Guinevere: The Legend in Autumn (28 page)

Pellinore’s youngest son had filled out since Arthur sent him to King Pellam to be civilized. He was still more sturdy than tall, more solid than lithe, and his chubby face had the open, childish look of one who has not dealt much with the world. This time his mane of curly brown hair was combed; he wore a coat of chain mail over a fine linen tunic and carried a spear instead of a sling. But his eyes were as restless as ever, and he sent his feral glance over every member of the Round Table. It never even flickered as it passed Palomides and I wondered if he’d forgotten having killed the Arab’s falcon.

When he’d finished scanning the Fellowship, Perceval turned back to Arthur and, planting his feet wide apart, folded his arms across his chest. Not even the fancy clothes could hide his loutish nature, and when he declared he’d come to take his place among the heroes of the Round Table, a snicker ran round the room.

“Have you gained some training in courtesy and the code of honor?” my husband asked with a gentle smile.

“Oh, absolutely.” The youngster pulled himself to attention and bowed with an overblown flourish. “Lived with my Uncle Pellam and learned all manner of fine things. My poor mother never knew the half of it, hiding in the wildwoods, there by the holy well. But King Pellam, now there’s a king what knows something, even if he is an invalid.”

“And how is the King of Carbonek?” Arthur inquired.

“Not well, M’lord.” Perceval’s broad face became solemn: like a lake that reflects every cloud in the sky, his countenance mirrored his emotions immediately. “It’s tragic, I’d say. Poor old man has been lying abed well over a score of years with that wound that won’t heal. His lands are wasted by plague and draught for want of a vital leader, and his subjects grumble, yet he can neither live nor die.”

There was a murmur of sympathy and fear from the household, and many among us made the sign against evil. Everyone knew the story of the king who was too badly maimed to recover, too weak to make the sacrifice demanded by the Royal Promise.

Perceval’s voice softened and his eyes glistened with tears. “Unfair, Your Highness, that’s what it is. Pellam is as willing as any other monarch to give up his life for his people, but the Old Gods won’t take him. That’s why he became a follower of the White Christ. At least the Father God sends down food and hope for him every day, and they are carried through the Hall in a grand procession. Why”—the lad’s eyes began to sparkle and his voice filled with wonder—“I saw it once. It’s the most amazing spectacle. There were harpers, and singers, and priests aplenty, all moving slowly across the room. And the girls!” For a moment I heard Pelli’s admiration of women in his son’s voice. “You wouldn’t believe how many girls follow after, each bearing some kind of treasure—a spear that drips blood, a silver salver with a skull on it, a jeweled box that held a rock. Strange things, and holy. And in the center, a beautiful maiden carried the food for the ailing King under a cover of white samite. She was so splendid, I was dumbstruck when I saw her, M’lord—couldn’t say a word.”

It sounded as though Perceval was mixing some stately ceremony at Carbonek with the Thirteen Treasures of Britain. No doubt he’d heard a bard conjure that ancient story so well, the bumpkin with the poet’s soul thought he saw them all around.

“Tried to find out that lass’s name, but no one knew it,” he went on. “She must live there, though—takes part in that ritual every night, according to Galahad.”

Beside me Lance stiffened at the name, and I gasped with the realization it was his son.

“Galahad?” Arthur asked, immediately intrigued.

“My cousin.” Perceval gestured to a lithe young man who emerged from the shadows under the loft. “May I present Galahad, son of Elaine of Carbonek and the Queen’s Champion, Lancelot.”

The boy was upward of fifteen or so; well built but not yet fully come to manhood. He had his mother’s coloring and red hair rather than Lance’s dark locks, and the features which formed such a fascinating whole in Lance’s face were here more closely refined and balanced. He was far and away the prettiest of the men present but, I thought critically, he’ll never be half as interesting to watch as his father is.

“I cannot tell you how pleased I am that you’ve come to Court,” Lancelot said, rising to give the youth a kinsman’s embrace. The son looked as uncertain as the father, for neither had seen each other since Elaine’s precipitous visit when Galahad was only a babe in arms.

“Have I not done well,” Perceval broke in eagerly, “bringing you the very flower of Carbonek? Why, if you knew how hard it was to get his mother to let him come with me…” He shook his head at the obdurateness of mothers.

Lance immediately left my side to go sit next to his son, and during the rest of the evening the two of them began to get acquainted. I watched them covertly and hoped it was going well.

But next morning Lance sighed and shook his head. “We’re virtual strangers, Gwen.” We were walking among the vendors’ booths at the town market. With the Council not scheduled to start until noon, I was using the time to find gifts for some of the more notable members of the Round Table and had asked the Breton to accompany me. “After the first excitement of meeting,” he added with a note of sadness, “we really didn’t have much to say to each other.”

“Maybe that’s to be expected at the beginning—after all, he knows you only from the bard’s tales, and whatever Elaine has told him.”

Lancelot smiled ruefully. “It’s the strangest thing. Here I am with a son…a son I want to get to know, and I think he wants to know me, too. But he credits me with achievements I’ve never even thought of. I haven’t the slightest idea how those stories get started.”

I grinned at that, having often marveled at how quickly noble adventures get embellished with the fantastic. “Happens to the best of us,” I quipped, pausing to admire a handsome wool blanket. “There’s probably a certain amount of hero worship he has to get over. But I’ve no doubt you’ll understand each other in time, if you let it come naturally,” I added. His eyes crinkled with a smile of appreciation for my confidence, and for a long moment we held each other’s gaze, saying mutely all the things that would never be spoken aloud, before I turned my attention to the merchant.

At the tournament Galahad and Perceval were the source of much curiosity and there were many side wagers on how closely each boy would reflect his parentage. Like Pellinore, Perceval got rather carried away, and when he wrestled Cei to the ground, he accidentally broke the Seneschal’s arm. He did offer an apology, which Cei was understandably surly in accepting. It seemed Perceval had not taken the measure of his own strength yet.

But it was Galahad who stole the people’s hearts. As the day wore on, it became clear that he had the makings of an exceptional swordsman—might even become as good as his sire, eventually—and he was mannerly in all ways. By the time the tournament came to an end, he was the darling of the Round Table.

“But there’s still more formal respect than real affection between us,” Lance noted later. “He’s full of wild idealism, and prattles endlessly about Celtic honor and Christian purity.”

“Christian?” My eyebrows went up at that. As I recalled, Elaine put as little faith in that religion as I did.

Lance nodded thoughtfully. “He got that from his grandfather, but it’s all tangled up with Druid lore and Pagan rites; the Royal Promise and things like that.”

Considering Pellam’s state, it didn’t surprise me that Galahad had such sacrifices on his mind, or that it made Lance uncomfortable.

His various relatives from Brittany—most notably Ector de Maris, and both Lionel and Bors—greeted Galahad with lively pleasure, seeing in him the next generation already come to fruition. No one could miss the family pride and happiness, particularly at the feast, when Galahad was feted for having taken the prize of the tournament. But in the midst of all the festivity I caught sight of Mordred watching Lance and Galahad with an envy so plain it clutched my heart. I have loved you for many things, Arthur Pendragon, I thought bitterly, but not for what you’ve done to your own child.

When the meal was completed and the trestles cleared, Dagonet came tumbling into the center of our attention, his piebald outfit wonderfully colorful, his jester’s staff topped by a rattling bell. He posed some riddles, sang a song, and when all our guests were leaning back, full of wine and conviviality, he announced the presence of Taliesin, word-weaver of great renown. There was a murmur of excitement, for many had heard of the Bard’s reputation, and in the flurry of comment that followed, someone called for the retelling of his trip to the Otherworld.

Bedivere and I exchanged glances, remembering the origin of that tale. It was the one-handed lieutenant who had rescued the changeling child from certain drowning when his coracle capsized in the waters of the Rough Firth. The boy had lain on the shingle, a forlorn, sodden corpse, while Bedivere struggled ferociously to squeeze the water from his lungs and drag him back to life. After he recovered, Taliesin swore he had been to Annwn and seen the Hall of the Otherworld King, boasting proudly to anyone who would listen. I leaned forward now, curious to hear how the man would express the boy’s experience.

“It was the first discovery of my moira,” the Bard began. “Until then I was a child, knowing only the strange echoes of lives past, fleeting premonitions of a destiny I had no way to comprehend.”

His eyelids dropped and his fingers moved deftly across the strings, evoking a haunting, melancholy glory as his voice began to spin its magic.

I have been in many shapes.

I have been the narrow blade of a sword.

I have been a drop in the air.

I have been a word in a book.

I have been a light in a lantern.

I have been the string of a child’s swaddling clout.

Beside me the wolfhound Brutus leaned his massive head against my knee, as enthralled with the sound of Taliesin’s voice as the assemblage was with his words. The Hall had gone silent, every ear atuned to the spell Taliesin was casting.

He told of bearing a banner before Alexander, of directing the work on Nimrod’s tower, of being in India before Rome was built.

I am a wonder whose origin is not known.

I have obtained the muse from the Caldron of Ceridwen.

At the naming of the sacred source of inspiration and knowledge, many people crossed themselves or made the sign against evil. But Taliesin was well into the magic of his song, leading us into the realms of the Other, the realm of Annwn bounded by the heavy blue chain of the sea. Here was the gloomy grave, the revolving tower, the Glass Castle of the Perfect Ones where the Lord of the Dead assembled his Court. Here was the pot that would not cook the meat of those who were forsworn but, like Bran’s drinking horn, gave every man the food he most desired, provided he was pure in heart and courage. By the breath of nine damsels it was warmed, and the purple rim was crusted with pearls.

Suddenly the spell of Taliesin’s story was broken by a wracking sob, and Perceval jumped to his feet. “The grail! He sings of the grail,” the lad called out. “My mum told me of it—the source of life, the provider of all sustenance…”

Galahad hastened to pull his cousin back down to his seat as the Fellowship turned to stare at him, shocked by his outburst. A mutter of exasperation was flowing around the Table, and Galahad was quick to counter it.

“Forgive the country lad, good warriors. His mind has sent him to learn the ways of your Fellowship, but his heart still lives by his mother’s well in the wildwood. It is love of what the great Bard has sung, not disrespect, which makes him burst out so.”

Indeed, Perceval had gone into a kind of trance, his face lit with an inner glow, his eyes seeing things the rest of us could not. Taliesin, curious about the lad’s Sight, put aside his harp as Perceval continued.

“Most holy of all the Treasures of Britain—most ancient, most sacred—it is the vessel of renewal and hope and Eternity.”

Perceval’s voice trembled with rapture. He had become a vessel himself, through which the Gods spilled their message, and we stared, awestruck and terrified, at the divine fool.

“It’s been hid from men’s sight all these years, waiting for the Pure Ones, the Brave Ones, to seek it out. My mum knew—she says it’s here, someplace…in the wildwood, in the hermit’s cell, in the Grail Castle it shall be found. That’s what she said, back there by her fountain in the woods. But only the bravest, the purest of heart…”

Uncertainty rippled through the Round Table as a fit of shaking brought the boy’s words to a halt. But no sooner had Perceval collapsed in his cousin’s arms than Gawain was on his feet.

“Hear, hear!” he cried, the fire of Perceval’s madness blazing on his forehead. “Surely you must feel it—the presence of the Other, the naming of the hidden mystery? Perceval says it is one of the Thirteen Treasures and calls it a grail, a sacred object that can only be found by the bravest and most honorable of men. Truly, the search for such an object, the finding of that link with the Divine, would be the most important quest of a lifetime!” The Prince of Orkney solemnly pulled forth his dagger and held it hilt upward so that it made the symbol of Christianity. “By this cross I vow not to rest until I find the Grail, nor to turn aside from the least adventure until I have captured it and brought it back to Camelot, to be enshrined to the glory of the Round Table for all time.”