The Once and Future Camelot Page 9

  “Very well, then. Tell us a story.” Queen Eleanor waved a gracious hand and someone brought me a stool so that I could sit down.

  “Before I begin, majesty, will you tell me how much you know of Camelot and its king and queen? I wonder: has anyone actually visited the court and come back to tell you about it?” Inside I was quaking at my temerity, yet it seemed a reasonable question in the circumstances.

  Eleanor frowned. “It is only a story, told by jongleurs and troubadours throughout England as well as here. There is no truth to it at all.”

  It was disappointing to have my suspicions confirmed; nevertheless I tried one last question for, after all, this was why I had come to the court.

  “In my story there is a castle named Joyous Garde, in Brittany. It is said to be cut off from the mainland when the tide is high, so that it looks like an island. Do you know of any such castle, my lady?”

  The queen cocked her head on one side while she thought about it. “The only place I know in Brittany that fits that description is called Mont St. Michel,” she said slowly. “But it’s an abbey, not a castle, and it’s certainly not called Joyous Garde.”

  I bowed my head as my last hope of finding my father flickered and died. While some may have crossed between worlds, and told tales of their experience, there was nothing here of Camelot, or of the abbey of Glastonbury, with which I was familiar. Unless I was prepared to follow the same path of magic as my mother, I would be forever an exile here; on my own, without even my beloved husband for company.

  The tears I had been fighting came into my eyes, and I dashed them away with an impatient hand. There were so many stories of Camelot that I could tell the queen and her courtiers, but just the thought of my home filled me with sorrow for what I had lost. How could I open my heart to these strangers?

  Stricken, I stared around the court. Now that the time had come, my throat was dry and my tongue stuck fast. I opened my mouth, but no words came. Everyone was staring at me, looking expectant, but my mind had emptied in my panic. I could think of nothing to say.

  Tell our stories, Marie. The memory of Guinglan’s voice brought some measure of comfort. I had no knowledge of which stories the court had already heard; if I merely repeated something they already knew, my stay here would be short indeed. At a loss, but knowing I must say something, I gulped, took a deep breath, and began. “You say you already know many stories of Arthur, so I will tell you instead of some old Breton legends I have heard, many of which mention Arthur and his knights, although some of these stories go back to a time unknown and forgotten by our ancestors.”

  I paused to draw breath. With thoughts in my mind of how my mother had betrayed us so callously, and my unsuccessful search for my father that had led to such heartache, I began speaking.

  “The story I shall recite for you concerns a noble knight, a Breton named Launcelot, and I shall tell you the adventure just as it happened. Launcelot was the son of a king of high degree, and he was envied by all for his valor, his generosity, his beauty and his bravery. One day he mounted his horse and, by way of many adventures and misadventures, he came at last to Camelot. The king received him graciously, and introduced him to his queen, Guenevere, and also to his half-sister, Morgana.” I paused, aware that my mother’s name had caused a ripple of interest through the room.

  “Although the queen loved Launcelot when first she set eyes on him, Launcelot felt such love for my … for Morgana … and she for him that they stole away to his castle at Joyous Garde, so that they could be together and take their pleasure without witness. I should tell you that Joyous Garde becomes an island when the tide is high, but is almost completely isolated even when the sea retreats, for the sands are so treacherous that few men dare venture across for fear of disappearing forever.

  “And so Launcelot and Morgana lived together for many seasons, loving each other and tending Launcelot’s castle and all its lands so faithfully and well that all rejoiced that their lord had come home to care for them and make the land fruitful once more.” I paused, struck by the queen’s expectant expression. I took a deep breath, and began to weave in some details as to how the couple expressed their love and their joy in each other, based somewhat on my brief experience of loving Guinglan. Although my words cut like knives, there was also some comfort in the telling, for I knew that what we had felt for each other was right, and true. And I knew, at the same time, that I was providing some of the spice that Eleanor so obviously relished.

  “But alas, their joy was soon to come to an end, for a messenger arrived by boat with a letter for Launcelot from his lord, Arthur,” I continued. “In the message, King Arthur told that there had been an attempt on his life, and that he feared his half-sister, Morgana, was responsible. No one, you see, knew that Morgana was with Launcelot, or that they loved each other. So far as they thought of it at all, they believed that Launcelot had returned to his home in Brittany, and that Morgana had retired once more to the priory at …” I stopped abruptly. I could not say Glastonbury, for the court might think I was trying to pretend that these stories were true in their own world. “Well, the priory’s name makes no matter,” I added hurriedly.

  “Morgana finds love with a knight called Launcelot? That is not how I have heard the story told,” the queen said, and her courtiers all nodded in agreement.

  “Please stay your judgment, for there is more to come,” I said, bowing my head to show deference. And I went on then to tell them of all the accusations, and my mother’s disgrace, and how Launcelot had then abandoned her for the queen. When I began my story I was filled with rage against my mother, but now I felt sympathy for her in spite of her betrayal. Now that I had lost Guinglan, I could understand how grief-stricken and desperate she must have felt, and so I told the court that too. My emotion must have been felt by my audience, for there were a few wet eyes and several sniffles as I concluded my tale without revealing too much of what had happened after Launcelot and Guenevere fell in love. I’d decided I would dole my stories out sparingly, in the hope that I would be asked to stay on and recite more. But my recital had opened a deep wound that I had sought to close, for speaking of my mother and father had brought them too close into my mind and my heart for comfort. I grieved anew over all that had happened, and how happy we might all have been if only my mother hadn’t practiced the magical arts and caused such harm, and my father had stayed true to her. My own childhood would have been so different, so much happier if I could have lived with them at Joyous Garde instead of at the priory.

  As I wiped away my tears, and faced the queen, I made a pledge to myself: that in future I would tell the stories of Camelot, but I would change them in some way. I would call the people I knew by a different name. I would invent new deeds, or perhaps combine those things that I knew, and change them into something other. By doing this, I would ensure that my stories would not be familiar to the queen and her courtiers but, more important, I hoped it would also help me keep my own emotions in check if I turned what I knew into a new story. More, it would give me the freedom to change the outcome of events; I could give my stories a happier and more positive ending. But, I cautioned myself, only if the characters and their deeds were deserving!

  “It is an affecting tale you have told us, Marie – but it is not at all what the history of Britain as written by Geoffrey of Monmouth tells us, which is not a history at all according to the bard, Taliessen, although he is happy enough to repeat the stories. The way they tell it, the queen is happily married to the king and is above reproach – but she is stolen away by the king’s nephew, Mordred, who would make her his own and steal the crown while King Arthur is out of Logres waging war on Rome. Fortunately, the queen manages to escape and instead, finds safety in an abbey. That’s the story we’ve heard, Marie – but I have enjoyed listening to what you have told us, and I thank you for entertaining us. Pray stay and dine with us. I think my husband would enjoy hearing your story after he comes back from the hunt, for it is one we ha
ve not heard before.”

  I accepted the queen’s invitation with gratitude, but her words had given me something new to think about.

  “My pardon, my lady, but may I ask another question?” I spoke quickly, before she could dismiss me.

  The queen gave a nod of assent.

  “You say that someone has written a history of Britain in which King Arthur is mentioned. Does this history say where Camelot may be found?”

  “No.” The queen frowned. “As Geoffrey tells it, Arthur’s kingdom is called Logres, and his court is at Caerleon.”

  Caerleon? I had never heard of it. But the queen had not yet finished speaking. “It may be true,” she said, “that many hundreds of years ago there was just such a king as Arthur. I do not know, for my family is from Aquitaine in the south, while the king’s family comes from Anjou. We know very little about Britain – or Logres, or however it may be called. Your story obviously touched you deeply, Marie; it seems that you have a soft heart as well as a silver tongue. But there is no Camelot either here or across the sea. As for Caerleon; it is in Wales – but there is no King Arthur there, only a tribe of quarrelsome savages who harass my husband and cause trouble whensoever they may. Do not look for truth in these stories, Marie. They are told only for our amusement and entertainment.”

  While disappointed in having my last hopes dashed in this manner, there was yet some relief in hearing the queen’s words, for I felt they gave me permission to follow the path on which I had already decided. And that decision being made, and with the queen’s imprimatur, ideas were already stirring as to how I might both speak of Camelot, and yet not.

  And so I was taken to a room which I would share with other ladies of the court, and given a pallet to sleep on. And there was a little time to wash and to rest, and also to think of what tale I might recite later for I was determined, now, to change the stories into something new, something happier; a story that would not cut through me like the sharpest knife when I had to tell it.

  It was a great surprise, and a balm to my heart, when one of the queen’s tiring women came into the room bearing a gown and some new slippers to match it.

  “From Queen Eleanor,” she told me, “in thanks for your story, but also because she says you cannot come in to dine with us dressed as you are.”

  I looked down at my travel-stained clothes and felt a deep shame. Once my gown would have been fit to grace any court, no matter how grand, but my journey through the forest had taken its toll. In fact, now that I was inspecting my garments more carefully, I was amazed that I’d managed to gain access to the queen at all.

  “Please thank the queen for her generous gift,” I said, and took the bundle from the tiring woman. I had already washed as best I might, but now I washed again, and then wasted no time in dressing myself in my new finery. It seemed that Eleanor favored blue, although this was a lighter blue than the dress she’d been wearing, and it was somewhat plainer too. Perhaps it was someone else’s cast-off, and not Eleanor’s, but either way I didn’t mind for it was wonderful to have something fresh and clean to wear. I looked at my cast-off clothing; it was filthy, with more than a whiff of perspiration about it. I wondered if it might be salvaged or if I should just throw it out.

  Feeling renewed and refreshed, I pondered what to do next. I didn’t think I could go back to join the queen and her entourage in the queen’s private solar – not without an invitation, and so, after some thought, I made my way down to the Great Hall, deciding to stay there until I was sent for.

  I was still in the Great Hall when King Henry arrived back from the hunt, shouting for his wife, for a basin to wash, and for food and ale to be brought. It was as if a whirlwind had hit the room, for he strode through the hall while courtiers scattered out of his way like leaves blowing wild in autumn. I surveyed the king with great interest.

  He was of medium height and stocky build; his legs were bowed, perhaps from too many hours in the saddle. His hair was red like his wife’s, but of a far brighter hue. His face, too, was red – either from the wind and the exertion of the ride or from choler, but I thought not the latter, for he seemed in high good humor. I assumed that the hunt had gone well. This was confirmed after he mounted the dais at the end of the room, and flung himself down in a handsomely-carved chair. Raising his voice so that he could be heard above the hubbub, he began to speak of the day’s hunt, itemizing the animals that he and his men had managed to either shoot or snare. Halfway through his recital Eleanor hurried in, and sat down on a stool beside him. I was amused to witness that the king gave her the same absentminded caress as, only moments before, he’d bestowed on the hound which had now stretched over his feet in repose.

  Henry gave the hound an irritated nudge to free his legs and then rose and began to pace the hall as he went on to give an account of where they had hunted, and which nobleman had brought down what, boasting at the same time that his score of dead creatures was equal or more than any of theirs. I knew that good hunting meant that we would dine well; nevertheless, my sympathy lay always with the hunted rather than the hunter. And I wondered if I could make a story out of it. I was busy devising the tale in my mind when, to my confusion, I noticed that Henry had come to a stop and was looking at me in some bemusement but with great appreciation.

  “I haven’t seen you in our court before. Who are you?”

  “My name is Marie. I … I am from France.”

  Henry glanced at his wife with raised eyebrows. I was about to explain my presence, but Eleanor spoke first. “Marie is a troubador with fine stories to tell. I have asked her to entertain us tonight.”

  Henry smiled at me. “Welcome, Marie.” His eyes were kind, but his voice took on an edge when he turned to his wife. “It’ll make a change from listening to endless songs in praise of your beauty,” he said. He winked at me, and strode on. Somewhat flustered by his attention, I looked at Eleanor, and then at the troubador standing at her back. “Bernart,” Eleanor had called him. He’d flushed a dark red, and as he caught my eye he gave me a baleful glare. I knew then that, although I was blameless, I had made an enemy. Nevertheless I was determined to tell the best stories I could and earn my keep because – and the thought caused me great sadness – I had nowhere else to go.

  While Henry went off to bathe and dress, servants brought in trestle tables which they set up below the dais, ready for us to dine. The king and queen and their courtiers were seated at the high table; I was ushered to a seat below but not too far from where they sat. An array of dishes was brought in, and my stomach growled in hungry anticipation. But to my surprise, the meal was not as sumptuous as I’d hoped, for the bread was half-baked, the meats and fish tasted stale and were overcooked, and the wine was cloudy and sour. I glanced at the queen; she had pushed her trencher aside and had taken a sip of wine. I noticed her grimace as she set down her cup, and I wondered why she did not insist on better fare.

  A group of musicians entertained us while we dined, and I listened with interest for the music they played sounded in no way like anything I had heard before. The instruments were familiar: rebec and viol, fidel and bow, pipe and tabor, and so were the sounds of their instruments, but all were woven together so that there was more than one harmony at a time, the notes combining with a rich complexity that was pleasing to the ear. Sometimes the minstrels accompanied their music with songs, and again their voices blended together although the notes they sang were not always the same. My mind was taken up with wondering which music I preferred when my musing was interrupted by the queen’s messenger, who asked me to come up to the high table.

  “Marie, will you entertain us now?” the queen asked, as I approached and curtsied low. “Perhaps you could tell us again about Launcelot and Morgana, for I think the king will enjoy that tale.”

  Aghast, I looked from her to the king, and wondered if it might be possible to refuse.

  The king nodded his encouragement. But I knew I couldn’t do it; the loss of Guinglan and my home were st
ill too raw. My mind raced with frantic speed as I tried to come up with an alternative suggestion. Finally, I spoke. “With your permission, my lady, and to give you something new to listen to as well as the king, may I tell you another ancient story I have heard? It is similar to the story I told you earlier this day, but I think you will enjoy it more.”

  Eleanor frowned. I suspected she was not used to being crossed. Before she could deny my request, I began to speak, beginning in the same way as I had before in the hope of mollifying the queen. But this time I gave the knight a new name.

  “The story I shall recite for you concerns a noble knight. His name in Breton is Lanval, and I shall tell you the adventure just as it happened. Lanval was the son of a king of high degree, and he was envied by all for his valor, his generosity, his beauty and his bravery. One day he mounted his horse and, by way of many adventures and misadventures, he came at last to Camelot.”

  I paused as thoughts intruded of my mother, and the love she had for my father, even though he had proved faithless in the end. It had made me think less of him, but I had also blamed Guenevere. If she had set her love on my father, as all attested, it would have been difficult for him to refuse her. How then should I turn this story about?

  “Although the king received Lanval, neither he nor the knights showed him any favor. Finally, Lanval was so lonely that he left the court to go adventuring. He was resting out in a field one day when two beautiful ladies approached him. ‘Sir Lanval,’ said one of them, ‘my lady who is as worthy and wise as she is beautiful, has sent us for you.’ And so the knight went with them to …” I was about to say Joyous Garde, but stopped myself in time. “To a silken tent and furnished more luxuriously than any he had ever seen before. Within the tent was a woman whose beauty surpassed the fairest lily and the purest rose.” I stopped for a moment’s thought; I was starting to enjoy myself now. And, although I was furious with my mother, and ashamed of my father, I sought now to redeem them and, at the same time indict the queen. And so I went on then to invent a story about the beautiful and magical woman (my mother) who ensnared Lanval (my father) with her beauty but who swore him to secrecy, that he should never tell of her – just as my own parents had lived in secrecy at Joyous Garde.