The Once and Future Camelot Page 13

  This I promised to do, but in the event there was no time to meet him, for the king returned in April and the court moved to Bury St. Edmunds to celebrate Whitsuntide. On our return to London, the king learned that the Welsh prince, Owain Gwynedd, had threatened to take Chester. After mustering an army together, he rushed off to confront the prince, and Meg’s beloved went with him. Thereafter she moped around, her usual good humor having quite deserted her.

  The queen seemed more at ease once the king had left. She was with child once more, but that didn’t prevent her from showing an interest in affairs of state, for she was now acting as regent in Henry’s absence, along with Richard de Lucy, Henry’s Chief Justiciar. Nor did it prevent her from enjoying my nightly recitals. After some embarrassment at not having a gift for her, for I had not thought of it in time to procure some little thing to show my appreciation, I had instead presented her with a bound copy of one of my lais, which I had quickly dedicated to her. It was the second story I had told the court: the lai of Lanval, which had become a great favorite of hers. She was delighted and asked if I’d had time to write any other stories down, and so I showed her how my work progressed, although I kept my true account of Camelot hidden.

  The palace had the longest hall I had ever seen, with a high row of windows to let in the light. The walls were of a great height, and plastered and painted with pleasing scenes, and there was a wide, railed gallery midway where I stood to recite my lais. That first night I had a new story to tell the court. This one was inspired partly by the terrifying days and nights I had spent in the forest of Broceliande, and the stories I’d heard in Camelot from the knights who had gone in search of the Beast that dwelt there. I’d remembered my fear and horror, and my desolation on losing my husband, and knew that this was a story to write down in my own private collection. I could not tell it out loud, not without weeping. But there was a story told to me by the Breton nun of a brave and courteous knight who, for a few days every week, was changed into a werewolf. He was betrayed by his wife, who followed him into the forest one day and witnessed his transmutation. And so I changed my story into something new and, with some trepidation, I related the lai of Bisclavret, who was condemned to spend his life as a wolf after his wife’s betrayal. It was a story that finally ended well, but only after the plot was uncovered, and at the expense of the wife’s nose!

  My tension eased somewhat as I listened to the cheers that followed my recital, and that lai soon became a court favorite, added to others already familiar to the court, along with some new lais I’d dreamed up during my confinement.

  The king came back to London in his usual whirlwind rush, with horrifying stories of the barbarous ways in which the Welsh treated their captives, but without admitting openly that his encounter with Owain Gwynedd had ended in defeat and he’d been forced to sign a truce – although the truth emerged soon enough. To Meg’s infinite relief, her beloved came home too, with some nicks and cuts but otherwise unscathed. From Meg I understood that he had acquitted himself well, and that Henry had showed his appreciation, but with a gift of money rather than the manor that he craved.

  “It’s a start,” Meg said, beaming with pride and renewed optimism. “Alan has asked me to wait, and has promised that he will do what he can to ensure our future. The king has negotiated a truce with the prince, but who’s to say how long that will last before the king needs to go to war against the Welsh once more. And if he goes, Alan has pledged to go with him.”

  Rather than staying to savor a few weeks of peace, the restless Henry rushed off once more, this time on an extended progress through England, taking Meg’s beloved with him, but leaving Eleanor to await the birth of her child in London. It was a relief to be settled for a time, and I thought it would be good for Aline too. I had seen no more visions since that first terrifying glimpse of the annihilation of Westminster Palace, but I had not been able to banish it from my memory and I wondered if something about it also haunted my daughter. There were times, from the way she looked at me, that I thought she could hear what I was thinking, although I always dismissed that notion as completely fanciful.

  But, as always with Henry, life was never predictable or settled. A summons sent us north to Oxford, and it was there that Eleanor decided to stay and have her child. The King’s House was very grand, but comfortable, with an imposing hall that was decorated with fine murals, along with private quarters for the queen, chapels for prayer, and a pretty cloister garden in which we could walk.

  The king, after our arrival, cornered me there one day. “You’re looking well, Marie,” he said, and cupped my chin in his hand to stare at me intently. “Motherhood obviously becomes you.” The glint in his eye told me that he had no interest in my status as a mother, and I hastily freed myself and took a few steps away from him. I thought he looked a trifle disappointed but to my relief he did not pursue the matter, asking me instead how my scribing progressed. I was able to reassure him that it was all going well but when he asked to see what I had accomplished to date I was coy with him. I told him I would like him to see the entire collection when it was finished rather than the few stories I had managed to date. Not for anything would I risk another tete-a-tete with the king while his queen was unavailable for his attention!

  In September the queen gave birth to a son, whom she called Richard. Although she engaged a wet nurse for the baby, I sensed at once that there was a special bond between her and this child, her third son, and I wondered if his birth filled that part of her heart that had gone missing when William died.

  As always, Meg kept her ears flapping for the latest tattle and passed on all the news, but her latest snippet was something completely unexpected. It seemed that this Geoffrey of Monmouth, as well as taking it upon himself to write the history of the kings of Britain, including information about King Arthur and his court, had also written a book about Merlin’s “ancient” prophecies. “And you’ll never guess what else he said,” Meg continued breathlessly.

  I raised an eyebrow and waited for enlightenment.

  “‘The eagle of the broken covenant shall rejoice in her third nesting.’ That’s what he said, and it can only apply to the queen, for the broken covenant must mean her divorce from the King of France, and Richard is obviously her third nesting. I wonder what’s in store for the queen – and for him?”

  I was more interested in Merlin, and what Meg knew about him, but she laughed and said, “You have talked of the mage in your stories, Marie. I suspect you know far more about him than I do.”

  It was true I had mentioned Merlin a few times, to add a little mystery and magic to my tales, but most of what I’d said I’d invented for I knew little of the mage other than the few scraps of information I’d gleaned while in Camelot. But I thought I might include him more often in the future as he was obviously a figure of interest to the court, even while they professed not to believe in any of his stories of Arthur and Caerleon, as they persisted in naming Arthur’s seat of power. I had already managed to procure a copy of Geoffrey’s History of the Kings of Britain, pleased that I had some knowledge of Latin, the language of the church that I had learned during my time in the priory. But I was baffled by what I found there, for Geoffrey’s knowledge of King Arthur and his court was quite different from mine. What surprised me most was that his stories took place so far back in time. Arthur’s court at Caerleon was where Roman troops had been garrisoned over five hundred years before. Many details, including the birth of my half-brother, Mordred, were at odds from what I knew to be true, as was the death of King Arthur, for of that I had no knowledge at all. It all served to reinforce my belief that there was more than one Otherworld, and that perhaps the story of King Arthur that I knew had been played out differently in various Otherworlds, one of which Geoffrey might have visited. I’d been disappointed to learn that he had died quite recently; I would have sought him out in the hope that he might help me find my way home. Now I was determined to find a copy of his prophecies without
delay, for therein might lie the answers to all my questions.

  With the queen in seclusion for some weeks before and after the birth, I was not called on quite so often to entertain the court. I relished the quiet time that I was able to spend with Aline, but it was also a chance to continue scribing in my two books.

  The quiet time didn’t last for long. After holding their Christmas court at Lincoln, Henry and Eleanor embarked on a lengthy progress throughout England, while I was given permission to stay behind with Aline. I continued to take long walks on my own while I mulled over how best to write the stories I wanted to tell. Perhaps it was because of what I’d witnessed in Camelot, or perhaps it was because of the influence of the jongleurs at court, but I found that, more and more, I was writing about different aspects of love, its manifestations, its trials and its consequences. Of most interest to me was the passionate love between a man and a woman who were not wed to each other, and the exploration of a wife’s obligations to be true to the husband of an arranged marriage, thus facing the agonizing choice between temptation and duty. There was also the love – or rivalry and even hatred – between siblings, between friends, between men at arms. Another aspect of love, one close to my heart, was an examination of the love of a mother for her child and the child for the mother – and how it could all go wrong, with devastating consequences.

  Sometimes I found myself in tears as I scribed events and the emotions they aroused, for love was complex, and often a partner to tragedy when accompanied by a lack of trust, or fear, or greed which so often led to betrayal. Human relationships fascinated me, and I set about exploring them all, meting out due judgment and punishment, or fortune’s blessings, depending on my characters and their situation.

  Seasons came and went while I traveled far and wide with the royal court. These years were marked by the three great festivals and I was always present at those revelries, wherever they might be held, in order to entertain the court. Eleanor did not seem to mind that I always brought Aline with me when I was summoned, for I could not bear to be parted from my daughter. I sometimes wondered how she felt about leaving her children in the care of others, for she did not always travel with them. Yet she seemed to relish being ever on the move and involved in affairs of state, which might not have been possible without that freedom. It gave me pause to think that my own mother might have felt exactly the same way.

  *

  Eleanor could not always escape her duties, however. She fell pregnant again, and in time gave birth to her fourth son, Geoffrey. I traveled to court to spend some quiet time with her while she was in confinement. She was out of sorts, partly from discomfort but also, Meg told me, because of her husband’s increasing reliance on his chancellor, Thomas Becket. “Becket’s wormed his way into the king’s confidence to the extent that Henry’s now taking advice from him rather than his wife. Eleanor greatly resents being relegated to second place. She hates the fact that Becket is taking full advantage of the king’s regard, shouldering tasks that had once been hers and setting himself even higher than the king in some respects.” Meg clucked her tongue in disapproval. “He’s become well-known for his lavish entertainment at the fine house in London that was given to him by the king. And while Henry cares nothing for his appearance, Thomas has become a peacock. He wears more costly apparel even than the king himself.”

  I had witnessed some of Becket’s rise to prominence in the court myself in the past. He was an effective administrator, but I shared Meg’s view of his vaunting pride and ambition, and his deliberate snubbing of the queen. Meg’s next bit of news struck me as particularly cruel.

  “As a mark of the king’s favor, he sent Becket over to France to arrange the betrothal between the young Henry, as their oldest surviving son, and King Louis’ new daughter, Marguerite.” With a wicked grin, Meg went on to explain that the collusion between Becket and the king was designed to keep Eleanor away from her ex-husband, “for it seems she is known in France as ‘the whore of Aquitaine,’” Meg concluded.

  If Meg knew that, I was quite sure the queen did too, and while Becket was never mentioned, I could understand that his very name would feel like a hot brand on her skin. Meg also told me, in lowered tones, that the lusty king had recently embarked on a new affair with a lady at court, no doubt because his wife was temporarily unable to accommodate his needs. She gave me a nudge and pointed surreptitiously to an extremely attractive young woman who, even as she met my censorious glance, blushed and looked away. I suppose she read my disapproval, but at least her discomfort indicated that she felt some awareness of her shame. Feeling more charitable towards her, I also acknowledged that it would probably take more bravery than I possessed to refuse the king’s pleasure if he persisted in his courtship.

  Nevertheless I did what I could to raise the queen’s spirits and, to that end, in the privacy of her solar and the company of only a few of her tiring ladies, I told her some of the true stories of Camelot, not minding now if they moved me to tears, or anger, or even laughter.

  “Is this your own advice to my husband about the governance of our realm, Marie?” The queen surveyed me with bright eyes, roused from her usual lethargy by my lai of the king and the knights of Camelot and how Arthur had decreed that they should all sit at a Table Round as equals when debating the affairs of the kingdom. Her dry tone left me in no doubt as to what she thought of that idea – and in that she reminded me of my mother, who’d believed that Arthur doubted his own judgment, and needed advice before he could act.

  “No, my lady. This is how affairs were conducted at Camelot,” I reassured her, regaling her later with some of the otherworldly stories I’d been told by knights who’d gone in search of the Holy Grail. Finally, and without confessing my relationship to Sir Launcelot, I told her about his affair with Arthur’s queen.

  “Why have you not told us these stories before, Marie?” Eleanor asked at the end of my recital.

  It was a question for which I wasn’t prepared, and I silently cursed my stupidity as I struggled to find an answer. Finally I said, “Gracious majesty, these are stories woven around my own family, but I have transposed them to the court of Camelot to entertain and amuse you. As you see, much of what I’ve told you lies close to my heart. But I know that you will listen kindly and not judge me, nor share my distress with the court.”

  “I understand, Marie.” The queen gave me her hand and I kissed it, relieved to have her blessing.

  “Nevertheless,” the queen continued, and my heart sank in anticipation of what she might ask of me. “While my husband, the king, has commissioned you to write down for him the stories you tell us at court, may I, in turn, commission you to write down, for my eyes only, the stories you have been telling me in my bedchamber? I would like to read them again at those times when you do not accompany us.”

  Tell our stories, Marie. I heard Guinglan’s voice in my mind, and I smiled at the queen, happy to know that I was carrying out my beloved Guinglan’s instructions. “I shall do so, and gladly, my lady.”

  We were soon off again. Each progress was a huge undertaking, marked by the vast train and quantity of baggage the queen always insisted on taking with her. While the king cared not about his creature comforts, or even his dress for that matter, Eleanor was always exquisitely clothed and her own rooms were furnished with every comfort imaginable at every place we stayed. It was hardly surprising that Henry grumbled at the expense, for her wine was shipped from abroad and we dined on gold plates and supped from gold goblets, the air scented by expensive spices and incense. There were always oriental carpets or sweet fresh rushes to protect our feet from bare stone flagging, and beautifully embroidered tapestries to please the eye. For our amusement there were books to read, games to play, and troubadours (for I was just one of many) to play music and recite stories and poems to us.

  I was becoming aware that others who had heard the lais I had presented at court were now repeating them elsewhere, often with embellishments of their own. An
d I was intrigued when a copy of Geoffrey of Monmouth’s History of the Kings of Britain, which had been transcribed from Latin into Norman French, was given to the queen by the poet, Robert Wace, under a new title, Roman de Brut.

  “I have included an addition of my own,” he said proudly, “a round table whereby all men who sit there are equal.” I was present at the time, and the queen and I exchanged a wry smile. I found out later that he’d also made mention of the forest of Broceliande. Although he confessed that he himself had encountered nothing of a magical nature there, he reported on others who had. I wondered if he, too, had found some way of walking between the worlds, as it seemed that Geoffrey of Monmouth might also have done.

  I had managed to secure a copy of Geoffrey’s writing on Merlin and the mage’s prophecies and had read it with interest. While I could find no answers to my questions within the pages, the book reinforced my growing realization that all writers were in the habit of borrowing material from one another, and so I began to make use of his many references to Merlin to embellish my own stories. Nevertheless, when I heard how some of my own stories had been altered I was dismayed, for it pained me to hear how they had become so much less than I’d intended. After several reports had come to my ears I decided, once I was finally finished scribing the stories I had dedicated to the king, that I would include in my prologue a note explaining my true meaning in writing the verses, and at the same time claim ownership.