Pendragon's Heir (39 page)

“And you? Were you there?”

“I had ridden with the King to Caerleon-on-Usk.” Perceval shook his head. “Agravain could not have chosen a worse moment, or a more lunatic manner. Had he gone alone and unarmed, Sir Lancelot would have treated him courteously. But met with naked blades and armed men? It was folly! And blood was spilled in the city itself.” Perceval glanced at Blanchefleur, grim foresight in his eyes. “It was new blood he shed. But I fear a rift has opened within the Table, one it will be difficult to heal.”

Blanchefleur shifted in the saddle. The day’s end—whenever it came—would leave her whole body aching. And there were long days of travel yet to come.

Not that it mattered. Not that anything else in the world mattered except that Logres was trembling and the pale and smiling queen of her earliest memory was in peril of her life. “You say that Agravain claims he heard the Queen and Sir Lancelot speaking in the garden.”

“Yes.”

“And the Queen denies it, but he
did
find Lancelot there with her.”

“She says he came, but she never sent for him.”

“Then there are only two possibilities,” Blanchefleur said. Her breath hung on the cold winter air like smoke, and she shivered. “One, Agravain is telling the truth, and the Queen is guilty. Two, he is lying.”

“Yes.”

“If he is lying,” Blanchefleur said, “then his behaviour was not lunatic. It was subtle—horribly subtle.”

“And we are dealing with a cunning and dangerous enemy.”

They rode on a few paces in silence before Perceval frowned and said, “At least, that is what I would say, if this was not
Agravain
. But I would not have imagined him capable of making and executing such a plot.”

“You mean, being your father’s brother?”

“I mean his character.” Perceval flung up a hand. “He is not subtle. Bursting in upon Lancelot with an army is very much his way, as is being surprised and offended when the operation fails to run smoothly.”

“I see.” But it was an unconvincing excuse to her ears.

“I know what you are thinking,” Perceval said. “To tell the truth, I could think so too. But with the blood of the Table soaking the city of the Table, the words of accusation against my own kin go sour in my mouth. Well, and so the Queen stands trial for adultery and, if she is found guilty, will go to the fire.”

Another dull pang struck her. “And the King allows it?”

“He must do justice, even on his own wife, Blanchefleur. That is why Sir Lancelot and not he has always been her champion. A judge cannot argue a prisoner’s case before himself.”

“But Sir Lancelot did the killing. Why do they not deal with that?”

“They will. In time.” Perceval fell silent. “But this matter has grieved the King beyond measure. I never thought I would see him despair.”

Tears sprang to her eyes. “He can’t find her guilty.”

Perceval said: “If she is, he will.”

Blanchefleur had not even allowed herself to consider this possibility. She did now. “He will be forced to condemn his own wife to death. Sir Lancelot will never return to the Table. The prophecy of Merlin at my birth will fail. Logres will fall, and no one will be left to mourn her. And he despairs…Oh, Perceval…he believes it. He believes Agravain.”

Perceval compressed his lips. When he spoke, it was almost in a whisper.

“Yes.”

So this was what she returned to Camelot to find: despair and disinheritance. The thought struck another cold shaft through her. “Perceval! Why are you taking me to Camelot? Why now?”

Perceval said: “I am not. Unless the Queen is already acquitted when we come there, I am taking you further, to Joyeuse Gard.”

“To Lancelot! Why?” Because she was his daughter? “—
Why?
”

“I came to Carbonek without the King’s knowledge,” he told her. “My father said: The Heir of Logres, she should be here. But not at court, not until her position is assured. The Queen will scarcely be condemned, but if she is she will not go to the fire. Lancelot will bear her to La Joyeuse Gard. Take the Heir of Logres there.”

Blanchefleur reined Florence to a stop. “But—to
Joyeuse Gard?
”

They were out of sight of Carbonek now, a little further down the valley where the road turned south, lifting into the hills. Above, a hawk screamed in the sky.

Perceval circled back to her. “Only if the Queen is condemned. Come, it’s a long road to Eboracum.”

Branwen’s chatter and the murmuring counterpoint of Heilyn’s answers came closer; the two of them passed, single file, and went on up the road.

She let Florence follow them, but she said to Perceval as they moved on, “Do you not see? If I go to Lancelot, everyone will think him my father.”

Perceval laughed and shook his head. “Be at ease! The Queen will be acquitted. Or so my father thinks.”

“God grant it.” Blanchefleur shivered in the wind. “But if the Queen is condemned—”

“If she is condemned, my father said, then until the King can be brought to pardon her she will need all the comfort we can give.”

“He said that?” Her voice warmed despite her misgivings.

Perceval grinned at her. “He is a good and kind man, Blanchefleur.”

“Kinder than I thought.” Kinder than herself. In her concern for the King it had not even occurred to her to think of the Queen’s—of her
mother’s
—feelings. Even now, she could not stir in herself more than a faint shadow of the pity she felt for the King… He was in so much despair at this betrayal. Could she add another blow to this one? Could she run in need to his rival?

Perceval said, “In this woe every road is equally dark. But I am content to do my father’s will.”

“What about
my
father?” Blanchefleur struggled to keep her voice calm. “What is
his
will? Surely he would have me with him. In Camelot.” So that he could—

—Kill her? As he intended to do to her mother? She clenched the reins, blindsided by the thought. If Elaine had guessed rightly, if Morgan’s word could be trusted, if she was ill-born and the King was the enemy, then he would condemn the Queen to death and she, who could not be proven one thing or another, might be murdered to clear the way for a new heir.

Because there was another heir, wasn’t there? The baby in Morgan’s memory.

“Blanchefleur? What’s amiss?”

Perceval’s voice broke into her thoughts. She glanced across at him and saw the big capable hands, one riding the hilt at his left hip and the other loosely clasped on his reins. Saw the bulk of shoulder and depth of chest that had come to him in the years since he first as a boy stood as the only wall between her and danger. And saw streaming like a banner above him the love of the man who had first sent him to protect her.

Arthur the King.

“Nothing’s amiss,” she said, and laughed at her fears.

“I said,” he went on, “that my father thinks the King would liefer have you with the Queen.”

She bit her lip consideringly and was astonished to find that she agreed. “I suppose he might. But what do
you
think?”

“I trust my father’s judgement.”

“But you think it’s risky. Don’t you?”

“Because of what people will think?”

“Yes.”

Perceval fell silent. “You stand or fall by your mother,” he said at last. “If she is acquitted, you will go to Camelot in all honour. If she is condemned, then there is no worse moment to bring you to court. Far better join your mother in Joyeuse Gard and wait for her restoration.”

Just ahead of them, Heilyn shifted in the saddle and turned.

“Why go to either place? Why not take the lady to a nunnery?”

Perceval wrinkled his brow. “Is there one nearer than Almesbury?”

Heilyn shook his head. “You know the land better than I. Or find a monastery, one that will take women.”

“It might do,” said Perceval. Blanchefleur’s heart sank to hear the hesitance in his voice.

“Please. Of course I don’t want to abandon my mother. But surely it would stir up trouble to go to Joyeuse Gard?”

Perceval smiled at her. “We must ride to Astolat first. My father will send a man to bring word how the verdict falls. By God’s mercy, we shall have no need of Lancelot.”

29

And in herself she moaned “Too late, too late!”

Till in the cold wind that foreruns the morn,

A blot in heaven, the Raven, flying high,

Croaked, and she thought, “He spies a field of death.”

Tennyson

P
ERCEVAL LED THEM SOUTH THROUGHOUT THE
day and long into the night. At last they saw a wall rising out of the starlight above them and tumbled from their mounts to sleep a few hours rolled in blankets within the gate of Eboracum. When dawn came, despite King Aglovale’s offers of rich fare and lodging, they mounted fresh horses and took the road.

“Was he going to send for me, the King?” Blanchefleur asked Perceval when they stopped to divide some waybread. “Before any of this happened?”

“Yes, when the land was quieter,” Perceval said. “But there was so much trouble with the wild men, and with the men of the Silver Dragon. He meant to march north to sweep them out of the land.”

“In a body? Could not a single knight of the Table deal with them? When we first heard of Saunce-Pité, three months ago, men spoke of a petty brigand.”

Perceval nodded. “That he was, two or three years ago, when I fought him. The King gave him mercy, believing him capable of repentance.”

She thought: Why could he not show the same mercy to his own wife? But the Queen was only accused, not yet condemned, and she would have the chance to face her accusers in the open court, and defend her innocence against the world.

Perceval went on speaking of Saunce-Pité. “Not until the Quest did I discover his reborn villainy, but I could do nothing against his men. Whence these new tactics? To gather and train a body of footmen to fight as one, under a unified command, is a thing we have not seen since the old wars against Rome or the rebel kings. Sir Breunis has forsaken the rules of battle: he sends ants against lions, but in overwhelming strength.”

“He is a real danger, then?” Blanchefleur asked.

Perceval shook his head. “Not an insuperable one. Fighting together, it was easy to win the war with Rome. Breunis can pick off lonely knights, but he will never stand against the full strength of the Table.” He sighed. “If the Table were ever again able to ride north.”

Day followed day and only the land changed around them. Blanchefleur fretted at their slow pace, but Perceval pushed on steadily and patiently, for he knew exactly how fast their horses could travel and live. Blanchefleur did not complain aloud, but as the miles rolled away behind them and the sun wheeled overhead, her stomach clenched harder and harder, so that with each day it was a little more difficult to choke down her food.

One morning she awoke and found that Branwen, who usually slept curled into her side, was gone. She, Heilyn, and Perceval stood overlooking the valley below. Hushed snatches of their voices blew back to her on the wind.

Blanchefleur went to stand beside them. Above, in the colourless sky of a winter dawn, black birds drifted on the chilling wind.

“If I had a bow—” Heilyn said.

“There are too many of them,” said Perceval.

Blanchefleur rubbed sleep from her eyes. “What’s wrong?”

“The ravens have been following us since Carbonek,” Heilyn explained. “But this morning there are dozens of them.”

Perceval pointed. “Look.”

One of the ravens broke away from the circling mass and flew south down the valley. Blanchefleur remembered a night in Gore in the rain and felt a shiver crawl up her spine. “Morgan.”

“Maybe,” Perceval said. “And God grant it be none worse. Let us go on and take the adventure that comes.”

Their path would have lain south, down the valley at their feet. Instead Perceval took them immediately west, across the hills. The raven army did not follow them, but from then on Blanchefleur was always aware of at least one black bird fluttering through the trees behind them.

It was on the last dingy, foggy day of the journey that they met the two knights. They had stopped in a glade, by a spring that had been walled around with stone, to refill water bottles and eat a scanty meal. None of them spoke until Perceval stretched and said:

“The Queen’s trial began yesterday, if I count the days right.”

Blanchefleur leaned over the stone parapet and stared at her reflection in the still pool. She was as pale and thin-worn as the others, she thought. The journey had not been an easy one for any of them: saddle-galled to the limits of their endurance, lashed by sleet in the hills, driven on relentlessly by anxiety for what might be waiting ahead or following behind.

And Guinevere, the Queen of Logres, stood trial for her life. She stared into her grey, watery reflection and tried to imagine what humiliation might taste like to the cool and proud temper she had felt in her dreams… Far better to sit here, stiff and aching in the cold wild, than wear the name of Guinevere. She stirred and said, “Have we far to travel?”

“No. Astolat lies a few leagues further, in the next valley. Camelot, four or five beyond.” Perceval swallowed a last mouthful of waybread and rose to his feet, brushing crumbs from his hands. But then through the misting rain came a jingle of harness and plod of hooves. For a moment there was no other sound in the glade but the chirp of sparrows fighting over crumbs in the grass. Then two knights loomed out of the fog, the foremost carrying a blank shield, and Perceval’s hand drifted to the hilt of his sword.

“Get the horses,” he said to Heilyn without turning his head.

His tone struck fear into all of them. Heilyn moved at once, scrabbling for trailing reins. The taller knight pushed ahead of his companion and the sight of his device—a blue boar on a field of white—carried Blanchefleur back at once two years to a sunset in Gloucestershire, and the agony of terror she had suffered with each savage blow against the splintering door of the old house. It was Sir Odiar of Gore, Morgan le Fay’s champion, who had tried to kill her.