Lancelot and Guinevere Page 15

  "Thank you. I am a trifle thirsty." Gereint began to climb the cellar steps.

  As Gereint reached the third step, Mordred moved up behind him and stabbed him in the back.

  Gereint cried out and collapsed.

  The fool had believed that Mordred would let him live, so he could tell how low Mordred's origins were. Mordred laughed scornfully. These warriors of the king's were simple-minded. It would be child's play to deceive them.

  Mordred took Gereint's purse, not because he wanted the money, but so it would look as if robbers had attacked the warrior. He would have his men take Gereint and his horse far away, and leave them in the road, with signs of a scuffle nearby.

  No one at Camelot could ever know that he had been raised in a brothel, for they would despise him if they did.

  Stepping over the corpse, Mordred walked upstairs. Might as well have a woman now, as a reward for his clever deed.

  Soon he would see his father. Was there a chance that Arthur, who was believed to be childless, would welcome a son and acknowledge him? Mordred's heart beat a little faster at the thought. He pictured the king embracing him. But it was unlikely that the king would embrace a bastard. Mordred chided himself for his sentimentality.

  Arthur saw a tall young man with red-gold hair stride into the great hall as if he belonged there. He wore an elegant tunic and cloak of a blue that was almost royal in color, and not worn by lesser nobles. Gold and bronze armrings gleamed on his arms. His face was familiar—indeed, it was much like Arthur's own. The king felt as if he might fall off this throne, but he tried to remain expressionless.

  Arthur was hearing petitioners, and the young man came up before him.

  Arthur drew back and asked, "What is your petition?" He wasn't sure that he wanted to hear it.

  The young man bowed, but not as deeply as some petitioners. His voice was bold. He stated, rather than requesting, "I want to be one of your warriors."

  "Who are you?" Arthur asked, not wanting to know.

  "My name is Mordred."

  "Mordred ap?" the king queried.

  "Mordred son of Morgan," he replied, and when there were faint gasps in the hall, he added, "There are men as well as women named Morgan."

  Arthur tried not to flinch. Was this young man claiming to be his sister's son, and his own son by his sister? But he had never heard that she had borne a child, and surely she would have taxed him with it if she had.

  "My warriors shall test your mettle, and if you show promise you can become a warrior here," Arthur said.

  Heads shook as if everyone in the hall marveled at the speed with which he granted the presumptuous request. Everyone stared at the newcomer, as if trying to calculate whether he was Arthur's son.

  Arthur was eager for the young man to leave, so he could think about the matter.

  That very day, Mordred proved himself in fighting on the practice field. Arthur came to watch, though he knew that in doing so he fed the speculation. This Mordred managed to slightly cut the shoulder of Gareth, the best of the young warriors, and suffered no blows himself.

  At least Mordred could fight. Arthur gave him a friendlier smile than he had before.

  Striding up to the young man, who was barely sweating, Arthur said, "You fight well. You may become one of my men."

  "Thank you, sire," Mordred said, provoking muffled gasps from the warriors who surrounded them.

  Arthur did not deign to notice the double meaning of the word, but only said, "Do your best."

  He remembered that years ago he had dreamed of a boy baby biting him in the throat and trying to kill him. He had feared having a son of his body so much that he had asked Guinevere to lie with Lancelot. But that match had produced nothing.

  It had been foolish to imagine that a son might kill him. Arthur often regretted that he did not have one. But Guinevere's lack of issue with Lancelot proved that she was barren.

  When Arthur thought of Mordred, he was uncertain whether he should rejoice.

  That night he dreamed again of the infant attacking his throat, then his chest.

  In the next few days, warrior after warrior came to Arthur and told him that Mordred claimed to be his son. Arthur demanded that Mordred be sent to his room for a private audience.

  When Mordred arrived, he said nothing but a greeting. There was only a trace of a smile on his young face. He surveyed the room, eyeing the carved furniture with lions' and dragons' heads and tapestries with scenes of war and hunting.

  Arthur tried to be formal but not entirely unfriendly. Perhaps, after all, this strong young man was his own flesh and blood. Perhaps he could name a woman who plausibly might have been his mother. If not, perhaps Mordred was the son of some bastard of Arthur's father, King Uther, and thus kin of a sort.

  Arthur sat, and gestured for Mordred to be seated also. "You must know why I have asked you here. Of course I have heard that you claim to be my son. Why do you tell others this tale? Will you make this claim to me?"

  Mordred's smile widened. His red-gold hair shone in the light of Arthur's oil lamp, which was shaped like a dragon. "See for yourself, sire. Don't you believe that I am your sister's son?"

  Arthur frowned. "Perhaps I don't believe that my sister bore a child."

  Mordred shrugged. His face still wore the insolent smile. "Believe what you want. You can see that I'm your son, plainly enough, if you'll but look. If she wasn't the mother, perhaps it was someone else. Perhaps an even more powerful woman, such as Queen Morgause of Lothian."

  Arthur felt the blood surge in his veins. As if he had ever touched his aunt! What a rotten lie! Now he was free to totally disbelieve Mordred. He raged and shook his fist. "My aunt! At the time you must have been born, I'd never even met her. This is incredible. And you'd better not let Gawaine hear you speak such filth about his mother. He adores her."

  "That would make a pretty tale." Mordred was smirking as if unmoved by Arthur's anger.

  "By the Cross, what a filthy mind you have! And you're not very clever to talk so about such a great fighter." Arthur wiped his hands on his gold-trimmed white tunic, as if washing himself of Mordred.

  "No doubt you would rather have him inherit the throne than see your son inherit it." Mordred's voice was expressionless.

  "I have no son," Arthur said.

  There was a bitter smile on Mordred's face. "It's wise of you to deny that you do."

  Arthur's heart hardened. "I have allowed you to become one of my men. That should be enough for you."

  Mordred bowed. "Indeed it is, my lord Arthur. I am grateful."

  "I shall watch your progress." Arthur thought that was a grand concession.

  "I am honored." Mordred bowed.

  "You may go now."

  When Mordred left, Arthur breathed a sigh of relief. Of course this was not his son.

  Mordred stalked off and went for a ride. He did not see the forest around him, except to note whether there were any dangers, which he could sense easily. He rode only for the motion, to carry the rage he could not speak. Audacious as his speech with the king had been, it showed only the slightest part of his anger. He had been a fool ever to imagine that his father might care for him. His dreams of taking vengeance against the king had been far wiser than hoping for his father's love.

  His heart was full of bitterness. He hated all of them, these men who had always lived in caers and had servants at their command. His father he hated the most, of course, but he did not spare the others, who prated about childish ideas such as duty, honor, justice, and love. No one cared about anyone else; they only pretended that they did.

  The only one who intrigued him even a little was Gawaine, who had come to the brothel when Mordred was there as a boy. He had often wondered what would have happened if Gawaine had seen him. No doubt Gawaine would have recognized him as the king's son, and perhaps saved him. But why should Gawaine have done that, when he was the most likely heir to the throne himself? Why rescue a rival heir? No, it was foolish to imagine t
hat anyone would have helped him. Why should he like Gawaine? He was just another obstacle to gaining the throne. That would be after King Arthur died, a time to be anticipated with pleasure.

  Mordred sat in the great hall. He acted as if he was used to such huge rooms, though it was much larger than his whole brothel. It irked him that he sat with the young warriors, far from the king.

  He saw who sat nearest to Arthur: Gawaine, the king's cousin. Mordred couldn't quarrel much with that, but he observed that Gawaine's brothers sat nowhere near the king. They might be discontented with their seats. The queen sat on the king's other side. Perhaps Arthur could watch her better there. Women would get away with whatever they could. Merlin sat beside the queen, but he was too old to matter. He seemed to stare into space, and no doubt was doddering. Lancelot sat next to Gawaine. This Lancelot was a famous warrior and a handsome one, but Mordred saw nothing special about him.

  Lancelot said something and Arthur gave him the kind of smile that he should have given to Mordred. Mordred winced inwardly. Why did the king favor Lancelot?

  "The king seems to like Lancelot," he said to a handsome young warrior who sat next to him. The young man, who was named Percy, looked too gentle for a warrior. So did Lancelot, come to that.

  "Everyone loves Lancelot of the Lake," Percy said, smiling foolishly. "He is close to the king. They even go riding together at times."

  Mordred felt a surge of jealousy such as he had never experienced over a woman. He wanted to fight this Lancelot, but perhaps Lancelot would defeat him, which would be unbearable.

  Mordred tried to concentrate on his mutton, which was nicely flavored with mint, no doubt because of that seneschal Cai. Why did Arthur have a seneschal who was perfumed? Cai must bugger men. But Cai didn't look strong enough to rape anyone, like the panderers who had forced Mordred.

  The queen was not bad-looking, though it was a mystery why the king had not put her away when she bore no children. She was making a strange move with her knife that had nothing to do with cutting meat. Lancelot also made an odd move. They were signaling each other! How could his father countenance such carrying on? What was the good of being High King if your wife flirted with—and no doubt laid with—other men? Mordred's arms ached to strike Lancelot.

  "Which of the girls do you think is the prettiest?" Percy whispered to Galahad when they were waiting outside the great hall watching the young ladies go in for the evening meal.

  "I like Talwyn the best," Galahad said, smiling to herself. Talwyn had glanced at Galahad, then quickly looked away.

  "Talwyn? But she's not the prettiest." Percy's eyes widened.

  "She's very pretty, indeed, and her looks suit me well." Galahad frowned.

  Percy flushed. "Sorry. I didn't mean to offend you. I think Gralla is the most beautiful, but she won't look at me. I tried speaking with her, and she said, 'Percy, you're handsome, but you're poor, so please don't try to court me.' What do you think of that?"

  Galahad whistled, amazed that anyone as handsome as Percy could have trouble with girls. "I think you're fortunate that she was so honest."

  Percy nodded. "Don't tell anyone about what she said to me."

  "Of course I won't." Galahad patted his arm.

  The young warriors had just finished their practice, and Lancelot was striding away from the practice field. Seeing that Galahad was trying to catch up with her, she slowed her pace.

  The skinny youth hastened to her side.

  "Could I ask a boon, Lord Lancelot?" Galahad asked breathlessly.

  "You may ask. You did well against Percy today, but watch your left side as well as your right." What boon could the lad want, more lessons?

  "I shall. Could I go riding with you in the forest at times?" Galahad's voice had only a hint of pleading.

  Jealous of her solitude, Lancelot tried to find a gentle way to put off Galahad. "I have little time for quests, now that I am teaching so much. And of course you know that I generally go alone."

  "It doesn't have to be a quest. I'd just like to learn more about the forest, and you know more than anyone else," Galahad begged. Doves pecking at spilled crumbs on the cobblestones cooed, as if to say that the world outside the caer's walls beckoned them. Lancelot wondered whether the doves would be served for dinner.

  Lancelot smiled. It was good that this young man cared about the forest. "Very well, perhaps I have time for that."

  Some mornings and evenings they rode out, pausing by each new thing they saw. Lancelot was surprised to find that Galahad knew a great deal already and could identify as many bird songs as she could.

  They found red fawns hidden in tall grasses, and stayed late in the evening to watch badgers come out of their dens. Galahad could be quiet at such times.

  One day they found a fox's den, with four cubs playing outside of it. They silently agreed to sit at a distance and watch the cubs leap in the grass, catching insects.

  "See how they move," Lancelot whispered. "They look like dogs, but they jump and pounce just like cats. What are they, then? It interests me, perhaps because I am not entirely sure what I am."

  Occasionally the vixen came, bringing a rabbit or a mouse, but she was not disturbed by the two warriors sitting at a respectful distance.

  The fragrance of meadowsweet scented the air and larks filled it with song. Blue cornflowers contrasted with the foxes' red fur.

  The two denizens of Camelot finally left, Lancelot almost surprised that they had hands and feet instead of paws.

  They rode along in silence as the afternoon light faded. Birds bade their last farewell to the day, and animals that had slept began to stir.

  As twilight obscured their features, Galahad asked, "Lord Lancelot, how did you woo Queen Guinevere?"

  Lancelot felt so comfortable with Galahad that she answered the question instead of denying that she and the queen loved each other. Galahad had not told about her sex, and so could also be trusted with this secret. "What a question! I wouldn't tell this to anyone else, but I didn't woo her at all. She wooed me, and I fled from her. I was afraid that she wanted me because she believed I was a man, but she knew all the time that I wasn't. I am ashamed to say that I even kissed her when I thought that she believed I was a man."

  Galahad's eyebrows shot up. "Was that so wrong, to kiss a woman who believed you were a man?"

  "Of course it was." Lancelot insisted. "I can see that you wouldn't understand, as it's a question just for me and no one else. But it's deceitful, not perhaps as bad as pretending you were unmarried if you were married, but almost."

  "I see." Galahad regarded his horse's mane. "And Queen Guinevere always knew that you were a woman?"

  Lancelot nodded. "Yes, she said that she would not have loved me otherwise. I suppose it's clear whether one loves women or men. It always has been for me. Thank the Blessed Virgin I did not fall in love with a lady who longed for a man."

  "Yes, I can see that could have been very unpleasant." Galahad's tone was warmly sympathetic.

  Lancelot silently chided herself for talking too much about her own situation, which couldn't help this lad. "But you should ask some other warrior, who is a more likely example for you, about courting. You might ask Bors how he courted his wife. Of course the marriage was arranged, but he met her first."

  "I suppose I could," said Galahad, sighing a little.

  An owl hooted, and they rode on.

  When they returned to the stable, Lancelot saw Percy moping among the horses. As soon as Galahad had departed, Percy came up to her.

  "When I was a young boy, you would kindly go out in the forest with me. Would you perhaps grant me that favor again someday?" Percy asked, his foot tracing a circle in the dirt of the stableyard.

  "Of course. That would be a pleasure." Smiling at him, Lancelot put her hand on his shoulder. He was a boy still.

  The next day, they rode far, passing an old villa with crumbling walls.

  Percy gasped as if the sight astonished him. "Could we go insid
e?"

  "Of course, but let's be careful. The walls might collapse." Lancelot never knew what strange thing would interest Percy.

  They dismounted and entered the villa. Percy stared about in the dark as if he had never seen old walls before. A few chunks of plaster still clung to them, but most had disintegrated long before. Ants and spiders made the villa their home. A bat disturbed by their intrusion flew out of the villa. The villa smelled of mold. Lancelot almost gagged, but Percy didn't seem to notice.

  Lancelot suggested that they should leave. When they returned to the sunlight, they saw an old peasant woman who was stooped from her many years of work. She hailed them, and they returned her greeting.

  "Blessings on you, my lords," she said.

  "Thank you, my lady. God grant you a good day," Lancelot said, inclining her head.

  Percy bowed deeply to her. "I shall cherish your blessing forever," he intoned solemnly.

  "Will you now?" The old woman grinned, displaying her lack of teeth.

  Lancelot and Percy rode away. Percy was silent for a long time. Then he said, "What a wonderful day! No doubt she was a fair maiden under an enchantment who guards that enchanted caer."

  "No doubt," Lancelot agreed. Yes, Percy was the same as ever.

  Returning from a silversmith's shop where she had surreptitiously purchased a gift to send her mother—for she was supposed to be a poor bastard with no family—Galahad saw Talwyn enter the walled garden.

  Galahad shivered. Here was a chance to speak with the girl she liked, so she should take it, come what may. For good luck, she touched her chest in the place where an amulet her mother had given her hung under her tunic. The silver cross from the nuns she wore in plain sight.

  Galahad sauntered into the garden as if she believed no one else was there.

  Talwyn was in a fighting stance, thrusting an imaginary sword at an unseen foe.