End of the Century (40 page)

If Lady Priscilla expected some answer, she didn't pause long enough to hear it, but continued on, buoyed by her own enthusiasm for the subject.

“Just as there are four objects in the tales, there are three women, or one woman in three aspects, if you like, the triune goddess—mother, maiden, and crone. These recur again and again, the three goddesses of the Unworld—Rhiannon, Gwenhwyfar, and Morrigan. Now, Rhiannon is generally thought to mean ‘Great Queen,' or Rigatona, but I think it more likely began as
rhiain annwn
, or ‘maid of annwn.'
Rhiainannwn
, the Maid of the Unworld, could have become ‘Niniane' and ‘Vivienne' over time. And while the name Morrigan is thought to be Irish in origin, most likely
mór rigan
, or ‘great queen,' I argue instead that it derives from a Welsh root, and was later loaned to the Irish. Rather than ‘great queen,' it is
môr gwiddon
, or ‘sea witch.'
Môrgwiddon
isn't a million miles from Morgain, the Welsh lady of the lake, and Morrigan, the Irish goddess attended by ravens. And there is the reference to
bran
again, raven and king. Finally, in Welsh, the Guinevere of Arthur is known as Gwenhwyfar. This is composed of
gwen
, meaning ‘white' or ‘fair,' and
hwyfar
, meaning ‘smooth' or ‘phantom.' The name could mean White Phantom. And while the story seemed little to interest the
compiler
Malory”—and here she sneered in distaste—“throughout the more primal tales were stories of Arthur's bride being abducted and carried off, often to a glass castle. Caradoc writes of Guenevere's abduction by Melwas, Geoffrey and Wace refer to Guenevere's abduction by Mordred, and Chretien writes about Guenevere's abduction by Meleagaunt. In this consonance of names—Melwas, Mordred, Meleagaunt—we hear echoes of the master of the tower of glass, the Lord of the Unworld. In Irish myth and folklore can be found the fairy known as
Fear Dearg
, or ‘Red Man.' He dresses from head to toe in red and can make himself invisible. This figure is also remembered as Dagda, the Irish father of the gods, he of the cauldron, who was also known as
Ruad Rofessa
, alternatively translated as ‘Lord of Great Knowledge' and as ‘Red One of Great Knowledge.' Remember, too, that Merlin was said to have been imprisoned, either by Niniane or Vivienne, in a castle of glass, and there is the initial ‘m' consonant again. In the Prose Lancelot of the Vulgate Cycle, Niniane is a fey who learned the magic arts from Merlin, lives in a magic lake, and who gives young Lancelot hints of the future, while outfitting him in white and silver. Is this the same lake in which resides the lady who gives Arthur his magic sword, Excalibur by any name? And I can't help but
wonder if there might not be some connection with Dindrane, Perceval's sister in the Vulgate Grail Cycle, who gives Perceval the Sword of Strange Straps on board the crewless Ship of Solomon. Or even with the Queen of the Waste Land in the same cycle, who tells Perceval that only he, Galahad, and Bors will complete the Grail quest.”

Lady Priscilla mused for a moment before continuing.

“Perceval has a complicated lineage, I should think. There is a measure of ‘twin confusion' in the
Mabinogion
, and in particular in the story of Pryderi, also known as Peredur, later named Perceval. In
Pwyll Lord of Dyved
, Pryderi is originally named Gwri Golden Hair by his foster parents on account of the color of his hair. Only when he is reunited with his parents is he given the name Pryderi. In the
Mabinogion
story of
Peredur Son of Evrawg
, Peredur meets an old man with two sons, one yellow-haired and one auburn-haired. The old man proves to be his uncle, making these his cousins, but that's of little consequence. Later, in the Circular Valley, Peredur meets a great hoary-haired man in the company of two young lads, one with yellow hair and one with auburn, who carry knives with hilts of walrus ivory. Again, one yellow, one auburn. In the
Annales Cambriae
, of course, the later and possibly historical figures Gwrgi and Peredur are brothers. And finally, in many of the romances, Gawain's nickname is Gwalltafwyn, which means ‘hair like rain,' and is translated as ‘Golden Hair.' Is it possible that the chroniclers confused two figures for one, and ascribed to one figure the deeds and characteristics of two brothers?”

Blank stepped over to an empty chair and settled himself in. It was clear that, once she got started, it was not easy to get Lady Priscilla to stop.

“But that's another matter entirely. As to the actions of the story,” she went on, “there are many hints. In ‘Branwen, Daughter of Llyr,' Bran goes to rescue his sister Branwen from the Irish king Matholwch, who possesses the cauldron which can raise the dead. In ‘The Spoils of Annwn,' Arthur and his men sail to Annwn to recover the cauldron from the Lord of Annwn, who has housed it in a Caer Wydr, or Glass Fortress, where he keeps someone named Gweir prisoner, said fortress alternatively known as Caer Pedryfan, the Four-Times Revolving Fortress, and as Caer Sidi, the Faerie Fortress, among others. Glastonbury was named by the ancient Britons ‘Ynys Witrin,' or Island of
Glass, which perhaps suggests some connection between that hill in Somerset and the idea of a revolving fortress of glass, home of the Sidhe or faeries. In Caradoc's ‘Life of Gildas,' it is reported that Arthur sails to the Isle of Glass, to recover Geunever from Melwas, the king of the Summer Country, in his Glass Castle. Here again, one is reminded of the fact that Somerset originally meant ‘Summer Lands.' In Chretien's ‘The Knight of the Cart,' Lancelot must go to the magical otherworld of Meleagaunt of Goirre—possibly
Voire
, or glass—to rescue Guinevere from a tower completely encircled by water, accessible only by a bridge made from a sword's blade. In Chretien's ‘Erec and Enide,' itself a varient of the Welsh legends of Geraint and Enid, Maheloas is lord of
L'Ile de Voire
, the Island of Glass, about which is said, ‘in this island no thunder is heard, no lightning strikes, nor tempests rage, nor do toads or serpents exist there, nor is it ever too hot or too cold.'”

Lady Priscilla sighed contentedly, looking like a barrister giving a final summation.

“So, you can see, there must have been some original to all these stories about Arthur and a band of men sailing to an island upon which was built a glass citadel to rescue a woman kept prisoner by a magician whose name might well have begun with the consonant ‘m.' This magician, further, was in possession of a cauldron which could raise the dead and heal the injured, remembered in later times as the Grail. A woman, either the one imprisoned or another, outfits the heroes with magical swords, and perhaps also with lances and shields, and at some point a head borne upon a shield.” She clapped her hands and gave Blank and Miss Bonaventure a broad smile. “See? As I told you, it's quite simple, and easily said.”

Lady Priscilla finished her impromptu lecture, which left Blank and Miss Bonaventure feeling somewhat dizzy. It was clear that the Baron Carmody and Taylor had both heard this recitation many times, either whole or in parts, but on hearing it for the first time the listener was left with the principal impression of information flying past at speed, with only bits and pieces alighting in their minds long enough to make an impression.

Blank was hard pressed to find a connection between the litany of myth and legends Lady Priscilla had presented them and the deaths of the three prostitutes which had initiated his investigates. Nor, for that matter, could he see a clear connection between the deaths of the prostitutes and those of the former members of the League of the Round Table, Brade and Villers. Still, something nagged at the edge of his thoughts. Lady Priscilla
had
, after all, made mention of decapitated heads borne on platters. And of a figure—whether Nuada, or Nudd, or Ludd, or Lugh—who lost a hand in battle and was given a new one of silver. It was almost as if someone were reenacting elements of these myths in the modern day, inflicting on streetwalkers the injuries sustained by the mythical heroes. But in none of Lady Priscilla's recitation had she mentioned anything like the more prosaic injuries sustained by Brade and Villers, who had simply been cut and allowed to bleed to death.

“Fascinating,” Miss Bonaventure said, sounding genuinely intrigued. She always had exhibited a passion for the mythological and arcane, at least when they could be seen to hint at some forgotten historicity. Blank's companion seemed to have made careful note of much that Lady Priscilla had said.

“Quite,” Blank said, not as charitably. “And I'm sorry to drag the discussion from matters lofty to those much more sordid, but I'm afraid I must.” He stood and began to pace slowly about the room, shifting his gaze from Lord Arthur to Lady Priscilla to Taylor. “Can you think of anyone who might hold some animus towards your group? Anyone who might bear a grudge, and who could have targeted Mr. Brade and Miss Villers for revenge?”

The three members of the League of the Round Table exchanged glances, open faced.

“Well…” Lady Priscilla ventured, unsure, “I suppose there could be some scholar, perhaps, who disagrees with our opinions, but I can't imagine that any of them could be quite so fervent as to contemplate violence, much less murder.”

Taylor chuckled, ruefully. “Maybe it's somebody who read my first book of poems and wants to keep me from committing verse again.”

The Baron Carmody puffed on his cigar, thoughtfully. “No,” he said, shaking his head in a wreath of smoke. “I can't think of a one, I'm afraid.”

“Oh,” Lady Priscilla said, raising her eyebrows. “What about that
strange man who came round asking questions the other week? What was his name again? Mervyn something?”

Lord Arthur nodded, remembering. “Fawkes,” he said after a moment. “Mervyn Fawkes.”

“Yes, yes.” Lady Priscilla nodded eagerly. “That was it.”

“Odd duck, that one,” Taylor put in.

“And what did this Mervyn…Fawkes, was it?” Miss Bonaventure folded her hands in her lap, her tone gentle. “What did this Mervyn Fawkes do, precisely?”

Lord Arthur stuck out his lower lip, scowling. “Can't say I know what the cove did, except to pester us one night until Taylor and my manservant were forced to push him bodily out into the street. He just raved about stuff and nonsense.”

“He was keen on the Grail, as I recall,” Lady Priscilla said. “Had all manner of questions about the Grail Cycle, and about the ancient British myths from which the romances derived.”

“Fellah was a few bricks shy of a load, if you ask me,” Taylor said.

“The Grail, was it?” Blank pursed his lips, nodding thoughtfully.

“The gentleman was under the illusion that the Grail was a physical object,” Lady Priscilla said, “rather than a metaphor for the quest for the divine within each of us.”

“Well,” Taylor drawled, “I don't know about
that
. The way I figure it, the Grail myth that's come down to us is a jumbled-up version of some older story, maybe a religious tale from pre-Roman Britain. Some sort of vessel of the gods, could be, like an original of the horn o'plenty.”

“Bosh,” Lord Arthur blustered. “The Grail is both literal
and
symbol. It has a physical existence, but in itself represents the boundless mercy of the divine. That it has not been seen since ancient times is more a commentary on the quality of those who have sought the cup than it is evidence of the Grail's existence or lack thereof.” The Baron Carmody's chest swelled, proudly. “Mayhap, once our current enterprise is completed, we can mount a search for the Grail itself, and complete the restoration of the Age of Arthur with a return of the holy cup to this blessed plot.”

Blank and Miss Bonaventure exchanged a meaningful glance. It was clear they were both thinking the same thing.

“Thank you all,” Blank said, offering Miss Bonaventure his elbow. “You've all been most generous with your time.”

“Are you going?” Lady Priscilla asked, sounding vaguely wounded. “I'd not yet even had a chance to discuss the meaning of the crewless ship.”

“Oh,” Miss Bonaventure said with a smile, “we've taken up too much of your time as it is.”

The Baron Carmody remained in his seat, his eyes on the middle distance, his thoughts somewhere far away. “Perhaps,” he continued, his voice low, his manner almost dreamlike, “we can even recover Excalibur itself. Think of it! The nation restored by sword and cup, and with us to thank.”

Taylor gave them a weary smile and a ghost of a shrug. Blank did not fail to notice, though, the way the cowboy poet's hand never strayed far from the LeMat pistol at his hip. While the Baron Carmody escaped the grim reality of his circumstances—widowed, childless, and alone—in increasingly ethereal flights of fancy, and the Lady Priscilla lost herself in a maze of theory and erudition, it was clear that the former Knight of the Texas Plains was all too aware of the possible danger they faced from the Jubilee Killer.