The Broken Sword (29 page)

"They will not rebel," Arthur said, "because I will not put Guenevere aside."

Taliesin stopped in his tracks, blinking. "What did you say?"

"I said I will not forsake the queen." His voice was like steel, and his eyes even harder.

"But... but the tribal chiefs... Lot..."

Arthur set down the quill in his hand. "Guenevere is my wife," he said quietly.

Taliesin had to reach for the arms of a chair to steady him as he sat down. "Arthur, she is…" He dreaded the word, but it had to be said. "She is barren."

"Yes, she is barren!" the King shouted. "Yet she is my woman, and I will not cast her away like an object of scorn!"

Taliesin rose quietly. "Then take the cup," he pleaded in a whisper. "The cup of eternal life. I have offered it before—"

"And I have refused it," Arthur snapped.

"Arthur, you must listen to me. If you do not wish to live forever, then keep it only long enough to outlive Lot and his schemes. Keep it to bind the kingdoms of Britain together, to further your plans for trade with other nations. Keep it, for the sake of the gods. Arthur, Keep it!" He could barely speak now, so great was his emotion, but still the King was not moved.

"It is for the sake of the gods that I cannot keep it," he said. He smiled at the Merlin's confounded expression. "Our lives are short, too short to see the end of the gods' plans. And yet we serve those plans according to their will, whether we wish it or not."

Taliesin could only stare. He had not thought the King capable of such abstract thought. For a moment, Arthur's words had seemed to echo those of the Innocent.

"If the gods have a use for me, they will put the yoke upon me in their own time. I would not cheat them of their sport."

They will put the yoke upon me.
Taliesin thought of the old woman who had known everything, even the terrible nature of her own death.

"What if the gods are dead?" he asked in a whisper.

"Then others will replace them," Arthur answered. "Man is far too interesting to be left alone."

T
he next few years
were a time of relative peace for most of Britain. The Saxons continued to raid, but their forays, though frequent, were small and usually restricted to the coastline of Dumnonia. This was probably only because Dumnonia's shores were more accessible than the rocky coastlines of other kingdoms, but the petty kings liked to think that Lot of Rheged had been personally singled out by the invaders for his ill treatment of the Saxons who had tried to live peacefully under his rule.

For a time, Lot struggled proudly to fight the invaders alone, using much of his treasury and all his storehouses of food to feed huge numbers of mercenary soldiers while his neighbors grew rich from their bountiful harvests, but finally he was forced to ask the High King for help.

Arthur had been waiting.

"The members of the council, including myself, will each provide you with three hundred armed men. You will have eighteen hundred trained fighters within a fortnight to secure your entire border," he said.

It was a most generous offer, and not one of the petty kings had even grumbled. In fact, the whole well-fed lot of them smiled serenely as the High King spoke.

Lot's eyes narrowed. "What is your price?" he demanded.

"Your colleagues wish only to help you in your time of strife, King Lot," Arthur answered. "That is the purpose of a federation such as ours. For this reason, we are concerned with more than the state of your warfare. We have noticed that while you and your knights have been valiantly fighting the invading hordes, your tenant farms have been failing. Between the Saxon raids and the needs of your army, the peasants who till the soil of Dumnonia are near starvation."

"While the rest of you have harvested bumper crops," Lot added bitterly. "If you are offering me grain, I will take a hundred wagonloads as my due for keeping the savage foreigners from your doors."

"We are not offering you grain," Arthur said coldly, "for we know how you treat your tenant farmers. Many of them have sought refuge in our lands, offering themselves as slaves in exchange for animal fodder, such was the state of their hunger. They claim you denied them even that."

"The livestock was necessary to feed my soldiers!" Lot seethed through clenched teeth.

"So they are worth more to you than the people who have given their lives to you in labor in exchange for your protection."

"That could not be helped. There are losses in war. If any of you had come forward sooner—"

"We are coming forward now," Arthur interrupted. "As High King, it is my judgment that one third of your lands in Dumnonia, excluding the coastline, be parceled out equally to each of the four other members of the council—"

"What!" Lot was nearly beside himself with rage. Flecks of froth appeared at the corners of his lips. His clenched fists shook at his sides.

The council members beamed.

"—who will appoint overseers to manage the farms in their territories with fairness and humanity. Though I will not share in the division of this land, I retain the right to have these farms inspected at reasonable intervals. If the tenants have been treated poorly, those lands now given to the council members will revert to me."

Lot laughed wildly. "Why, you'll take it all, then!"

"I think not," one of the council members said.

"Aye, the High King's shown himself to be an honest man. I'll take my chances with him." As each man agreed to Arthur's terms, Lot was reduced to silence, standing in their midst like a supplicant who had been denied his petition.

"I'll expect my soldiers in a fortnight," he said before stomping out.

I
t was during this
period of goodwill—among everyone except Lot—that Arthur grew closest to his personal guard, the Knights of the Round Table.

There were twelve of them. Their names and faces had changed often over the years—Arthur always insisted on fighting at the forefront of battle, and the elite dozen always suffered heavy losses—but in their loyalty, honor, and ability as soldiers, they were an unchanging unit.

During this time they were led by Launcelot who, like Arthur himself, had so distinguished himself both in battle and in peacetime that his life had already become, by the age of forty, the stuff of myth. To the common people he was half man and half angel, a being raised by water fairies at the bottom of a magical lake. Here, according to legend, Launcelot learned the art of swordsmanship, in which he had no equal, and the discipline of piety, which found such favor with the Christian god that he was able to bring people back from the dead.

Taliesin had grumbled resentfully when this last bit of fiction began circulating. He could not deny that Launcelot wielded a sword like none other; he would even admit that the man was that rarest of individuals, a born soldier who was as comfortable in court circles as on the battlefield. What irked Taliesin was the peasants' claim that Launcelot was some sort of wizard, perhaps the Merlin's equal—or better, since the old man had never been able to bring anyone back from the dead.

Of course the Merlin had, in fact, done just that, and more than once. But he had used the cup, and so was obliged to keep its accomplishments secret. As for the altogether too-handsome knight and his supernatural powers, he could only scoff. The son of King Ban of Brittany, Launcelot had been reared not as a fairy, but as a royal prince. He had never learned magic, neither from the druids nor his Christian priests. He did not even consider himself a holy man, and was continually abasing himself on his knees before his peculiar god, weeping and begging forgiveness for such miniscule sins as thinking impure thoughts or absentmindedly honing his sword on the god's holy day.

Still, even the Merlin could not fully deny the miracle that had prompted these stories, since he had witnessed it with his own eyes.

During a tournament in the early part of Arthur's reign, Launcelot, who was still in his young twenties and not yet a member of the Round Table, was slated to joust with a knight named Naw of Catraeth, a man in his middle years with the experience of fifty battles behind him. Like many of his fellows, the old soldier regarded the pious "foreign" prince (Brittany, across the channel separating Britain from the mainland, was considered too far away to be really British) with a certain disdain for his fastidious habits. Launcelot's armor was always gleaming, polished until it appeared white in the sunlight. That in itself might not have been so offensive to the other knights, had he not kept his hands and fingernails in the same condition. He was always washing, it seemed. Perhaps his love of bathing sprang from his upbringing in the lake country, or from his strange religion, which demanded a good dousing as a sign of one's faith, but the battle-hardened soldiers found it inconceivable that a man of any merit would go about with hair as shining as a maiden's and a face so smooth-shaven that he might have passed for a eunuch.

The women loved him for it, of course, and many of the knights suffered battles with their wives more fierce than any they had fought in the King's name over the odor of their armpits.

Then, too, was the question of Launcelot's Christianity. Most soldiers were willing enough to pray to any god that seemed appropriate on the night before a battle, but for the most part they were practical men who were more concerned with keeping the lives they had than in speculating about what awaited them after death. Not so Launcelot. For him, every spare moment was spent either in prayer or doing all manner of good works, apparently to keep his soul in the same condition as his armor.

Camping out of doors, even on the coldest nights, he would offer his sleeping blanket to soldiers of lower rank than himself, or even to peasants, who fought with no more than a pitchfork. He could not see a woman without assisting her in some way, and spent an inordinate amount of time assisting one court lady or another, even going so far as to challenge the husbands of these troublemaking females to combat over some bit of behavior that was, more often than not, none of Launcelot's business. On one occasion he even killed some provincial idiot simply for beating his wife, which had been the man's right.

This was the only time any scandal had been attached to Launcelot's name, not for killing the nobleman in the provinces—the King was quick enough to forgive that— but for allegedly bedding his widow.

This was no more than a rumor, since Launcelot's chastity was such that he would not even tumble with a tavern whore while on campaign, but that rumor was fueled by Launcelot's frequent and secret forays into the part of the kingdom where he had killed the hapless nobleman. He spoke to no one about his visits, but upon his return, he would always spend the remainder of the night on his knees in penitential prayer.

Had it not been for the praying, the other knights might have thought better of him for at least possessing the manhood to use his seed for something other than watering the fields: but they grew disgusted over his constant and obvious guilt over doing something that all of them considered perfectly normal.

And so when the time for the tournament came, Sir Naw of Catraeth expressly requested that young Launcelot be his opponent. He had chosen to joust because, even then, Launcelot's sword was nothing to trifle with. The joust, though it was taught to young boys, was one event in which an older man had a distinct advantage over a younger one. Agility counted for nothing; the event centered around a man's horsemanship and the strength of his arm, back, and shoulders. Once the lance was in place, all that mattered was keeping it—and oneself—aloft.

Too naive to realize he was about to be taught a lesson, Launcelot actually thanked the older knight for granting him the honor of jousting with him, while the other knights exchanged mirthful glances and tried to find anyone simpleminded enough to place a friendly wager on the young prince.

When the two men faced one another at the outset of the joust, the ladies in the stands chirped their dismay. Not only did Naw outweigh his slender opponent by thirty pounds, but the stallion he rode made Launcelot's spindly foreign steed look like a lap dog. But even then, the young knight was unable to envision the broken ribs he was about to sustain. He smiled to the crowd, his fluffy hair blowing indecently in the breeze, then bowed in reverence to his opponent before donning his blindingly polished helmet.

Then they charged. The older knight, gripping the lance tight against his side with a hand the size of a ham, kicked his great horse to a gallop. Launcelot, on the other hand, did nothing for several seconds. Whether this was out of courtesy to his opponent or sheer, bone-freezing terror, no one knew; but it was not until the onlookers started hooting and shrieking that he moved.

But what movement it was! With an earsplitting scream that would have done justice to the wild Scots, Launcelot and his mount seemed to fly into the air, so fast were the beast's legs. They met Sir Naw before he had even gone halfway down the field.

The suddenness of Launcelot's attack must have surprised his opponent, because at the first contact the older knight fell off his mount and lay sprawled in the mud. The other knights groaned with disappointment. A collective sigh rose from the ladies in the stands as they realized that, through a stroke of luck, Launcelot's comely features would not be marred.

The squire of the fallen knight ran over to accept his helmet, but Naw did not rise.

"Sire," the boy said softly, putting his hand on the big man's shoulder.

A crowd gathered. Finally Launcelot himself removed the man's headgear. Beneath it, Naw's normally red face was waxy white and his eyes glassy.

"He's dead," the boy said, aghast.

At that he was quickly pushed aside by the other knights, who removed Naw's armor with the swiftness of men who understood the urgency of battle wounds. On the fringes of the commotion, both still kneeling and facing one another, were Launcelot and his opponent's squire, who stared in what looked like utter terror at the man who had killed his knight with a single blow. The boy was doubtless too shocked to be thinking of anything, but Launcelot felt in that stare an accusation so painful it was as if the lance had pierced his own heart.

Finally, the King and Queen and Taliesin, followed by some noblemen from the court and their wives, made their way from the stands onto the field. The knights moved aside so that the newcomers could view the old soldier, dressed now only in breeches and a sweatstained tunic, lying motionless on the ground.

Taliesin could see by the man's skin color that his heart had probably failed. He had the characteristics of the ailment: tall, of middle years, with a large body and a big gut. He placed two fingers on Naw's neck. There was no pulse.

"I'm afraid he's gone," the Merlin pronounced.

In silence the other knights stepped forward to gather their comrade up in their arms, but they were stopped by Launcelot's pleading cry.

"My Lord!" he shouted to the King, his voice choked with agony, "Allow me to pray for this man, whose innocent blood is on my hands!"

Taliesin was about to say that the young man's hands probably had very little to do with Sir Naw's death, but Launcelot looked to be in such extremity, still on his knees, his hands clasped before him like a beggar's, that the King's wizard remained silent.

"Here?" Arthur asked.

"Yes, Majesty. It must be now."

Arthur hesitated for a moment—the span of perhaps one breath, during which Taliesin knew he was considering the large crowd in the stands, and how they would begin to saunter into the castle and disrupt the food preparation in another moment unless the tournament continued—and then nodded resignedly. "Very well. We'll wait."

Launcelot moved to kneel over the fallen knight, his head bowed. "Dear Father in heaven," he began, "I know well that this good man who lies before me was struck down because of my own wickedness."

The other knights exchanged a weary look. Toward the back of the crowd, someone said, "What'd he do, fart in church?" and a ripple of suppressed laughter ran through the gathering, but Launcelot continued, undeterred.

"It was because of my sin of lust that you brought this tragedy upon me, for you know I would rather die myself a thousand times over than to kill a man unjustly."

This time it was the ladies whose eyes strayed toward one another. Launcelot's sin of lust? It was almost too delicious to believe. Several noblewomen of the court had, for one reason or another, offered their favors to the handsome knight, but he had refused them all. If it were not for the rumor about the passionate widow in the provinces, it would have been easy to believe that the man's appetites were, as was said of those who preferred the charms of their own sex, contrary to nature.
Now we'll know,
each of the women seemed to say without a word being spoken.

"I beg you, Father, do not consign my soul to the burning fires of hell, but permit me to atone for this grievous offense. Let Sir Naw of Catraeth but live, and I will never again enjoy the touch of a woman..."

One of the court ladies fainted at this moment, and the moan she emitted as she fell drowned out Launcelot's next few words.

"... devotion only to You, to the King I serve, and to Queen Guenevere, who is the fairest of your creations. Let..."

The eyes of the court ladies narrowed into hard slits as they turned toward the queen, who blushed so deeply that even her chest reddened down to her bodice.

"I will forsake Elaine, never to allow my eyes to look upon her countenance..."

"Elaine!" someone whispered.

"Elaine of Parsifal! I knew it!"

The name ran through the crowd with the speed of wildfire. So the woman who had managed to trap Launcelot between her legs did exist, even though her lover was now swearing before God that he was cutting her loose.
Why?
they wondered. Had fair Launcelot another woman in mind? A forbidden woman, perhaps?

Again they looked at the queen.
Camelot might see an heir, after all,
they thought.

"Hear my entreaty, O Lord of Lords. Take all the days of my life to come as an offering of repentance, and allow this man to live."

Launcelot lifted his arms and his face skyward, and remained in that position so long he might have turned to stone.

Arthur glanced at the stands. After such a long gap in the entertainment, the guests were losing interest in the tournament. He saw the king of Cornwall striding out onto the field with a roasted turkey leg in one hand and a silver Saxon goblet that had stood on the mantel of Camelot's Great Hall in the other. He sighed.

In the group gathered around the body, some of the women began to whisper, then titter. The knights had all loosened their armor during the course of Launcelot's lengthy bargaining session with the Almighty, but their faces were still dripping with sweat in the heat of the sun. Sir Kay had already sent his squire for a bucket of mead, and was cursing under his breath as he scanned the horizon for sight of him.

And still Launcelot knelt.

Near the castle, someone had dragged the musicians onto the lawn, and their tinny music, along with the singing—some of it already rather drunken sounding— floated toward the field.

Taliesin caught the King's eye and gave a subtle signal that it was time to end the vigil for the dead. With an audible sigh of relief, Arthur complied. He stepped forward, his arms outstretched solemnly to lift Launcelot to his feet. The gesture had no effect, as Launcelot was gazing heavenward with such rapture that he would not have noticed if the earth beneath him had opened up to swallow him whole.

The King cleared his throat and waited, wondering how the Prince of Brittany managed to have any blood at all in his arms after so long. He turned to Taliesin, who rolled his eyes. Finally the King spoke, using the booming voice he normally reserved for issuing orders to troops during battle. "Noble knight," he shouted, slowly and deliberately.