kind of sea-change occurred in the men of Camelot. Many who in the past had gone adventuring with cheerful mien and high spirits now began to talk of wanting quests that reflected noble purposes.

“Something that lasts, if you know what I mean, M’lady,” Ironside explained as he escorted me across the springy turf to the sheep market at Priddy. “A cause with glory in it, that gives the bard something grand to sing about.”

I suspected the old warrior was more interested in being immortalized in song than in noble causes, but there was no denying his fervor on the subject.

“Why,” he allowed, “I might even get myself a new mail jerkin if something
really
important came up…”

Nor was Ironside the only one; Gaheris, feeling that he’d been cheated of taking part in the adventure with the Green Man, began looking for more notable endeavors. And handsome, cold Agravain became more picky about his choice of quests, ranging farther afield and coming back with more grisly tales. Some of these adventures kept him away for quite a time, and I wondered if he weren’t slipping in visits to Morgan le Fey.

News of the Lady of the Lake was moderately peaceful—her Sanctuary now served nothing but women, all the rest of the Druids having left. She seemed to have no interest in life beyond being High Priestess and made no discernible effort to keep in touch with either her husband, Urien, or her exiled son, Uwain. In spite of that, when he returned to Britain, Uwain sought her out before coming to see us.

“The Prince of Northumbria, recently of Brittany,” Lucan caroled at dinner one night, giving the title a deep, resonant sound. He’d have accompanied the announcement with a flourish on the trumpet, if one had been handy.

All eyes turned to the entrance of the Hall as both food and goblets were lowered, forgotten, to the table. It had been more than ten years since Arthur sent Uwain away, and many felt they’d waited overlong for the fellow’s return.

The man who strode into the Hall was surrounded by a smartly turned-out entourage. Lieutenants, warriors, and squires—in short, all the panoply of a bachelor noble—accompanied him as he moved forward to greet the High King.

Tall, elegant, and supremely confident, Urien’s son had grown into a striking man. His long hair and heavy, drooping mustaches were reminiscent of his father, though he had Morgan’s sea-green eyes. Yet for all that the mixture of his parents was evident, there was about him a sense of his own identity shaped beyond—or in spite of—his heredity.

“Well come, nephew,” Arthur intoned when the younger man bowed to us. “It is a pleasure to see you back in Logres again.”

Uwain gave his uncle a diplomatic nod, but his face was taut. He might have accepted Arthur’s apologies for having banished him, but he had not forgotten the unfairness of it. The smile of friendship was saved for me—a fine, open-hearted grin that made even his eyes twinkle.

“M’lady, I bring you greetings from across the Channel, where your name and reputation grow apace.”

“How gracious of you,” I murmured, wondering what they could possibly be saying. “What brings you back to Britain?”

“A matter of some concern to my father. New boatloads of Angles have landed on the Northumbrian coast. So far there is no armed conflict, but the people in the villages are getting nervous.”

Startled, Lance looked up, and our eyes met. Joyous Gard lies in the northern reach of that windswept coast.

“We’ll give you whatever support you need,” Arthur immediately offered, but Uwain’s response was cool.

“I have no doubt we can manage on our own.”

For a moment I thought the King would take umbrage at the snub, but instead he insisted that new trestles be set up and the kitchen find enough to serve both our guest and his followers. I blessed the fact that I’d had a dovecote built, as it assured a quick supply of birds when Cook needed to create extra meals in a hurry.

The evening went pleasantly enough, with Gawain and his brothers delighted to have their cousin in their midst again. He brought with him a young Frank he had befriended on the Continent, and once the Orcadians discovered that Colgrevance had several sisters in tow, there was much eagerness to get to know him.

The girls caused quite a flurry among the Companions. They had charming manners and brought a new sort of flirting to our squires and young warriors: the sweep of eyelashes as a demure little lady suddenly flashed up a very knowing look; an impudent shrug or long, slow smile full of half-hidden promises. Compared with the forthright lasses of Britain, these new damsels were like catnip to our boys.

“Silly fellows,” Uwain noted when he came to sit next to me after the meal was over. “They could learn more from an older woman than from a pretty youngster.”

My eyebrows went up, and the Prince of Northumbria laughed. “My first love was a woman well into her prime, and she taught me not only about trusting the heart and warming the bed, but many a military strategy as well.”

“Military?” It used to aggravate me considerably that once the Romans came, British women ceased to be taught the arts of war. Perhaps on the Continent there were still a few Celtic queens who wielded the old power of leading armies.

“I’m afraid not, M’lady,” Uwain hastened to explain. “But the Lady Automne was an unusual woman, who had done many remarkable things in her life. Ever since childhood she’d studied the arts of war—tactics, rather than brute force, of course—and when she came to the age of marrying, there wasn’t a warrior among her father’s men who wanted to make her his mate. Seems they were fearful she would outclass them in military knowledge. Then, too, I fancy none of them met her standards. Being high born, her father couldn’t force her into an unwanted union, so she chose to remain single and keep control of her own life.” He cast me an arch look, then added, “You know, I assume, that Christian wives are expected to view their husbands as their masters and play the servant to their whims?”

“No, really?” I’d never heard it stated so baldly before, though considering the way many of the clergy treated me, I should have guessed as much.

“Well, at least that’s the way it is in the Roman Church,” Uwain continued. “So I don’t blame Automne for choosing not to marry. And it was to my good fortune, for by the time we met she’d had enough of the usual bumptious males and found me a lover eager to learn all that she could teach me. It made up, in part, for some of the things so long missing in my own life.”

It was barely a passing comment, but the words brought up the whole of his childhood. How many times had I wondered what would happen to the lad, caught between warring parents who could not learn to tolerate each other? Perhaps Morgan’s ignoring him in favor of pursuing political schemes was a blessing—her bitterness might have crippled him for life.

“What of your lion?” I asked, remembering the story of his healing the hurt animal.

“Ah, he is with me in spirit,” Uwain replied with a smile. “I’ve learned a great deal about veterinary medicine, and commemorate the lion on my badge as well as my shield.”

I followed his gesture toward the table where his men sat, happily exchanging news and toasts with the Companions. Every one of their tunics had the emblem of a lion sewn on the shoulder.

“We’ll have the Smith use the pattern for your hanging lamp when you take your place at the Round Table,” I promised.

Uwain spoke quickly, though still with a fine courtesy. “Oh, that won’t be necessary, Your Highness. I have more to do up north than here with the Pendragon. Let me just visit occasionally, as my need arises.”

“Are you that resentful?” I queried softly.

“Not resentful, just aware of where my own fate leads—and it is not currying favor with the High King. I shall probably spend my life serving at my father’s side, and when he no longer leads his warriors, I will keep the Hall warm, give out the gold, and meet the challenge of the invaders. I don’t foresee much time for noble causes or grand quests.”

Perhaps you were the first of the realists, Uwain. The first of the sons grown to manhood who returned to question where our dream was leading, what we had become. I watched you that night with admiration and fear, and a certain sentimental fondness for the lad you had once been—it was easier than looking at the message you were now conveying.

“But though I cannot stay, I’ll leave you an eager young fellow in my stead,” Uwain told Arthur later. He gestured to his lieutenant, who fetched a dirty, wild-eyed boy from the pile of dogs by the hearth.

“Found him roaming in the forest, Your Highness,” Uwain explained. “He ran right up to us, begging us to take him in. I shooed him away, assuming he was nothing more than a loony living in the wildwood, but he came back next day, riding a piebald nag and carrying a wooden spear. He claims he’s destined for Camelot, so I brought him along.”

Arthur was looking the boy up and down, and being openly assessed in return.

“What’s your name, lad?” the High King inquired.

“Perceval. What’s yours?”

My husband sat back, startled by the impertinence, and Uwain rolled his eyes upward. “He’s a bit rough, Your Highness. But more untaught than unteachable, I’d say. Seems he was raised by a mother who feared for his life if he became a warrior, so she kept him in the forest, ignorant of the ways of men. Taught him nothing but bare survival and notions of heaven.”

“Mum says the angels are made of light,” Perceval declared, looking admiringly at the Prince of Northumbria. “When you wear your shiny hat, you look exactly like an angel.”

A guffaw went up from the Companions, and the boy whirled around. One hand reached for the sling that hung from his belt.

As he moved, his tattered cloak flew back, and I saw for the first time the familiar gold-and-enamel brooch. “Would you be Pellinore’s son?” I inquired, wondering if the crazed widow who had left the Wrekin had been unable to find refuge with King Pellam at Carbonek.

“Pellinore?” The boy savored the sound, as though it had a flavor he was trying to place.

“Pellinore of the Wrekin,” I supplied. The lad was small and stocky, unlike the massive warlord, but there still might be a connection.

“Mayhap.” The bumpkin shrugged his shoulders in unconcern. “Can’t remember my da. Only Mum and the people who came to the fountain in the woods. Never been in a house before, either.”

He stared in amazement at the Red Dragon on the tapestry behind us, then sent his feral glance to the shadows under the loft. The Companions held their breath, as though watching some strange, unpredictable animal, and in the silence Palomides’s falcon ruffled its feathers and settled back to drowse on its perch. With a motion almost too fast to follow, Perceval had his sling out and hit the creature with his first stone. The hawk toppled to the floor, stunned.

Palomides’s turbaned squire let out a shriek of outrage and drawing his dagger, leapt at the half-wild boy, who was intent on retrieving the bird. There was a moment of scuffling, during which a number of warriors converged on the two, trying to keep them apart while the girls from the Continent squealed excitedly.

Perceval managed to evade them all. Grabbing the bird, he wrung its neck for good measure and handed it to me. “Not much good for spitting,” he noted. “But it will do in the soup pot.”

The ruckus around him was turning into a brawl, and Cei began to pound on the table to restore order. Palomides was restraining his squire and finally had to lead him away as Perceval looked on without a trace of remorse.

“And why did you want to come to Camelot?” Arthur asked.

“This fellow here said that’s where he was going.” Perceval nodded toward Uwain. “Said that the King’s men all wear metal helmets and carry bright shields…you that king?”

“I am,” Arthur acknowledged, hard pressed not to smile at the boy’s ingenuousness in spite of his atrocious behavior. “What would you do for me?”

“Catch your dinner, fight your wars, wear one of those shiny hats.”

The remark brought a burst of laughter from Cei, and the boy crouched as he turned to glare at the Seneschal. “That will do,” Arthur warned them both.

“Then tell the tall man not to laugh at me,” Perceval responded, as prickly with pride as any Champion.

“What are you going to do with him?” I asked later that night.

“Send him to his Uncle Pellam at Carbonek,” Arthur replied with a sigh. “The old, ailing King needs all the warriors he can get, and since there’s a blood-tie there, he can be responsible for the boy. Whew—I warrant there’ll be the devil to pay over that falcon!”

Surprisingly, Palomides was fairly calm about the loss of his most-prized possession, but the turbaned servant was inconsolable. The fact that no one in Britain knew how to train such birds didn’t help, and in the long run the fellow’s despair, along with his already noticeable homesickness, led Palomides to arrange for his passage on the next boat bound for Alexandria.

“He’s a canny one, and can find his own way from there,” the Arab allowed. “Perhaps it was arrogant of me to think he could adapt to this foggy little island just because I have.”

So Palomides and his servant prepared to go to Exeter and wait for summer trading to commence. Arthur decided to accompany them, wanting to check further on how things were going with Gwynlliw.