The Once and Future Camelot Page 8

  The ground outside was inches deep in mud. Keeping her balance with difficulty on the slippery, uneven surface, and completely disorientated in the dark night, Morgan cautiously made her way towards the main source of the sound and light. But an exposed root caught at her foot and tripped her. She flailed wildly, trying to keep her balance, but her sodden shoes had lost traction and she slid forward and fell hard, feeling the ground slam into her stomach. She lay, half-conscious and groaning with the pain, promising herself that she would get up soon and go for help. But a growing fuzziness was wrapping around her like a cocoon, while movement of any sort seemed way too hard. Pushing aside the panicky thought that she’d left it too late, she pulled out her cell phone and dialed the emergency number.

  Darkness was closing in. All her thoughts were focused on the baby now, willing it to be all right as she fought the pain. It was an overwhelming relief to hear a voice come on the line and start to ask questions. “Help,” she whispered, “I’m at …” But the phone dropped from her hand before she could give directions. Motionless, she lay in the rain, while blood trickled into the mud, staining the ground with her lost dreams.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Marie

  I wasn’t sure at first whether I woke or slept. Guinglan was with me; he cradled me in his arms, and I felt his kisses on my hair, my cheek, my breast. Wanting him, I turned into his embrace, but he seemed strangely insubstantial now, and his voice, when he spoke, was just a whisper. “Farewell, my darling. I must leave you now for my mother has called me home.”

  “No!” I was suddenly wide awake, sitting up with a start and clutching my hand to the breast that he had kissed. “Guinglan!” My voice was one long howl of agony.

  “Tell our stories, Marie.” His voice was a last, dying breath, and then there was silence.

  “No!” I lay prone and began to beat the ground with my fists. “No, no, no!” Tears streamed down my cheeks and soaked the earth below. “Come back!” I cried into the silence. But there was no reply.

  As I finally lay still, exhausted, it seemed that there would never be enough tears to mourn Guinglan’s loss. I knew now that he was not dead, but that he was lost to me forever – although I could not fathom why. I closed my eyes, trying to reason it out.

  “My mother has called me home,” he’d said. I recalled then a conversation that I’d had with Sir Gawain, Guinglan’s father. He’d told me about his wife, Dame Ragnell, known at court as the Loathly Lady, and the enchantment that my mother had helped him to overturn: an enchantment that had changed her visage so that she always appeared ugly by day but regained her true beauty at night. By the time I came to court she was there no longer. Gawain had not told me why his wife had departed, and Guinglan didn’t know. That the lady had been enchanted seemed to me without a doubt. Had she returned to the land of the fey? Was that why she was now claiming her son? If so, it must be some other world unknown to us. I remembered Guinglan’s opposition to our visiting Broceliande when I’d spoken of the possibility that we might be able to find our way back to Camelot if the veil between our worlds was thin enough. But other worlds might also be close enough to allow passage into Broceliande. Had Guinglan feared all along that something like this might happen to him?

  “Why not take me? Why did you leave me behind?” I cried the words aloud.

  Because you have turned your back on your heritage. You are no longer one of us, for you have given your heart to the Christ. I listened to the answer in my mind, and I knew that it was true.

  It seemed that, unwittingly, I had brought Guinglan to his fate, and I reproached myself most bitterly – but I blamed Dame Ragnell too. It was too cruel that he should be taken so soon after we were wed, and before he could experience the pleasure of being a father to his child.

  On that thought, my heart gave a jolt. I’d been in mortal fear of losing the baby, and had taken herbs in a desperate effort to keep the child in my womb. With a prayer that they’d been efficacious, I passed a light hand over my stomach, soothing the baby within and calming myself as I did so. I became aware that the pain had gone; my baby was safe. As if in reassurance, for the first time I felt a slight movement in my belly. Tears slid down my cheeks once more. My baby was alive – and it was kicking me!

  Grieving, trying to come to terms with my loss, I rose from the mossy bank and continued along the path, praying that I would soon come out of the forest, for I knew not how long I could sustain myself unless I found shelter soon. It seemed to me, as I walked, that there was now a profusion of food to be found along the way. The hedgerows were lined with ripening blackberries, and I picked a handful. They were still a little tart, but they brought moisture into my mouth. Next I stumbled across a circle of fleshy mushrooms which I knew to be edible, and I stuffed them into my mouth. With my hunger somewhat assuaged, I next came across another patch of lady’s mantle further down the track. I picked a few tender young leaves to add to my repast. I had no means of boiling the leaves to drink the infusion, but I hoped they would ensure my baby’s safety.

  I became aware that the trees no longer folded around me, enclosing me in their green gloom. More and more now I was walking in sunlight, and I soon became so warm that I looked about for another stream or dewpond, hoping to slake my thirst. As if in answer to the thought, a glint of water in the distance caught my eye and I hurried towards it.

  Once I had drunk my fill, I gathered up my courage and pushed on up a slight hill that, when I reached the top, gave me the advantage of a clear vista of what lay in wait for me below.

  A village! With thanks in my heart I ran towards it, desperate now to find shelter and rest. The place seemed somewhat familiar. I realized that I had returned to the very place from which Guinglan and I had commenced our journey into the forest. Once there I wasted no time in reclaiming our mounts, although the innkeeper’s enquiries regarding Guinglan reduced me to a fountain of tears once more.

  “Rest,” he advised. “Stay here for a few days until you have regained your strength, for I can see how overwrought and exhausted you are. My wife will attend you; we’ll make sure that you have every comfort.”

  It was wise advice, and I accepted the innkeeper’s offer with gratitude. At the same time, I was careful how I answered his questions, and also those of his wife. There was quite enough superstition and horror attached to the forest as it was, I thought, and so I said only that Guinglan had been captured and taken away by bandits, but that I had managed to escape. The fact that I was still able to pay for my accommodation was enough to stop their tongues, especially when I made it clear that I would answer nothing further. Instead, I asked questions of my own about the king and queen of England, and if they still resided at Angers. Guinglan had thought they might know something of Camelot and, for want of any better idea, that was where I was determined to travel to next.

  Blank incomprehension finally gave way to understanding. “You refer to the Duke of Anjou, Normandy and Brittany? And Duchess Eleanor of Aquitaine?”

  “Yes,” I said, recalling the information we’d received at the abbey of Mont St. Michel. “But the Duke and Duchess are also the King and Queen of England,” I added, receiving an elaborate shrug in return. It was clear that my hosts had no interest in affairs across the sea; instead they regaled me with tales of the sumptuous court kept by the duchess in her own duchy: how she encouraged minstrels, actors and dancers to attend and entertain her. The innkeeper’s wife sounded somewhat scandalized as she passed on this morsel of information.

  Tell our stories, Marie. Guinglan’s voice whispered in my mind, and strengthened my resolve. As I lay quietly, recovering my strength but mourning all I had lost, words began to pour into my mind, singing to me the story of my mother and the harm she had done both to me, and to the kingdom. And my father, Sir Launcelot, and his illicit love for King Arthur’s wife, Guenevere. There were other stories too: the king’s prowess in battle that, finally, had brought peace to the land. And the knights’ pursuit of the
Holy Grail that had caused so many fantastical adventures yet had resulted in the death of so many brave knights. Nor could I forget the mischief-making of my half-brother, Mordred. I shuddered, and pushed away the scandal of his birth. I would need to choose my stories carefully if I wished to entertain the court, for this must be what Guinglan meant. And I gave thanks, then, that I had defied my mother’s command not to come to Camelot. After twenty years living in the priory, it had been difficult to break the vow of obedience, but after she had told me of my father’s true identity, I knew I had to meet him. And so I had left the priory and found my way to Camelot.

  I remembered anew my mother’s shock, her horror on seeing me. Nevertheless she had faced the court bravely when she’d introduced me as her daughter and then named Sir Launcelot as my father. Although he had been kind, and we’d spent long hours talking together, it hadn’t taken me long to realize that he no longer loved my mother; that he’d transferred his love to the queen instead. In truth it made me feel sick to see how they lusted after each other, and how everyone in court, but King Arthur, knew about it.

  I had made the most of the short time I was there, for the court was so very different from the priory. I set out to learn how it was to live among the nobility. At the same time I found out all I could about Arthur and Guenevere, and the knights who sat at the Table Round as well as their ladies. Most especially, I asked questions about my mother and father. Often what I was told didn’t tally with what they themselves had told me, or what I managed to overhear. Indeed, I was upset and horrified by some of the things I learned. It didn’t take me long to find out how greatly my mother was feared – and even hated by some. That had been the greatest shock of all. Nevertheless, I had listened and, as a result, I knew the stories. And of course … the thought stabbed my heart anew … I had also met Guinglan. Had I not gone to Camelot, I would not have met my love, nor lost him either. I would not have known the greatest joy, nor yet the greatest sorrow I had ever known.

  And so I lay and listened to the stories unfolding in my mind, rejecting some while embellishing others. And as soon as I’d regained my strength, and had ensured that indeed no harm threatened my unborn child, I took leave of the kindly innkeeper and his wife. For safety, I joined a group of merchants and their wives who were also bound in the same direction. We made the journey on horseback, and the time passed quickly. Indeed, my ordeal in the forest seemed almost like a bad dream now, for the way was so open and pleasant. Pale pink roses bloomed among the thorny blackberry hedgerows, with splashes of gold buttercups at their feet. I heard the murmurous buzzing of bees, and the cheeps and chirrups of nesting birds. Bright jeweled butterflies flitted among the blossoms, and the sun shone down on us like a blessing. But I missed Guinglan acutely; his absence had left a gaping hole in my heart.

  At first I scorned to use the money and jewels that I’d received from my mother, but I soon realized that I needed to pay for my board and lodgings along the way and my own coins were running low. Some jewels I kept, recognizing them as things my mother had favored and had worn often. For that reason I was reluctant to exchange them for coin or in kind, but other jewels proved useful along my journey until, at last, our party came to the city of Angers. My escorts had spoken of it in awe, and now I could see why.

  The town was protected by stout walls, overlooked by a large castle which sat on a rocky promontory beside the River Maine. But now that I was finally here, I found myself losing courage. So much depended on my meeting with the king and queen – and there was no guarantee that they would receive me, travel-stained and weary as I was, and so obviously lacking in status. As I traversed the narrow cobbled streets, my steps faltered and I broke out in the clammy sweat of fear.

  The imposing façade of the cathedral of St. Maurice caught my eye and I hurried towards it, for although I’d prayed constantly while lost in Broceliande, I’d had little chance to venture into a church of any sort for quite some time. My soul suddenly hungered for a communion with God. I went inside, dipped my fingers into the stoup of holy water and crossed myself. I bowed to the altar, then sank to my knees in reverence.

  I gave thanks to God for keeping me safe, and my baby too, while I was lost in the forest. And I prayed for Guinglan’s soul, even though I believed him to be in faerie territory and outside God’s aegis. I also prayed most earnestly for guidance, hoping that God would show me the path I should choose for my life to come. Finally, I arose feeling refreshed and with renewed optimism, although the grief of Guinglan’s loss was with me still, as it would be with me always.

  Once on my feet, I looked about with wonder at the beautiful cathedral with its colored glass windows and handsome altar, and the decorative hangings on the walls. I wished I had more time to stay and study them, for I knew that the elaborate carvings that graced the portal outside, along with the paintings on the walls inside, and the pictures made of glass in the windows, were all for instruction as well as for decoration. But I was filled now with a sense of purpose, and so I rose, bowed to the altar and crossed myself, then hurried out with Guinglan’s words echoing in my mind and in my heart.

  Tell our stories, Marie.

  I would tell the stories. They would be my means of gaining access to the king.

  *

  My first hurdle was an argument with the gatekeeper, who looked me up and down and then suggested that I seek shelter at the abbey across the river. But I held firm and told him, in as commanding tone as I could muster, that I already had shelter but was seeking an audience with the king and queen, hoping to entertain them with my stories.

  At that, the crotchety old fellow pricked up his ears and allowed me admittance, with the warning that the king was out hunting, while the queen was planning to visit her duchy of Poitou and was busy overseeing packing for the move.

  It was a setback of sorts, but not a great one for at least the queen was still in residence and, hopefully, would grant me an audience for long enough to tell me what I wished to know. And so I left my mount with a groom and followed the guide that the old man had summoned. After some delay during which I was offered refreshments, I was eventually ushered into the presence of the queen and her courtiers.

  After a startled glance I sank into a deep curtsey, feeling ashamed of my travel-stained garments in so magnificent a presence. Queen Eleanor was beautiful. Her dark auburn hair was half-hidden under her veil, which was secured with a jeweled band. Her skin was creamy white, and her eyes were blue, the same shade as her dark blue velvet gown. She wore jewels at her throat and ears, and gold bracelets of the same design as her earrings encircled her wrists. Her sleeves were buttoned back to reveal the richly embroidered sleeves of her underdress, which was of a paler blue. All this I’d noticed before I made my obeisance. Now crouched low, I caught a glimpse of a jeweled slipper.

  She said something to me that I couldn’t understand. I stayed where I was, wondering if the queen was speaking in the language of the north that I’d heard was called langue d’oil. Or perhaps it was langue d’oc, the dialect of the south? She clicked her tongue impatiently, and addressed me in a language I could understand. “You may rise.”

  I stood up, shaking with nerves, and we inspected each other more closely. The queen was beautiful, yes, but I thought now that she looked somewhat careworn, and there was a trace of sadness in her eyes. But her tone was kindly as she said, “You have traveled far, it seems. What is your name, child, and where are you from?”

  “My name is Marie. I am from …” I stopped. While some people had heard of Camelot, to all of them it was just a story. Did this queen know of Otherworlds, or would I risk condemnation if I told the truth? Might it be better to wait until I had their measure and had won their trust? Or should I come right out and claim my heritage?”

  “From?” the queen prompted.

  “From …”

  My courage failed me. If I could not talk about Camelot and its king, then I must say something other. I remembered what Guinglan ha
d told me about the King of France; that he was owed allegiance by this king and queen. If I claimed acquaintance with the court of France, might it not guarantee me a place at this court too?

  “I am from France,” I said boldly, hoping she would not contradict me for I remembered, now that it was too late, that this lady had once been married to the King of France.

  “I do not recollect seeing you there. But then, of course you would have been just a child at the time.” Satisfied she had the truth of it, the queen smiled at me. “And why have you left the good King Louis to come to my court, Marie? And why do you travel alone?”

  “I am … I was once wed, my lady, but not any longer.” I swallowed hard, trying to fight the tears that threatened to spill. “Now I need to make my own way, and so I have come to your court in the hope that you will wish to hear my stories.”

  “Stories?” The queen leaned forward, as did the courtiers grouped around her. I noticed now a dark, bearded man by her side, carrying a rebec. He looked somewhat put out, and I wondered if I was trespassing on his own duty and desire to entertain the queen. He made an impatient gesture, and the queen turned to him with some amusement. “I enjoy your songs and poetry, Bernart, but there is only so much I can bear to hear of my grace and beauty and charm. And I am weary of chansons de geste and amour. Mayhap this young woman has something new to tell us, something with a bit of spice to it, perhaps?”

  “I have stories to tell of King Arthur and the knights of Camelot, my lady.”

  “I have already heard those stories.” The queen sat back, looking disappointed.

  But I actually lived there, and I can tell you the truth of what happened. I dared not say the words aloud. Instead I said, “Only some of the stories of Camelot have been told, but I know them all.” For it was becoming clear to me that others, as well as my mother, had been able to walk between the worlds, and must have come here with tales of their own. Or perhaps they had managed to pass through the veil from here into Camelot, and had then brought back stories of what they’d seen – or their own interpretation of what they’d seen. Either way, it seemed that none had confessed as to how they came by this information. It strengthened my resolve to stay quiet about my own experiences, at least for a time.