Guinevere: The Legend in Autumn (32 page)

“Then one morning I woke at the edge of a meadow where a little river broadens into pools. There was a mist rising up through the weeds—the sun hadn’t come up yet—and I could hear the hooves and bellows of a wild bull bringing his herd of cows down to the water to drink. Lowing and roaring he was, looming up white in the ground fog, with his wide horns swinging this way and that as he checked the air for wolves and bears. Made me think of the bull the god Mithra sacrificed…the whole of creation came from its blood streaming into the ground. That’s when I knew…”

The man shook his head in amazement, and his words came haltingly as he groped to phrase his discovery for us. “It’s all the Grail, and everything is part of it: squirrel and bear, king and priest, sunrise and new moon…all of us, all growing out of the blood of the bull. But looking out across that meadow, that’s when I knew…Mithra’s bull itself was part of this Being-ness, if you follow. It’s not something separate, this Grail. It is, and was, and will be…and before, as well as after.”

Lionel was looking back and forth between us, hoping to see some glimmer of understanding, his dark brows beetled in concentration. “Ach, the words M’lady…words get in the way sometimes. I do know what I’m trying to tell you, honestly I do.”

“I understand,” I assured him quietly. After all, I hadn’t been able to explain to Nimue what the Goddess had said.

Lionel put all his attention on me, peering into my face for confirmation that didn’t need speech. Apparently he saw it, for with a great sigh he sat back and gave Arthur a curt nod.

“That’s it, Your Highness…how I came to find the Grail,” he concluded.

And that was it—as far as I know, he never told another soul, though he may have broached the subject with others who followed the soldiers’ god, Mithra.

Later that night, when Arthur and I were talking after going to bed, I brought up my fear that this Quest might drive a wedge between followers of the various religions which had, heretofore, lived in peace in Britain. If two brothers as fond and loyal as Bors and Lionel could become estranged over it, what other damage might not result?

“None, if I can help it,” my husband announced firmly. “There will be no religious intolerance while I’m High King.”

He said it with such conviction and confidence, I put my arms around him in a hug and didn’t ask just what he thought he could do to stop it.

***

If Lionel’s experience with the Grail was profound but inarticulate, Palomides’s response was both lucid and brilliant.

In the spring the Arab rode up to our gates without fanfare, waiting his turn behind a farmer’s cart of pullets and the pack-train of a Scottish trader come to take orders for kippered herring. Fortunately I was on the parapet, wondering where Lance was, or I might have missed him altogether. It was his black cloak, edged with gold and embroidered with strange Eastern symbols, that caught my eye. From the look of him he’d been riding many a day and not stopped often for food, so I ran down to greet him and took him off to the kitchen.

“No, M’lady—I haven’t seen the dark-haired Breton, though his blond cousin, Bors, spent some time in the forest with me,” Palomides said as I served him a plate of cold meats and a ladle of soup.

“One evening Bors and Perceval and Galahad came into the clearing where I’d set up my tent. Very polite and civil—unlike some of the other Companions.” The Arab leaned forward to choose a drumstick, muttering darkly. “I think, M’lady, that if some of the Orcadians did not have a blood-tie to Arthur, and therefore the High King’s protection, others would take steps to curb their arrogance. You might make sure the King knows there’s those who like to cause trouble…”

Such a simple comment, delivered by one who wished us well, for all that he held himself a little apart from the family; perhaps that very distance gave him a better perspective about what was happening. Did I remember to pass on his warning to Arthur? At this point, I can’t recall, for when Palomides suggested it, all my thoughts were still on Lancelot and the Quest.

“It was a fascinating evening,” the Arab went on in a normal tone. “Bors has always been the colorful one in Council—cheerful and outgoing. But now that it comes to spiritual matters, he’s grown very quiet and is more likely to absorb the deeper lessons of the Grail than to expound on their meaning. So he sat silent, and I spent the evening listening to Galahad and the wild one, Perceval.”

“What did they talk about?” I inquired, sitting down on the bench across the table from him, thinking this was probably as close as I would get to going on the Quest myself.

“A great many things, Your Highness. Their adventures on the Road, what they are looking for, and how they go about it. Just the answers to those questions were immensely revealing.”

The Arab lifted the chalice of wine I’d put out, and carefully sniffed the contents. His eyebrows went up and taking a sip, he rolled the liquid around in his mouth, sloshing it about and exhaling happily when he’d swallowed.

I was hard pressed to keep from laughing. It’s a ritual Cei often performs, and one I’ve always thought amusing. Probably because I have no head for wine, I’ve never cultivated the finer points of enjoying it.

“Revealing what?” I asked, getting back to the Grail.

“Themselves. One learns a great deal about people by the way they approach a problem. Perceval now—there’s a lad with two great goals in life: he wants to be accepted into the Round Table and to find the Grail. In a sense, those are conflicting goals, for the Round Table is the best of the world and the Grail is the highest achievement in the spiritual realm. The fact that these two goals may be in conflict hasn’t occurred to him yet—he still thinks they are compatible.”

Palomides paused to lick his fingers, and I slid a piece of cheese off the platter and sat back, nibbling it. “And Galahad?” I asked.

“Galahad is a pure spirit—narrow and intense in the worldly sense, totally focused on one thing: achieving the Grail. I think he is the one most likely to touch the heart of it.”

“Really? What do you think he’ll find?”

Palomides lifted his shoulders in an eloquent shrug that implied there was no way of knowing. But after a moment he cast his gaze upward to the rafters, as though the answer was hanging there among the hams and jerky and strings of onions.

“The story of a sacred vessel is common to all peoples, M’lady. The Sarmatians tell of the caldron Nartyamonga, which will endlessly feed those without fault, and among the Zoroastrians there is the Cup of Jamshyd, which contains all the mysteries of the world in its bowl. I believe the Grail is a mirror, reflecting the truth of each person’s life—their nature, their commitment…their soul, if you will. I have no doubt that all who survive this adventure will be changed, some for good and some for ill, but all will be touched by what they discover on the Quest itself.”

“Then you think the Grail is inside each of us?” I asked, remembering what the Goddess had tried to tell me.

For a moment the Arab searched my face, looking for some sign as to how much depth I brought to the question, before answering.

“Absolutely. It is the essence of each person’s being. And because of that, each person will find a different thing. What they do with it depends on how truthful they are…truthful with the world and with themselves. The honest person’s actions are a spontaneous reflection of their nature, just as the shadow is the reflection of its tree. In the end it is this link between the true nature of a man and how he lives out his life that determines whether he ‘achieves’ the Grail. Unfortunately, we all have ways of deluding ourselves; we see the truth but call it by some other name. So in a sense,” he concluded, his black eyes flashing with the fire of a falcon’s gaze, “to know yourself is, without question, the first great challenge of Being…and not everyone is capable of it.”

With that Palomides smiled graciously and lifted his goblet in a toast. “To all our quests…may we have the honesty to recognize what we find, and the courage to embrace it.”

I smiled in response, grateful he’d shared his thoughts but, as always, a little confused by them. And I couldn’t help thinking it was clear why monarchs are so rarely philosophers—with so many practical things on our minds, we’ve little room for the kind of complexities that Palomides enjoyed.

***

Yet even sitting here in the cell these last days, I haven’t taken the time for philosophizing. Remembering, certainly. But not philosophizing the same way Palomides and Lancelot used to. Perhaps, like searching for the Grail, it is not part of everyone’s moira…

“I often wondered why you didn’t go on the Quest,” I commented gently to my companion, and a small frown passed over Gareth’s features.

“A part of me wanted to, M’lady. But with Lynette being due to deliver so soon, I was loath to leave her. And then, what with one thing and another, there never seemed to be time. Perhaps, in the long run, it was just as well.” He sighed with the long, weighty sound of a man who wonders if he had, in fact, made the wrong choice. Then he sat up abruptly. “It seems the wood is almost gone. Shall I ask the guard for more?”

“Why not?” I answered, knowing there would be no sleep for the rest of the night anyway.

While the transaction at the door was carried on in muffled tones, I moved slowly to the window and folding back the shutters, stared upward into the sky of childhood…the great, high vault of the north.

It always seems so much richer—the blue darker, the black deeper—than that which covers the south. A clean wind had blown the clouds away, leaving the white fire of the stars sparkling with new brilliance now that the moon had set. Only an hour or so until sunrise…

I shuddered violently and returned to the pallet on the ledge, tucking the edges of the comforter under my feet. Gareth was placing two new branches of applewood on the brazier. That someone should supply me, a queen convicted of treason and sentenced to the stake, with the most elegant and fragrant of firewoods was both touching and ironic. But then, that seems to be the very nature of human existence—poignant and wrenching, ludicrous and magnificent, all at the same time.

“Gareth, do you remember when Bors came back to Camelot, aflame with his news of the Grail…?”

Chapter XXV

Bors

While Palomides returned with quiet circumspection, Bors became the center of all attention when he led his horse up the cobbled drive one afternoon in May. The blond Breton moved slowly, like a man who is grateful that the aches and pains of winter are over, now that the buoyant new season has arrived. He turned into the stableyard just as Lionel emerged from the barn, and for a moment each brother stood transfixed by the sight of the other.

“God be praised,” Bors cried joyfully.” I thought you were dead.”

Lionel made no comment, but flew at his sibling with a shriek like a banshee. Bors dropped his reins and opened his arms for an embrace, only to find himself thrown to the ground by a whirling fury of cuffing and pummeling, clawing and biting. Within seconds a crowd of stable boys were cheering them on as they rolled about in the mud and horsepucky.

Bedivere came racing out of the barn at the racket, but as he told me later, there seemed no point in stopping the fight when it was clear the two men were as evenly matched as brothers could be. “And I figured it was better to let Lionel get it out of his system rather than have all that anger fester and turn poisonous. Besides, Bors seemed to be holding his own without much trouble.”

When he joined the household for dinner that night, Bors had a bandage around his forehead, one black eye, and numerous bruises. But he sat next to Lionel—who also bore visible signs of the fray—and both brothers seemed in good cheer.

“I didn’t bring the Grail back with me,” Bors replied to Arthur’s question, his mood turning noticeably more solemn. “But I know what it is, and have even seen it.”

The household erupted with excitement. “Tell us, tell us,” someone urged, and Arthur said we would rather put off dinner than wait until afterward for the story.

So we formed a circle around Bors, as for any storyteller, and he moved into the center. It startled me to see this Champion, once among the most flamboyant of heroes, wearing only a humble peasant’s smock and breeches, and a small wooden cross, which was suspended on a leather thong around his neck.

“Well,” he began thoughtfully, “I was sure the monks at Glastonbury would know all there was to know about the Grail, so after Lionel and I parted, I headed there straight off. On the way I met a cleric who had just come from visiting Illtud in the monastery at Llantwit, and we ambled along together for a while. When I asked him about the holy relic, he said the only thing he’d heard of was a simple bowl of old workmanship that had caught the blood which flowed from Christ’s body during the Crucifixion. Joseph of Arimathea had brought it to Britain after Christ’s death, but no one had seen it for years. Since it had once held the blood of the Savior, the monk thought it would probably heal the sick and wounded, as well as bring food and good cheer to all honorable souls, just as the Grail was said to do.”

Right then the youngster who was serving our table broke in to offer Bors a goblet of wine, but the blond Breton smiled at the lad and shook his head.

“That same holy man told me that only the purest will complete the Quest. He said I must attend Mass daily and abstain from both wine and meat until my Quest is complete—so I’ll be taking only a little bread and water. I have also vowed to remain celibate, and not to take even my worst enemy’s life.”

That elicited surprised comment from the Companions, but the once-ferocious warrior looked slowly around the circle. “The shedding of blood once victory is assured achieves nothing,” he said. There was a quiet certitude about him, and even Gawain nodded and looked away in the face of such a simple truth. I decided that perhaps Bors had more depth than I had given him credit for.

“In each case, when I bested a foe, I sent him back to Your Highness—I trust four such men have come to you in my name?” Arthur nodded in confirmation, so Bors continued his story.

“I went where my moira led me, never turning away from an adventure but always keeping the inspiration of the Grail before me. Once my path crossed that of my brother”—his glance slid sidewise to Lionel—“and I had to choose between him and my spiritual vows. No matter which decision I made, there would be dishonor, and later, when I heard that Lionel was dead…dear God, those were the saddest days of my life, for I thought he’d perished because I didn’t come to his aid.”

“You should’ve thought of that at the time,” Lionel grumbled.

“And the happiest day was discovering he’s still alive!” Bors added, disarming all of us, including Lionel, with the broadest of smiles. “For that I thank the Heavenly Father, and his Son as well.”

“But the Grail—tell us about the Grail!” someone cried, and the Breton nodded in reply.

“I’m a simple man, not a visionary like Perceval, and do not understand the mysteries of such holy things. But I know what I saw—and that I was blessed to spend time with Perceval and Galahad. It is they who have found the holy cup.”

“Galahad?” The name leapt off my lips abruptly. Hopefully news of the son would include news of the father as well.

“Indeed, M’lady, but it was Perceval I encountered first—that wild-child who was raised among the animals. Being pleased to find another Seeker, we fell in together. He was full of high cheer and good humor; you might say he enjoys the chase as much as the dinner, and even though his ways are startling, I came to see his heart is both pure and simple.”

“And Galahad?” I prompted.

“He joined us on the shore of a northern lake, in the company of a maid who had taken the veil of holy life. Amide, her name was, and she turned out to be Perceval’s half sister.”

A ruffle of amusement filled the room, and I smiled inwardly that another of Pellinore’s progeny had turned up in such an unlikely place. It seemed they were scattered all over Britain, no doubt as a result of his insatiable search for the perfect woman.

“Amide accompanied our party from then on,” Bors was saying, “regaling us with tales of ancient heroes and magic. I think she and Galahad were falling in love, though it was a saintly, spiritual kind of union and not carnal in nature,” he added quickly.

“All that winter we traveled through the north, and by early spring were desperately cold and hungry when we finally came upon a hill-fort. But in spite of our condition, the warriors refused us entrance unless one among us was willing to provide a bowl of blood for the fertilization of the fields. It seems they still follow the Old Ways, but no longer expect the King to provide the blood if someone else will volunteer.”

I felt a rabbit run over my grave, for it is this custom which lies at the root of the Royal Promise, but the blond Breton went on with his tale.

“Amide offered to give her blood, provided they gave us shelter, so we stood by and watched as her arm was extended over an antique bowl and the vein slit open. I was more interested in the carving on the sides of the crater than in the letting of her blood, and it was only when the bright red life of her spilled over the edge of the rim that I realized something was very wrong.”

Bors’s voice cracked with a sob, and he stared off into space as though still not believing what had happened. None of them thought the ceremony would kill her. But it was a sacrifice as surely as any monarch could make—as surely as Christ’s himself—for she bled until that bowl overflowed. Afterward she lay in Galahad’s arms, pale and shaking, and he wrapped his lamb’s wool cape around them both.

“To Carbonek,” she whispered. “You must go back to Carbonek, for only you can make the Waste Land whole with the Grail. It is your destiny…your moira, as mine is to show you the way…”

Just before she faded into death, she smiled up at the lad, calling him the fairest and purest of souls. It was heartbreaking, and when she was gone, Bors cried for her as though she had been his, though in truth the only man she ever loved was Galahad.

***

Bors stopped speaking and seemed to say a little prayer. Then, after crossing himself, he blinked back his tears and looked carefully around the circle of the household.

“They formed a solemn procession and poured her blood over the land. Afterward Galahad begged for the bowl to keep in her memory. God sent a terrible storm that night, as if He were angry at so hapless a loss, and the next morning Perceval and Galahad set off for Carbonek in a little boat they found on the river. They laid Amide’s body in state on the craft, and since there wasn’t room enough for me as well, I agreed to go by horseback. Later, when we all met in the Waste Land, Perceval told me about their strange and marvelous voyage…”

The boat traveled under its own power, guided by the spirit of Amide, whose body remained uncorrupted on its bier. All through the journey Perceval heard strange, airy voices berating him for his past thoughtlessness—for having deserted his mother in the woods to go to Camelot; for losing his sister, Amide, so soon after finding her; even for not realizing that the Grail might be among the treasures in Carbonek. He was deeply upset, and full of shame and guilt.

But Galahad sat wrapped in serenity next to Amide’s body, the crater that had caught her blood cradled lovingly in his lap. Sometimes his fingers caressed its sides, tracing the designs over and over. And sometimes he prayed. But never once did he doubt what the results of the journey would be.

They arrived at Carbonek on the evening of the third day, and Galahad ran forward from the pier, without waiting for Perceval, who had to scramble to catch up. Carrying the antique vessel, he raced up the steps of the fortress and, after a quick greeting to the sentry, bounded into his grandfather’s chamber. The old man lay on his bed in great pain, his face turned to the wall.

“Grandfather, I’ve found it,” Galahad cried, throwing himself down by the bed and taking the old man’s hand in his own. “Look, look what I’ve brought home for you…”

King Pellam stirred at the sound of the young man’s voice, rousing himself as though from far away. He turned his head so that his rheumy eyes made out the shape of his grandson kneeling next to him, and lifting his hands, he traced the outline of Galahad’s cheek with frail fingers.

“A gift, I’ve brought you a gift,” Galahad declared, propping the old fellow up among his pillows. “It’s ancient, and sacred, and specially for you.” With that he brought forth Amide’s bowl and placed it carefully in the old man’s grasp. “Do you know what it is?”

The ailing king ran his hands along the rim, then down over the swelling of its body, and his fingers found the carved design.

“Jesu Christi,” he cried suddenly, his feeble voice quavering with excitement. “It’s the cup of Joseph of Arimathea, which he used to catch the blood of Christ…”

Pellam grew more excited as his hands clutched the treasure, and he broke into a sweat, all the while praising Galahad for having brought his salvation to him. Courtiers came running into the room, eager to see Galahad again and to learn what was making their king so joyful. By the time Bors reached the doorway, there was little space to enter.

***

“But I could see the tears of joy running down the aged monarch’s face,” Bors recounted. “‘You’ve found the Grail, my son, and brought it to heal me.’ Those were his exact words—and his last ones, for the old man’s head fell gently against Galahad’s breast, and he died with all of us crying for happiness and sorrow mixed together.”

The blond Breton stood silent in the center of the circle, wrapped in the mystery of his story. There was a stirring in the household, like a soft exhalation of joy. The Grail had been found at last. The fact that it was of Christian origin, although surprising, made it no less mystical. Father Baldwin’s eyes glistened with tears, and the other Christians in our group began to pray. Several crossed themselves.

“What happened next?” Griflet asked.

“A great mood of jubilation swept over the land, as if the very first spring of creation came fresh across the hills. For a fortnight they celebrated the healing and dying of the old king and the saving of their land. Then, in the fullness of time, they prevailed on Galahad to be their new monarch. A Mass was said on the day of his crowning, with the Grail used as chalice—so that finally, once more, it was filled with the Holy Blood.”

Bors’s face was radiant with memory, and he lifted his hands toward the heavens. “Thus has the Quest been fulfilled, and the Grail found,” he intoned. “Galahad is dedicated to helping the Waste Land recover, but he says that when time allows, he’ll come to visit the Round Table again.”

I let out a sigh of relief, thankful that Lance’s fears for his son had not come true.

“For myself,” Bors concluded, “I am returned to Camelot with a new dedication of my own. My whole life will be a quest, and it is more important that I carry the Grail in my heart than that I hold the reality of it in my hands. I am not ready for a monastery, but will live in the world, though not of it, doing good works and keeping the vows I made before the Grail was won.”

“Hallelujah,” someone cried, giving voice to the sentiments of the entire household. Arthur, assuming with the rest of us that the Quest was over, congratulated Bors roundly. As we all settled down to eat, there was a wonderful sense of elation.

But later that night, when Arthur had long been asleep, I went to the window and sat looking out. From a tree in my garden the call of a nightingale stirred the darkness, while no doubt below our hill the vixen prowled around the village chicken coops. The air was full of dreams, and somewhere out there Lance was still trying to protect Galahad. I stared hard at the Goddess-eye moon riding above the clouds and prayed that She tell him to come home—the Quest had been completed, and what Lance sought for with his mind had been found by his own son’s heart.