Pendragon's Heir (11 page)

The curtain twitched aside. A moment later she had been caught into her guardian’s bear-hug.

I
N THE END IT TOOK SOME
finessing before Blanche could call herself really at home. A charade had to be performed for the servants’ sake: Nerys rang the front-door bell so that Sir Ector could pretend to have received a telegram, and the next morning he drove out in the barouche on time to meet the train and returned with Blanche and Nerys both dressed crisply and correctly, as though they had been on holiday at the seaside instead of roughing it in Britain.

But Blanche had slept in her own bed again, and woken late in the morning in warm and blissful content. She might soon be compelled to return to Logres, but at least they would never take her back to Carbonek!

Or
would
she return to Logres? Again, Blanche remembered Mr Corbin’s words—“How can I help you if you speak of
musts?
” She had followed Nerys to Logres last time unthinkingly, reluctantly, frightened into submission by the Blue Boar’s attack. She promised herself it would not happen again. Before she condemned herself to Logres for good, she would try, if she might, to find a way out. Perhaps Mr Corbin would be able to suggest something. She would go to the village to find him as soon as possible; this afternoon, maybe, or tomorrow.

Yet the thought of going to Logres did not seem so unbearable as it had before. Even Carbonek might have been worse. And there was the twinge of conscience she had felt when, for a moment, she had seen through Nerys’s eyes. For a moment she had sensed what the fay had had to give up, and it had occurred to her for the first time that it was possible to love Logres, even to feel homesick for it…

And not only Nerys, but Sir Ector had made that sacrifice. For her. The least she could do was make an effort to understand their love, if she could.

Thus, when Sir Ector had fetched her home in state, and Blanche had looked over her correspondence and enjoyed an unhurried lunch, she went down to the library to find a book.

Her guardian was there, apparently dealing with some correspondence of his own. Blanche’s heart sank at the sight of blue legal paper. So he was still preparing to close up the house and return to Logres. She had hoped that, whatever Naciens had told Nerys, it had postponed that at least for the next few months.

Sir Ector looked up at her with a smile. “Hullo, Blanche. Looking for anything?”

It occurred to her to look for something about Logres—wasn’t there a famous book,
Le Morte D’Arthur
or something? But all her pride rose up in arms at the suggestion. She had given away her mother’s ring, not once but twice, and she had quenched every spark of curiosity about her parents, and if she was bending now it was only for the sake of Nerys and Sir Ector, no one else.

Her conscience jabbed her. She pacified it with a moment’s quick bargaining, and said to her guardian, “When I was at Carbonek I began reading
The City of God
. I’d like to finish it.”

Sir Ector twiddled his pen. “In the English translation, or original Latin?”

“Latin, please,” she said. Latin would undoubtedly make Nerys happier. And it left her conscience with no right to complain.

Sir Ector pointed. “Third shelf from the floor.” But when Blanche found what she was after, she lingered.

“Are we going back to Logres soon?” she asked.

“Yes.” Sir Ector laid down his pen. “But not right away. Nerys and I have much to arrange.”

“Then is there time for me to see my friends before we leave?”

“Of course, Blanche. See them whenever you like.”

“I was thinking of having a dinner party. I’d invite Kitty Walker, and Emmeline Felton. And Mr Corbin.”

Sir Ector pushed his spectacles further up his nose and nodded. “I don’t see why not. Arrange it whenever you like.”

“Thanks,” Blanche said. Still she didn’t move. “And thanks for everything else, sir.”

“Pardon?” He was already shuffling through the blue paper again.

“I know you must have been sorry to leave it all behind—Logres, I mean. Your home. You must have missed it dreadfully.”

He looked up at her, blinked quickly two or three times and cleared his throat, and she knew he was deeply touched. “Yes. I do miss it.”

“I don’t love it like you do,” she said, apologetically. “It seemed so cold and ugly.”

“But you’ve only seen Carbonek!” said Sir Ector, with uncommon vehemence. “Nerys told me what a grim ruin it is now. But you should have seen it in the days before the Dolorous Stroke! The vale of Carbonek was full of song then! All the apples in Logres went down that river to the sea. And you’ve never seen Camelot in summer. Camelot, the garden-city of Logres, full of towers and trees. You’ve never seen the sun on the windows of Carlisle, or walked in the river-side meadows of Trinovant in the spring.”

“I suppose I haven’t,” Blanche said. It was hard not to get carried away on the tide of his enthusiasm. She said mournfully, “But you have friends there, too.”

“The best brothers-at-arms a man could wish for. The most gracious King—” and something seemed to go wrong with Sir Ector’s voice.

“Would I belong to anyone there?” Blanche asked.

Sir Ector blinked.

“Nerys told me there’s some doubt. About me being the true heir of Logres. What about that? What will I have to face, there in Logres?”

Sir Ector looked out the window, playing with the coins in his pockets. At last he stood and walked around his desk to Blanche. “Prepare yourself,” he said simply. “It’s not going to be easy, Blanche. If you want your father’s legacy, you’ll have to fight for it.”

Blanche kept her eyes on the carpet. “What if he isn’t my father?”

“If he doesn’t doubt it, why should you?” Sir Ector raised her chin with one finger and kissed her on the forehead. “I raised him, Blanche, and I can tell you this as surely as if it came from his own lips: he won’t desert you.”

That was exactly what she was afraid of. She didn’t say it out loud. “How much time do I have left at home?”

“It depends,” he said, becoming more vague and more businesslike, all at once. “As a matter of fact, Nerys and I will need to go to Camelot to speak to the King before we know.”

“To make sure that he really does want me?” she asked, just to be contrary.

“No, no, no, Blanche!” Sir Ector sighed. “When Nerys went to Carbonek to fetch you, Naciens the Hermit told her something which upset all our plans. He says they need you at Carbonek.”

Carbonek. Ugly, funereal, holy Carbonek. “
What?
”

“Do you know what the Grail Maiden is?”

“I don’t.”

“The maiden guardian of the Holy Grail. She watches, and prays, and contends. Since the fall of Elaine, eighteen years ago, there has been no Grail Maiden. Naciens says that you have been chosen for the next.”

9

And when he came to the Tearne Wadling,

The baron there co’ld he finde,

With a great weapon on his backe,

Standing stiffe and stronge.

The Marriage of Sir Gawain

“I
SAW THE
L
ADY OF THE
Lake last night, riding north,” said the King.

They were camping on the hills of Powys, roasting venison and their faces over a campfire built high and blazing to fend off the nip of frost at their backs. For once the clouds had withdrawn, unveiling the bitter stars and ice-haloed moon.

Perceval had been remembering his first journey to Carbonek, and how hushed and lonely it was by contrast to this good fellowship. Then the King’s words fell into a momentary silence, and they all stirred and took interest.

“A dream?” Sir Ywain asked.

“No, it was herself. She said she would meet me in Camelot by All Saints’.”

“To what purpose?” There was a combative gleam in Sir Kay’s eye.

The King sighed, as if picking up the thread of an argument long standing. “She has always shown us friendship, Kay.”

“She is a fay,” Kay reasoned. “She may not mean us harm, but she will do it sooner or later.”

Sir Gawain, whetting his sword, looked up. “We know the Lady Nimue can be trusted.”

“Why are you defending her? You know better than any of us what harm comes when Elves meddle with men, however good their intentions.”

Silence fell, as breathless as the space between lightning and thunder. Perceval saw the others slowly straightening to look at his father.

No thunder came. Instead Gawain said quietly, “Yes. I know it.”

A pause. Ywain said, “Harm, Gawain? I should never have expected to hear
you
say so.”

“Everything comes with a price.”

“Then the price of an immortal love is too high for me,” laughed Kay. “How long did you wander around Camelot looking like Saint Sebastian’s ghost?”

At that they all laughed. But Gawain reached out to grasp Perceval’s shoulder. “I meant something else. I did not even know I had a son until yesterday. I had both paid and profited more than I knew.”

“What does that have to do with the fay?” Perceval asked, curious.

Gawain stared. “Did you not know? Your mother was one of Nimue’s people.”

Perceval searched his father’s face, unsure whether he was joking. “A fay? Mother?” He glanced around the fire. Not even Sir Kay was laughing up his sleeve. “She never told me…”

“Never?”

Perceval shook his head. “I wonder why.”

“Perhaps she was afraid you’d follow her.” Gawain put his hand over his mouth; there were tears in his eyes. “She could have taken you, you know. To the west, to Avalon. You could have become one of them. Ageless. …Instead, she sent you to me.”

Perceval grinned. “What, me go to Avalon? No fear of that. I wanted to be up and doing, sir father.”

Gawain blinked, and smiled back at him. “Yes. You would think so. But it was no small sacrifice for your mother.”

Perceval tried to imagine what it might be like to turn his back on the splendid war of the world and retreat to Avalon, the peaceable isle. He laughed at the thought and said, “But this explains why everyone feared her and called her a fay. Why did she leave you, if she loved you?”

“The price of marriage to a mortal. The laws of her people took her from me after seven years. Did you really never hear the story?”

“Never.”

A faint smile crossed his face. “She left that for me, too. Well, she was one of the people of the Lake, and my aunt, the sorceress, loved her brother.”

Perceval glanced at the King and Sir Ywain. “Morgan le Fay? Is she an Elf, too, then?”

Sir Ywain stirred. “My mother,” he said slowly, for he was always reluctant to speak of her, “is no fay, although she calls herself that. She was the daughter of the Queen Igerne and her first husband, the Duke of Tintagel. Full sister to Morgawse, the Queen of Orkney, your grandmother. Half sister to the King. There is not a drop of real fay’s blood in her veins. Go on, cousin.”

Gawain said: “When Ragnell and her brother refused to sell Morgan the secrets of their people, she enchanted them both. The brother, Sir Gromer Somer Joure, she bound to her evil will in the fortress of Tarn Watheline. But Ragnell, Ragnell she changed into the loathliest creature you could imagine if your eyes had drunk their fill of Hell itself.”

Perceval’s scalp prickled. “Morgan was able to do all this? Christ guard us all.”

“He does. But Ragnell and her brother were unbaptised then. For the Elves say they are beyond salvation.” He turned to the King. “The next part is your story, sire.”

Arthur smiled. “An inglorious one, I have always thought, compared to yours.”

“I have known the King of Logres since we were boys together, and he has done nothing inglorious in all that time,” said Gawain, inclining his head.

“No? But if I have done anything worthy of praise, it is only that I have gathered praiseworthy men around me.”

“Only a mean man seeks the company of mean men, sire.”

“You honour me, fair nephew. But today I claim no more than my right, which is to win the honour of honouring one who merits it. I will tell the tale.”

That was a game they played between them, these warriors of the Table—if it could be called a game, when done with such sincere gravity. The name of it was courtesy. Perceval listened, but he did not yet dare to play it with them.

The King went on. “At Christmas that year I held court at Carlisle. When a maiden came and sought justice for the tyrant of Tarn Watheline, I determined to undertake the quest myself.

“Not until I rode onto the bridge of Tarn Watheline to challenge Sir Gromer Somer Joure did I discover that the damsel had betrayed me to my death. For she was one of my sister’s maidens. When my horse’s hooves struck the bridge, all my power left me, so that I could hardly sit upright in the saddle. Then I looked up, and saw the lord of Tarn Watheline standing there, and he was a tall man, so that mounted as I was, our eyes were on a level.”

“And I have always said that he grows taller each time you tell the tale, sire,” said Sir Kay.

“That is why I keep you with me, good Kay,” said the King without anger. “Nevertheless, as I sat upon the bridge of Tarn Watheline, I could not lift a finger, and I knew that I would be but a dead dog if I could not rescue myself. ‘Think on your sins, O King,’ he said.

“ ‘Think on your own,’ I said. ‘For your last days have come, and although I am at your mercy now, my justice shall certainly find you after my death. A hundred of the best knights of Logres sit feasting in Carlisle, and they know where I have gone and on what errand. If I do not return, they know my will.’

“That puzzled him. Then he said, ‘A bargain.’

“ ‘Say on,’ I said, for I was not so sure of myself as I seemed.

“ ‘I will give you a year and a day,’ said the knight of Tarn Watheline. ‘Answer this question: what is it that women desire above all things? If you can answer me this in a year and a day, you shall go free. But if you cannot answer, I will have your head, and the knights of Logres shall leave me in peace.’

“ ‘It is a bargain,’ I said. And then the weakness left me, and I rode back to Carlisle alone, for my sister’s damsel had stayed only long enough to jeer at me.”