The Once and Future Camelot Read online

  This last thought was enough to make the decision for me. If I did not write the truth in order to cover up the sins of both my father and mother, neither could I write the truth about the love I had for Guinglan, the happiness we had found together, and the bitter sorrow of our parting. And so, in the end, I resolved to write two books: the truth for me, which I would give to Aline when she was old enough to understand the secrets of our family, and one for the court so that the stories with which they were already familiar could be read again and again, and could even pass out into the wider world for others to tell.

  After further cogitation, I resolved to write both versions at the same time, but separately: the first book while Camelot was still fresh in my mind, for I was afraid what I might forget if I delayed making a start; and the second to give me something to show the king once I went to England, should he ask to see how far I had progressed.

  Writing the story of Camelot had its challenges, I found, for I’d been absent for most of what had happened there, and I knew many of the stories only by hearsay. On the other hand, I could not write endlessly about my time in the priory for each day was the same as the day before, and it would make for unutterably dull reading. And so I compromised and, instead, wrote down the stories as they had been told to me, not as a narration but as if those people involved were themselves describing their adventures as they unfolded. But I also made mention of my life in the priory, my joy whenever my mother had visited me, and my unutterable grief every time she left. The pages were filling fast, but I had not yet made a start on my stories for the king. Reluctantly I put the work aside, and instead thought about whether I should start this new book with some sort of explanatory note, like a prologue to the stories I would write afterwards. I also gave some thought as to the form I should use. I’d found myself writing the stories of Camelot as stories, but when I told them in court I’d often found myself lapsing into rhyme so that my tales were becoming more like long verse poems. At first I had resisted; later I learned to trust what I was hearing in my mind and I began to let the words unfold as they came to me.

  As I picked up my quill and dipped it into the inkhorn, the first few lines came into my mind, and I wrote them down:

  Those who receive from God the gift of knowledge and of speech,

  Should not stay silent or keep it secret, but should willingly share their eloquence.

  It seemed only right that I should acknowledge and give thanks to God for giving me this gift of storytelling, and to set down in writing that my stories were not for the purpose of bringing me fame but to keep in memory those adventures of which I’d been told. And so I wrote it down as the words came to me, until another thought intruded. I should also, of course, acknowledge the king’s gift and his support for my storytelling.

  In your honor, noble King, I wrote, going on to speak of my undertaking to write my lais and hoping that he would do me the honor of receiving them. And in conclusion I wrote:

  Please do not think me presumptuous for daring to present them to you.

  Hearken now to how they begin.

  The question then was how should I begin? Which lai should I start with? Lanval? No! I was determined to include it in the collection, for it was one of the queen’s favorites, but in view of the king’s interpretation when he’d first heard it, I would hide it between other stories somewhere in the middle of the book. I thought then of the story I’d told at the queen’s reception for the barons when she first arrived at Poitiers. Guigemar, I wrote, and commenced telling the story of the hapless lovers who were finally rewarded for their fidelity by finding each other again after many misadventures.

  I continued with my long walks, since they helped me put my thoughts in order. Sometimes I carried Aline with me, snug in a sling; often it was so cold I would leave her in the care of a nurse while I was absent. I soon came to know all the narrow, crooked streets of Poitiers and would call in to Notre-Dame-la-Grande, or sometimes the small church of St. Radegonde with its large stone tomb containing the saint’s remains. This was a very holy place and much beloved by the people of Poitiers who came to petition the saint regarding whatever troubled them, and who offered thanks when their prayers were answered. I must confess I spent long hours praying most earnestly that Guinglan would be returned to me, and wept as I prayed. Alas, my prayers were not answered, and I chastised myself for a lack of faith in the saint’s power – until I remembered that Guinglan was probably in a place where Christ and his saints had no credence.

  Often I would find myself in the market square, enjoying the noise and the color even in the frosty depths of winter. And I would buy little treats for Aline and for me, mostly luxuries from afar for, at this time of year, there was little in the way of fresh produce to be had. Sometimes my steps took me past the site where the new cathedral was to be built. It had been commissioned, so I was told, by the king and queen, and was to be called the Cathedral of St. Pierre and St. Paul. The site had been pegged, and stones were being laid to delineate its measurements. Judging from the size, it would be huge when finished, and I watched its progress with interest whenever I had cause to pass by. One of my favorite walks was to one of the very oldest churches, St. Hilaire. Its huge stone walls and rounded arches gave me a comforting sense of the solid foundations and everlasting glory of the Christian faith. It was on the route for pilgrims making their way to St. James in Compostela, and I found rest and comfort there when I prayed. I confess I also listened to the chatter of the pilgrims, and sometimes wove their experiences into my own stories.

  After writing them down, I would recite my new stories to Aline as I bathed and fed her and played with her. She would listen, and smile or even gurgle with glee. I liked to think she enjoyed and approved of what she was hearing but, although I knew she could not understand speech as yet, nevertheless it helped me to recite them out loud, to hear how they sounded. And many a time I went back to my pages to scrape them clean and rewrite those passages that needed changing.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The iron-hard grip of winter was loosening, and even a few brave daffodils had unfurled their sunny faces to the pale blue skies of spring when a messenger came from Eleanor to escort me to the port of Honfleur, from which we would set sail for England.

  “But only if you are now well enough to come with me, my lady,” he said, and I blessed Eleanor’s thoughtfulness. In fact I was more than ready to rejoin the court, for it was lonely in the castle with just my child for company. Those left in residence were all cheerful and willing, but friendship or even companionship wasn’t possible when they treated me with the sort of deference that the messenger had also shown.

  His name was Thomas, he told me, and he’d brought a small escort along with him. “Only as a precaution, my lady,” he said. “We are not expecting any trouble along the road.”

  And so I made the journey with an easy mind, looking forward to seeing the queen and her courtiers once more, Meg in particular, for I missed her laughter and her easygoing ways, and also all the tattle gleaned from the affairs of the court.

  After many days on the road, followed by a sea journey that left me feeling queasy, but that my daughter seemed to enjoy, we reached land once more. We reclaimed our mounts, which had made the voyage with us, and set off for London, a journey that would take a few more days, Thomas told me. Fortunately the weather stayed dry and the travel was easy, but as we came closer I was filled with a sense of foreboding that I could not understand.

  The queen, I’d been told, was now in residence at Westminster Palace, but the king had changed his mind about coming back to England so early in the year, and was still abroad. “He’s expected soon although I don’t suppose he’ll be staying long,” Thomas informed me. “I suspect he’s afraid he’ll grow moss if he stays in one place any longer than a week!” While the king’s absence was somewhat reassuring, for I always felt uneasy in his presence, my unease grew more acute as we traveled closer to the heart of the city of London. />
  After paying the toll and taxes, we crossed the River Thames by way of London Bridge, an old and rickety wooden affair that looked as if it had been patched and cobbled together through many centuries. On the other side of the bridge, a little way downstream, stood an enormous tower enclosed by a wall that fronted onto the river. There were steps to an archway cut low in the wall, which I assumed gave access to visitors arriving by boat. “Is that our destination?” I asked.

  “No, my lady. The White Tower is a palace, true, and an old one, built by the Norman King William, who conquered Saxon England almost a hundred years ago.” Thomas’s voice was somewhat sour as he made the observation. I wondered if his family had been of Saxon stock, and had lost lands and possessions when the Normans came to power. “It fell into disrepair during the reign of King Stephen,” Thomas continued. “The king has instructed his chancellor, Thomas Cromwell, to oversee the work while it is being refurbished, but we’re staying at the palace upriver at Westminster which anyway is far more comfortable.”

  “May we travel there by boat instead?” I asked, recalling the narrow cobbled streets through which we’d passed, and the filth in their gutters: piss and animal dung, rotten entrails, fish heads, bones and other disgusting substances that didn’t bear close examination, although dogs and rats scavenged freely and with enthusiasm. The sight and stink had turned my stomach. Rowing or sailing up the river seemed an entrancing alternative.

  Thomas hesitated for a moment, his brow furrowed in thought. “Yes, of course, my lady, if that’s what you wish,” he agreed. “Let me make arrangements for our escort to take our horses, and then we’ll see about a boat to hire.”

  And so it was arranged. Clutching my daughter close, I followed in Thomas’s wake as he led the way along the river bank, where the rich scent of pies and pasties from the cookshops warred with the stink of the fish, both fresh and stale, that fishermen tried to sell us as we passed. I held a hand over my nose to block the smell. Several small craft were tied up alongside a small dock. I looked at the debris in the water, which included a disemboweled dog, and I turned aside, trying not to retch. I also began to wonder if this was such a good idea after all. Thomas haggled with the boatmen for a time before finally selecting a craft, which I insisted on paying for. As we set off, accompanied by the soft plash of the boatman’s oars, I looked about me in wide-eyed wonder. I had heard much of London from members of Eleanor’s court, and had always wanted to see it for myself.

  The river was busy with craft of all sorts: many small boats like ours, carrying passengers from one part of the river to another, but I spied larger ships beyond the White Tower, merchant ships under sail bringing goods from across the sea to the warehouses that lined the banks.

  The guide pointed out some landmarks as the boatman rowed us towards our destination. “That’s Montfichet’s Tower ahead and on the right, below it, is Baynard’s Castle where the garrison is housed,” he said. “That steeple over there marks the site of St. Paul’s Cathedral, and the great wall of the Romans still encloses this part of the city.” Among the clutter of buildings, some obviously the grand homes of courtiers, were a number of taverns and I also noticed several churches, mostly from the time of the Saxons and made of wood in a style familiar to me. I tried to set the pattern of these landmarks in my mind, for I knew they would make useful reference points while I was exploring London. I looked ahead, anxious for my first glimpse of my new home.

  My first impression of the royal palace at Westminster impressed me deeply. It was built of stone and was situated right on the Thames. It looked very grand and imposing, perhaps seeming even bigger than it really was because all of it was reflected in the water. But even as I looked at the palace in awe, I saw its outline waver and change, spreading further along the length of the river. It became taller too, with towers and crenellations, and it had a weird, unearthly glow, as if thousands of candles illuminated it. One enormous tower dominated the skyline. I could see a round face near the top, marked with numbers; it may have been some sort of timepiece for it began to chime in sonorous tones that filled the air, reminding me of the abbey bells that had marked out our days and our nights. Puzzled, I turned my head, and saw instead some enormously tall buildings, so high that they seemed to scrape the sky. They glittered and shone like glass, with that same golden glow that filled me with wonder until I realized that the light was incandescent and unnatural. Alarmed at what it could all mean, I looked down at Aline in the cradle at my side. She seemed also to be watching what I could see.

  Suddenly a wave of heat was followed by a loud boom, a thunderous crack that seemed like a judgment from God, for even as I blinked the palace and every other building disappeared. All that was left was the river quietly meandering through empty, uninhabited land towards the sea. But I could hear screaming even though there was no one there and nothing to see. It was an unearthly sound and it went on and on until I couldn’t stand it any longer. I stuck my fingers into my ears, trying to block it out. Then I noticed my daughter. Normally placid, her eyes were wide and her face was contorted with fear. She opened her mouth and began to wail. Her heartbroken cries reached me and I unblocked my ears and picked her up to try to comfort her. Whatever I had seen, I knew she sensed it, and I was afraid both for her and for me, because I was almost sure that my mother’s hand was behind the vision, even though I couldn’t understand what I had witnessed, or what it foretold. All I knew was that we were still in the boat, and safe, but I couldn’t stop trembling.

  “Is something the matter, my lady? Is there aught I can do to help you and your daughter?” My escort’s concerned voice broke through my panic, and I managed to dredge up a smile.

  “I thought, for a moment, that the palace had disappeared?” I gave a shaky laugh to show that I wasn’t really in earnest, but the question was there for him to either agree or disprove what I had said.

  He frowned, and slowly shook his head. I looked again and to my relief I saw the palace once more, just as it was before. I tried to laugh off my fears. “It must have been a trick of the light, no more.” The palace lay illuminated in the golden glow of the sun, which now was almost directly overhead. Unlike the harsh brilliance I had just witnessed, this was a gentle, natural light while the scene itself was undeniably peaceful. But in spite of the spring warmth, I felt as cold as ice. I had seen this catastrophe for a reason, but what could it be?

  With an anxious look, the escort touched my arm. “That’s Westminster Abbey,” he said, indicating the solid stone bulk tucked to one side of the palace. “And that’s Lambeth Palace, the Archbishop of Canterbury’s London residence. Can you see it, my lady?” He pointed to the opposite side of the river bank.

  “Yes, indeed.” My fear began to subside as Thomas sought to distract me by pointing out other landmarks on either side of the river. His voice was quiet, soothing, and I had managed to compose myself into some sort of calm by the time we drew up to the steps and gate that gave entry to the walled palace.

  The queen received me graciously, and told me how much she’d missed my stories, which was very gratifying. I noted that Bernart de Ventadour was not among the assembly, and Meg later brought me news of all the court tattle, and with much laughter.

  “He’s no longer with the court,” she told me in answer to my question. “It may have been my lady’s decision to dismiss him, but I think it more likely that the king had tired of his attentions to the queen. Poor Bernart. But he’ll find another patron, someone who will appreciate his love poems, even if they were written for Eleanor. Of course, he is a very attractive man and an accomplished poet, while the fact that he has spent time in Eleanor’s court can only enhance his reputation. No doubt his love for Eleanor will wither and die once he is confronted with another lady to write poems for – no matter how old or haggish she might be!”

  I laughed at Meg’s cynicism, although I found myself in agreement with it. During my time at court I had soon realized that all those who seek to ente
rtain others for a living need a patron, and having secured one, must learn to charm and flatter if they wished to keep their employment. I was eternally grateful to Eleanor for taking me in. And in my quiet moments I also gave thanks to God for giving me this gift that enabled me to sustain myself and my child.

  It was good to see Meg again, and I told her so. In the priory, the sisters had been discouraged from forming close ties with anyone, and that barrier had extended to me as well. Meg was the closest I had ever come to finding a friend, and I told her that too.

  “Which priory did you live in?” Her eyes were round with wonder. “And however did you manage to escape?” She gurgled with laughter as she completed the thought: “I suppose your husband had to steal you away before he could marry you? What a lucky escape you have had to be sure!” Although she had scratched a wound, I was pleased that her train of thought meant there was no need to find an answer to her first question, for I had none.

  Meg turned to Aline; she stooped over her cradle to kiss her cheek, then scooped her up into her arms. I could tell she was already besotted with my daughter. “I would so like a child of my own,” she admitted.

  “First you have to find yourself a brave and handsome knight,” I teased. To my surprise, a tinge of red colored her cheeks.

  “You’ve found someone? Tell me everything!”

  It seemed that the brother of one of Henry’s barons had caught her eye when they’d both come to the castle to pay tribute to the queen. “We took several walks in the gardens here, and also along the river, and we have kissed more than once,” Meg confided.

  “Are his intentions honorable?” I was worried for Meg.

  “I think so. I hope so. The problem is that Alan is a younger son, with few prospects. He was supposed to be destined for the church but fortunately put up such an argument that his father has agreed that he might turn his hand to something else. He has talked of learning a trade and starting his own business, but his family is far too grand to allow it. Now he hopes that war may come, for if he can serve the king faithfully and well, the king might reward him with land of his own. Although I don’t wish him to go to war. It is horrible what men do to each other in battle, for I have seen the dead and the dying when they are brought home.” Meg shuddered at the memory, then brightened somewhat. “I shall introduce you to him when next he visits me – for he comes when he may, and when his family can spare him. I should value your opinion, Marie. You must tell me if you think I should wait for him, or if I am wasting my time.”