The Once and Future Camelot Read online

  “In those days,” I continued, “no one could find Guigemar’s equal as a fine knight, but in forming him, nature had erred badly for, no matter how many beautiful and noble women he encountered on his journeys, he showed no interest in them, so gaining the ire of all the women, but also of the men who could not understand his attitude.” I proceeded then to add some mystery to my story with details of how Guigemar went hunting and shot a white hind.

  “She fell at once, but the arrow rebounded. It went right through Guigemar’s thigh and penetrated the horse’s flesh. Guigemar was forced to dismount. He fell onto the thick grass and listened as the hind cursed him before she died.

  “‘May you never find a cure in herb or root or potion, nor even a physician, until a woman heals you; one who will suffer, out of love for you, more pain and grief than any woman has ever known before. And, out of love for her, so you, too, will suffer.’”

  There was complete silence in the hall as I continued with my story, telling them details of how Guigemar had boarded a mysterious ship that, without his command, took him across the sea where he encountered a beautiful woman and her ageing and possessive husband; how Guigemar and the woman fell in love, and how that love healed Guigemar. “But first,” I said, “Guigemar had to persuade her into his bed.” And how best to do that? I thought for a few moments, and then continued. “He told her he was dying; he begged for her mercy. But although she already loved him well, being wed to another she tried to delay her decision, saying that to act on their love would be overhasty. Thereon Guigemar remonstrated with her, saying ‘A fickle woman likes to make someone plead with her for a long time in order to enhance her worth; that way he won’t think she’s used to such sport. But if a lady who is kind, honest and virtuous finds a man to her liking, she ought not to treat him with disdain. Rather, she should love him and enjoy his love.’ And so the lady succumbed to Guigemar’s advances, and they took their pleasure together.”

  A sudden snort from Eleanor stopped me momentarily. We exchanged smiles. Emboldened now, I told of how Guigemar’s lady love tied a knot in his shirt tail, and he gave her a belt with a secure buckle that no one but Guigemar himself would be able to undo. I debated explaining the device: that Guigemar had ensured that the woman stayed true, for she would be unable to have relations with anyone else while she wore the belt. But even the thought of describing its function made me feel hot with embarrassment – and yes, it was also a remembered heat, and so I hurried on then to tell how the lovers were discovered by the lady’s irate husband, and the trials Guigemar had to undergo before he was able to escape.

  “No one was able to undo the knot in Guigemar’s shirt tail,” I continued, “although he was so fair of face and manly in build that women from all around Brittany came to try their luck. Meanwhile the lady suffered greatly after their discovery, being imprisoned by her lord husband in a dark, marble tower for several long years.

  “Finally, she managed to escape by means of the same ship that had brought Guigemar to the shores of her castle. This ship brought her to a castle owned by a lord named Meriaduc. She was so beautiful that he set about trying to woo her, resisting her pleas until she finally showed him the belt she wore. ‘I shall never love any man except the one who can unloose my belt without breaking it,’ she told him.

  “Now Meriaduc recalled the stories he’d heard about Guigemar, who had sworn to love no one other than the woman who could untie the knot in his shirt. He told the lady of what he had heard, and berated her, saying that he believed she must be the one who had tied the knot. When she sighed, and almost swooned at his words, he knew he’d guessed aright. And so he arranged for a tournament at his castle, knowing that Guigemar would attend.” And here, for the sake of the barons, I went into some details of the tournament, and how Guigemar had fought so bravely that he came to the attention of his lady love. “Neither could believe that chance had brought them together once more, but they proved it when each could untie the means that had bound them,” I continued.

  “Guigemar offered the lord his fealty and a hundred knights in return for the lady, but Meriaduc would not let her go. So Guigemar defied the lord by riding away to the castle of a man long known to be Meriaduc’s enemy, taking with him a large number of knights who supported him and his cause, for he was well respected and loved by everyone. This man also pledged his support, and they all returned to the castle of Meriaduc where Guigemar’s love was still being held against her will.”

  Again I went into some details of the siege and how it finished with the death of Meriaduc, but my last words were for the ladies: “Guigemar led his mistress away from the castle. All his pain was now at an end, for his love for the lady, and she for him, had lifted the hind’s curse. At the same time, his love and fidelity had freed the lady from her tyrannical husband so that she might find true love elsewhere.”

  I looked around the hall somewhat anxiously. The queen sent up a loud “Huzzah!” and suddenly the hall was in an uproar with cheering and whistles. As I walked down to my seat, I felt the weight of the world slide off my shoulders.

  *

  Several months passed by in ease and comfort. I spent time with Eleanor’s women and even the queen herself; we walked in the garden, and if the day was not fine, we sat sewing in the solar while listening to the minstrels’ music, or the poetry of Bernart de Ventadour. It was very much as Meg had said, for every poem seemed to follow the same progression, from the courtier’s first sight of his lady, to his falling in love with her, and his efforts to make her love him while all the time knowing that his cause was hopeless. Although Eleanor went unnamed, it was all too clear whom he meant. But Meg had done him an injustice, for he was a good poet and his words were pleasing even if their matter was somewhat repetitive.

  For our own amusement we played a variety of board games: chess or three-in-a-row perhaps, or merels, or tables. Eleanor frowned on gambling and so we made our wagers in small pebbles instead. I still took my long lonely walks, and gave my recitals at night, sometimes repeating one or another favorite at the queen’s request, but also telling new stories, weaving together threads from my experience growing up in the priory together with people, places and events that I’d encountered in Camelot. An elderly nun, a Breton, used to tell me stories when I was a child, particularly when I was distraught after saying goodbye to my mother as I was always sure I would never see her again. Her stories had calmed me because they were so fanciful. They captured my imagination and held my interest, and I would feel comforted as I drifted off to sleep. Looking back on it now, I could see how kindly that nun was, and I felt a rush of love and gratitude. Of course, neither of us knew of my own heritage at the time, but I decided now to include those stories within my own narrations, for they were my stories too.

  Tell our stories, Marie. Guinglan’s words whispered in my ear, bringing with them a stab of memory. I was doing as he’d asked – but at the same time I was beginning to enjoy my flights of fancy.

  After the king joined us in Poitiers, I became more careful in what I said. But perhaps their time apart had rekindled their love for each other, for Henry seemed less possessive and more fond now of his wife, and she in turn seemed somewhat happier, and did not try quite so hard to goad him.

  Even so, the king was a restless soul, never still for long. If he was not out hunting, or making lightning visits to one or other of the barons of Poitou, or one of the other duchies he’d inherited along with his marriage to Eleanor, he would summon his own nobles to consult over some affair or other, or he would draw up plans, or study something, for he was a great scholar. Meg had told me that, after the chaos and dysfunction of Stephen’s reign, Henry had made it his priority to restore the rule of law and bring financial stability to the realm, and to that end he worked tirelessly. “The trouble is,” Meg had confided, “he sets an exhausting pace, and expects his courtiers to keep up with him. But sometimes they fall short of his demands, and then all hell is visited upon them.”r />
  I’d been witness to several instances of this. When Henry was angry, the Great Hall rang with his rages, although at other times he seemed good-humored enough. But I always took care to stay out of his way. Not for anything did I wish to incur his wrath by either word or deed. For all he was so unpredictable, I admired him, and thought him a good king. And I heard only praise for what he’d already managed to achieve since his coronation.

  As the days grew shorter and colder, I began to worry over what would become of me, for I could no longer disguise the size of my belly no matter how loose the gowns I ordered for my use. Finally I plucked up my courage and, one day after we had dined, and after I had recited a new story that had been particularly well received, I spoke to Meg, saying I wished to have a private audience with the queen, and asking her opinion as to whether or not it would be granted, or even if it would be in my best interest to approach her at all.

  As I’d known she would, for she was always quick to imagine the humorous side of everything, Meg giggled. “Do you have a particularly spicy story fit for the queen’s ears alone?” she asked me, adding somewhat wistfully, “if so I would like to hear it, for I long to experience that love between a man and a woman of which you speak.”

  “You could have your pick of any man at court if you would only choose one,” I said.

  Meg pulled a face. “Fops, all of them, singing and sighing about love but not actually doing anything about it. No, I want a knight who will go out and do battle for me; someone brave, and strong, and true.”

  “That happens only in stories.”

  “But you’ve known a man, Marie. You wouldn’t be the size you are, unless you’d lain with someone. Who is he? And where is he that he leaves you alone when the babe’s birth is so near?”

  Sadness stole over me; I felt tears start in my eyes and I dashed them away.

  “Marie! I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you with my questions.” Meg looked genuinely contrite.

  “I was once wed.” The words were sharp as needles in my throat. “My husband …” I stopped, suddenly aware of how nearly I had betrayed myself. “He died of … of a fever.” My tears were falling in earnest now, and Meg put her arm around me.

  “Let me speak to the queen on your behalf. I am sure she will be sympathetic to your plight.”

  I managed a shaky smile through my tears. “That’s why I wish to see her. Not a spicy story, this time, but a story of great woe. But I’m sure she still feels grief over the death of her son, which makes me even more reluctant to burden her with my own problems.”

  Meg gave my shoulders a sympathetic squeeze. “Let me speak to her first,” she said, and hurried off before I could prevent her.

  True to her word, Meg must have caught the ear of the queen straightaway for there was little time lost before she came back to tell me that Eleanor was willing to see me on the morrow, before we dined.

  It was an anxious time of waiting. I tried to reassure myself with the notion that, even though the queen had suffered a great loss, she had also recently given birth and must surely be sympathetic to my plight. But then I remembered my devastation in the forest when I’d thought I was losing my baby as well as my husband. Had a pregnant young woman in trouble come to me at that time, I was fairly sure I would not have found it in my heart to be kind to her. Offset against that was the fact that if the queen banished me from her company, there would be no more stories – and I’d already seen how my stories could bring a smile to Eleanor’s face.

  In the event, when I presented myself the following morning, I found the king waiting for me along with his wife. My heart sank, for I was sure now that this meant my dismissal. While I thought the king enjoyed my stories, and I was careful which ones I told in his presence, I still remembered his anger over my recital of the story now known as “Lanval” by everyone. I’d recited it more than once at court, but only in the queen’s presence, adding embellishments each time to make the tale seem fresh and new. But I was sure Henry had not forgotten my first appearance before him.

  I sank into a deep obeisance before them, and the queen bid me rise, holding out her hand to help me lumber to my feet. I felt graceless and clumsy as I stood before them, my belly sticking out in flagrant proclamation of my condition.

  “Marie,” she said, “Henry and I plan to celebrate our Christmas court in Bordeaux this year. We have been conversing about your future with us, for we must leave Poitiers soon. But you cannot travel with us for you are so nearly come to term. It is too great a risk.”

  It was as I thought. I waited for them to tell me that my services at court were no longer wanted and I must leave. Instead, the queen said, “But you are not to think that we are abandoning you, Marie. Once the child is born, I hope you will bring him – or her – to Bordeaux, if we are still there. Our plan, however, is to travel back to England in the New Year and stay there for some time. So my question to you is: would you like to join us in England when you are well enough to travel, or would you rather stay here, close to the land of your birth?”

  For a moment I wasn’t sure what Eleanor was talking about, until I remembered that I’d told everyone I came from France. As the meaning of what she’d said sank into my befuddled mind, I was overwhelmed by her kindness.

  “Lady,” I said, and dropped to my knees once more. “Your offer is more than generous, and I accept with thanks and with gratitude. I would welcome the chance to come to your court in England.”

  “You must stop doing that, Marie,” Eleanor said, as she helped me rise once more. “All this bobbing about can’t be good for the baby.” But there was a smile on her face as she continued, “Meg tells me that your husband died of a fever, and I am sorry for it. I certainly would not add to your troubles, nor do I want you to have the fatigue of a journey with us to Bordeaux. May I suggest that you stay on here at Poitiers – there will still be servants to look after you, and you’ll have the best of care for the birth of your child. I shall leave instructions with a midwife and a physician to make sure of it.”

  ‘Thank you, my lady. I thank you with all my heart.” I was deeply moved. The queen’s kindness and generosity were so much more than I’d expected. I had never dared to hope so high.

  “Perhaps you’ll think of many new stories to tell us while you’re in seclusion.” Eleanor tipped her head in her husband’s direction. “And now Henry has something to say to you.”

  My heart sank once more. Was he not in favor of his wife’s suggestion?

  “Don’t look so frightened, Marie. I may have sharp teeth, but I don’t bite.” In spite of my swollen stomach the king gave me a lascivious wink. I remembered Meg’s comment about wagging appendages, and kept a straight face with some difficulty. My mirth helped me overcome my fear.

  The king indicated a wooden box set near his chair. “Instead, I have a present for you,” he said, crooking a finger at one of Eleanor’s ladies to bring it forward and open it. As I understood what it was, I gasped with pleasure.

  “A portable writing desk,” the king confirmed. “While you are in seclusion, Marie, not only must you think up some new stories, but I’d like you also to write them down, along with all the stories you’ve already told us.” He paused a moment. “Do you know how to write, or should I engage a scribe for you?”

  “No, sire. That won’t be necessary. I was reared in a convent, and I learned how to read and write while I was there.”

  The queen opened her mouth, and closed it again. Too late, I remembered the lies I had told. To my relief she made no comment, other than to say, “So it is settled then.” And I was dismissed.

  It was well I had approached the queen when I did, I thought, for the court left soon afterwards. I stayed on and, in the bitter cold of winter, I gave birth to my precious daughter, whom I named Aline, in honor of the queen who had taken me in and given me a home.

  True to the king’s instructions, I began to scribe my stories, but almost immediately I came up against a few
difficult questions to answer. My first decision centered on whether I should write true stories about Camelot, or the confabulations I’d been telling the court. The weather was too cold to walk outdoors so instead I stayed in the solar, close to the fire, and to my daughter, and paced and cogitated, and paced some more.

  “Write the stories,” the king had said, but I had told only one true tale of Camelot. Should I write down all that had happened in Camelot, at least all that I knew about? Some of it was so shameful that I hesitated to commit it to parchment. How abhorrent would both my mother and my father seem to everyone in this world; how badly they would be judged if I wrote them as they truly were. Yet there seemed no point in writing lies about Camelot – unless I wrote down the confabulations with which the court was familiar, and which were a mix of ancient legends and truth?

  Finally I acknowledged that I wanted to write the truth because, in spite of my anger towards her, I was missing my mother acutely. I’d longed for her reassuring presence in the last uncomfortable weeks of my pregnancy; I’d longed for her comfort during the birth of my daughter, not having had any idea of what to expect and being quite sure that if the pain went on any longer I would die, and my baby with me. True, Eleanor’s physician had encouraged me, as had the midwife at the birthing; nevertheless I’d been frightened witless. And now, after the birth, I longed for my mother’s company and for her advice, not only on the matter of what I should write, but also on how I should care for my daughter. She was already so precious to me. I was awestruck by how small yet how perfect she was, and I was terrified that I might drop her, or somehow unwittingly cause her harm. I’d scorned to use a wet nurse, wanting – needing – this close bonding time with my daughter, perhaps in some way trying to make up for the fact that she had no father and no other family around. We were all we had, and so must be everything to each other.

  I was also, of course, missing Guinglan. His absence was a constant ache, but made more acute now because he was not at my side during my daughter’s birth, nor would he ever gaze on her sweet face, or cradle her in his arms.