The Once and Future Camelot Page 2

  “As to that, I cannot tell you, for I know not what is true,” she said at last. “One of the guests suggested that Taliessen was mistaken; that the castle is not a castle but a monastery, and that it’s known as Mont St. Michel. But Taliessen wouldn’t be drawn into argument. He said again that he was merely telling a story, and he went on then to sing a song. And I recollected that I’d been gone for quite some time and so I hurried back to the priory, hoping that I had not been missed. And I was sorry to go, for the minstrel had a fine voice and his music was merry and bright.”

  Brittany! It seemed my prayer had been answered, for I knew that Brittany was where I must go. That was where my father had been born, and where he had lived before coming to Camelot. Perhaps his family was still there? Perhaps he might even have returned to his castle there? I turned to Guinglan, but he forestalled my plea with a question of his own.

  “Who is king of Brittany?”

  “I know not, sire. I have little knowledge of the lands across the sea. But I have heard that there is a king of France, Louis is his name. Our queen was his wife before she wed our own king, Henry.”

  “King Henry? And what is her name?”

  “She is Eleanor of Aquitaine, with vast lands of her own across the sea, or so I believe.” Sister Grace looked a little shame-faced. “I listen where I should not and learn what I can. I do find my own life so very dull. Of course I am happy here for I love the Lord,” she hastened to add, “but not all our time is spent in worship. I long to be outdoors.” She looked around, her expression wistful. “I would spend more time here if I could. There is always so very much to do and our lay sisters are not as careful and conscientious as I would wish.”

  Guinglan was not as patient with the nun’s confession as I was, for I knew how she felt, having grown up in similar circumstances myself. “We come from far away,” he said, “so you must tell us what you know about this land in which we find ourselves. You say it is ruled by King Henry.”

  Afraid that, unknowingly, Guinglan might reveal our secret, I said quickly, “When did the king come to the throne?”

  “Just past a year ago, and right glad we were to welcome him, for there was civil strife in England before then. Now we all pray for peace and good governance.”

  I realized that the good sister hadn’t answered my question, so I tried another, hoping to find some parallel between the land I knew and this one. “Who caused the civil strife? Who was king before Henry?”

  “Stephen of Blois, my lady. Cousin of the daughter of the old king, whose name was also Henry. Henry named his daughter, Matilda, as his heir, but Stephen usurped the throne on the old king’s death, and the Empress Matilda waged war against him to reclaim her crown. It was a terrible time for everyone; high and low, we all suffered great loss and hardship. The one good thing that Stephen did was to proclaim the Empress Matilda’s oldest son, Henry, as his heir before he died. We all have high hopes for the young king and his beautiful wife.”

  While I’d never heard of Henry, or Eleanor of Aquitaine either, the thought of a king and queen with realms of their own across the sea steeled my resolve to follow in the footsteps of my father, if I could.

  “One more question, if I may?”

  Sister Grace smiled at me. “As many questions as you wish,” she said gently.

  “If we were to travel to Brittany, how would we get there?”

  “That I cannot tell you, I’m sorry to say. We often have guests here who have come from across the sea, and I have overheard several names of ports where they boarded ship. Calais is the closest to England, I believe, but there are others that I think may be closer to where we are now. You should go south from here, and make enquiries when once you reach a harbor.”

  Ignoring the priory’s rule that forbade any physical contact, I took Sister Grace’s hands in my own, and pressed them in gratitude. “Thank you for your kindness,” I said. “You have helped us more than you know or I can say.”

  We took our leave and walked out of the priory. As we passed through the gate I cast one last look behind me, to say goodbye. It was not my home, I knew that now. But it was familiar, and a link with all that I had known, for my mother had been there with us, at least for a short time. I felt the first stirring of anger; it tempered my distress, and gave me strength to face the future.

  Guinglan’s anxious voice interrupted my thoughts. “I know not how it is that we have found ourselves in an unknown place that yet bears the name of the priory from which we came. Can you explain to me what is happening, Marie, and why your mother has abandoned us? I confess I am not sure where we should go now, or what we should do next.”

  How much could I tell Guinglan? What did he already know? I thought for a few moments, then said, “I can’t tell you what was in my mother’s mind, or how she managed to entice us here, for she knows things that I do not, and she did things of which I am ashamed to tell you. She wanted me to follow in her footsteps and learn the practice of magic, but I would not. So perhaps bringing us here is her way of punishing me for not walking her chosen path with her?”

  Guinglan frowned. “You may not have been as biddable as she would wish, but she loves you, Marie. She would not wish you harm, I am sure of it.”

  “Why then would she deprive me of my home – and of her love?” In spite of my good intentions, my voice shook as I uttered that last word. I tilted my chin, and prayed for courage.

  “If she has abandoned us, I am sure it is out of love and for a reason.” Guinglan held up the bag my mother had tried to give me. “I’ve looked inside, even if you have not. There is a fortune here in jewels and gold that I now believe she expects us to use to support ourselves while we are here. There are some objects too, but I cannot tell their purpose.”

  “What objects?” I took the bag from Guinglan and peered inside. He’d spoken true. There were indeed a great number of rings and brooches and coins, all of which could be traded for bread and shelter. I thrust my hand through the collection, and felt the hard shape of a bound book. I drew it out and recognized it at once. It was an ancient book of magic; I had seen my mother study its pages, and make notes and, when I was older, but still biddable, she had shown me some of what it said. I slammed the book closed and threw it on the ground. “She may have provided for our needs, but I believe her message is clear,” I said angrily. “We cannot – we will not – find our way back to Camelot until I study this book and become as skilled as my mother in the practice of magic. And that I will not do, not ever!”

  Looking troubled, Guinglan bent and picked it up, wiping away the dirt that adhered to its cover, and smoothing its pages. He held it out to me, but I backed away. He waited a few moments, then sighed and carefully secreted the book right at the very bottom of the bag.

  “Very well,” he said. “I respect your judgment, but we must keep this; we cannot throw it away. We have no knowledge of what might happen to us while we are here. I believe your mother gave it to you for a purpose so, even if you won’t follow your mother’s wishes now, it is possible that future events might change your mind.”

  “I won’t change my mind.” I set my mouth in a stubborn line. “And I won’t forgive her either.”

  “What then shall we do?”

  “Find my father,” I said promptly, and proceeded to explain my reasoning to Guinglan. To my great relief, he agreed to go along with my plans. Besides, as he’d said, he had no other idea of how to proceed. And so we began our long journey south towards the sea.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I gave thanks every day for Guinglan, for I could never have made the journey alone. My new husband proved masterful in directing our course, seemingly knowing which roads to take that would eventually lead us to Portsmouth, the closest port to our destination. There we found a number of merchant ships engaged in loading their cargoes and, after conversation with several of their captains, Guinglan secured a passage for us to St. Malo which, he assured me, would take us to Mont St. Michel at the
edge of the duchy called Brittany.

  While we were still very much in love, I sensed that a shadow had come between us, a shadow that told me Guinglan was now unsure of me and perhaps held me responsible, in some way, for our exile. For this I blamed my mother most bitterly, but in spite of every reassurance I could give him, the shadow remained. In every way I tried to show my love for him; our nights were still filled with rapture, but the easy camaraderie that had once existed between us had been compromised. Where once we had exchanged confidences of every description, now I felt constrained for there were some things we could not discuss. I knew, even if Guinglan did not, that my mother had done wrong. In her ambition and pride, and through her practice of magic, she had done great harm to my father as well as to her half-brother Arthur – and to my half-brother too, for Mordred must live always with the stain of his birth. But in spite of it all I had loved her, and honored her as a child should honor a parent. But not anymore. As she had cast me aside, so would I abandon her. She was dead to me now, and gone forever.

  As the sails unfurled and bellied out with the wind at the commencement of our voyage, I noticed several darters lined up along the wharf. They looked like the ancient hags of nightmares with their black wings spread out to dry. The air was filled with the restless, haunting cries of seagulls calling lost sailors home. I was filled with a nameless dread that, try as I might, I could not shake.

  We made good time on the voyage; the winds were fair and we sped along, but I felt sick all the way. Once we’d disembarked and commenced our journey east I felt easier in my mind, although the nausea was with me still. At first I blamed the somewhat inferior food we’d been served; later another suspicion stirred although I was reluctant to mention it to Guinglan. Raised as I was in a community of nuns, I had little experience of such things, and I knew that Guinglan would have no knowledge of them either. And so I held my tongue and bided my time, and prayed while I waited until I could be sure.

  The sight of Mont St. Michel, when we finally came to it, took my breath away. A great rock rose from the sea, topped by a castle, and all of it reflected in the gleaming water that surrounded it. This must surely be the Joyous Garde belonging to my father. In the short time we had together, after I came to Camelot, he had told me tales of his home and how he and my mother had ruled here, and how greatly he had valued her wisdom and advice. He spoke also of the precious tapestries that he’d commissioned to be made, and the designs my mother had chosen which had so charmed him that, even after they had parted, he didn’t have the heart to have them destroyed. I looked forward to seeing them, for he’d gone on to tell me how they illustrated the five human senses, but with a sixth tapestry added, the most important of all. He’d said this with such sadness that I was reluctant to question him further, although I still didn’t know exactly why he’d stopped loving my mother and instead turned such a great love towards the queen. Perhaps I would find the answer inside the castle?

  It was my task to find us a fishing vessel to row us across to the island for I knew the language of the Bretons whereas Guinglan did not. But finding a passage was not as easy as I’d expected. “’Tis too treacherous for craft to go to the island,” I was told. “’Tis almost a full moon when tides can rise as high as a house, and come in and go out at the speed of a galloping horse.”

  “Is there no other way to get over there?” I felt crushed by disappointment.

  “Aye.” The fisherman looked across at the island with a measuring glance. “It’s possible to walk across when the tide goes full out and the land is exposed – there’s just a few hours to do it.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief and turned to Guinglan. “We’ll wait and go across later then.”

  “Not without a guide, you won’t.” The man wagged a warning finger in our faces. “Once the tide goes out, it’s all mud and quicksand. Many people have met their deaths trying to make that crossing. It is treacherous from the first step to the very last.”

  “Where shall we find a guide?”

  The fisherman promised to secure a reliable guide for us while we went off to find a cookshop to take some refreshment before continuing our journey.

  When we finally came to make the crossing, I realized we were in the company of a group of pilgrims, or miquelots, as our guide described them to us. They were dressed in rough homespun garb, and their feet were bare, as were the lower part of their legs for they’d taken care to hike their garments as high as they could. I noted that they carried their shoes in one hand, and their staff in the other, keeping their packs on their backs and out of the way.

  At once I took off my own shoes and stockings, as did Guinglan, and we set off. The sands were cold, and the mud squished between our toes and up to our ankles. I lifted my gown with both hands and squelched on, hoping that the mount wasn’t as far away as it looked.

  I felt awe as the massive ramparts came closer. I could see now that the castle, situated as it was right at the very top of the rock, was accessible only through a narrow street that threaded a circular path upwards from the rocky shore. My awe deepened as I imagined how difficult it must have been to build such a huge castle on the site.

  “I thank you for bringing us to Joyous Garde,” I said, as the guide pointed a finger in the direction we should go, while Guinglan fumbled in his purse for a coin to give him.

  He frowned as he pocketed the coin. “I never heard it called that before. That’s the abbey of Mont St. Michel.”

  Just so had Sister Grace called it, but I refused to feel downhearted. “We know it as Joyous Garde,” I said firmly. Our guide shrugged, and plodded off once more, while we set off along a cobbled street that, eventually, would take us right up to the gatehouse of the castle. My heart beat hard with excitement as I imagined what we might find. More than anything I was hoping that my father might have returned from Camelot and be already in residence, and that I might see him soon.

  But a surly monk barred our way at the gatehouse, while waving through the group of pilgrims who had accompanied us. Only after Guinglan handed over several silver coins did he bid us welcome. And it seemed that Sister Grace had spoken true after all for this was, indeed, an abbey. My request to see the tapestries of the lady and the unicorn met with blank incomprehension, as did my enquiries regarding Sir Launcelot.

  I could hardly speak for the disappointment of it all, but Guinglan remained philosophical. “It could be that there are other islands like this one, with castles rising out of the sea, and that your father made his home elsewhere,” he said.

  I sniffed back my tears but made no reply, for I had given up hope.

  “You speak the same Breton language as the natives here, so it follows that if your father does have another castle its location cannot be too far from where we are now. I will go and make enquiries. It might be best if you stay in the guest quarters. I think your presence here is an unwelcome distraction for the monks.” He smiled at me and went out, closing the door behind him.

  I sank down on the bed in the small room to which I had been assigned, I suspect to keep me as far away from Guinglan as possible. In truth I was glad to rest. I was weary and despairing, and could not share Guinglan’s optimism. If there was a castle named Joyous Garde anywhere nearby, surely others would have heard of it and told us. I was becoming more and more convinced that, somehow, my mother had brought us to some Otherworld, perhaps one she had visited in the past and had chosen especially. It was certainly true that this world bore a startling resemblance to the one we had just left. But it was not the same world, and I knew that now. It was a terrifying thought, and I began to weep once more, knowing how much I had lost.

  I wept also for Guinglan. He, too, was in exile, and all because of me. No wonder a shadow had come between us. I was fearful that, once he knew the reality of our situation, he would cast me aside. It was a pain that couldn’t be borne, yet how could he have confidence in me after what had happened to us? There was no honor, only shame, and I grieved that I
had brought him to this, albeit against my knowledge and my wishes.

  Guinglan, when he finally returned, had no good news for me either. We walked out of the abbey so that we could not be overheard while we discussed what we should do next. As I peered over the abbey’s ramparts, I noted that the tide was rushing in once more, and that no one was walking out on the sands.

  Guinglan put his arm around my shoulder. “Try not to be downhearted,” he said, so gently that I could have wept with shame. “I’ve been talking to the abbot, and to others, to find out as much as I can about this new world in which we have found ourselves.” I shot a quick glance at Guinglan. Had he reached the same conclusion as I had done? I was afraid to ask.

  “I have been thinking that perhaps, instead of chasing after those who are known to us at court, we should instead try to find those kings and lords who are known here,” Guinglan continued.

  “There is a King of France,” I ventured, remembering what Sister Grace had told us.

  “I had thought of that. But it seems the King of France rules over only an island in the river Seine along with the city that surrounds it, plus a few other small territories. Even though he is not a great land owner, he is the king, and he is owed allegiance from the dukes who own the lands that surround his own – one of whom is the English King Henry. Another is Henry’s queen, whose lands have now been brought under the aegis of her husband. My thought is that we should go to Angers, which is in Henry’s own territory of Anjou, and ask them what they know about Camelot.”

  “But surely the king and queen are in England?” I asked, confused as I recalled Sister Grace’s enthusiasm for the new king.

  “Not at the moment, according to the abbot. And Angers is not too far distant, my love. Are you able to journey further, do you think? I know you are not well, and that you are tired of traveling; indeed your illness troubles me greatly.”