Pendragon's Heir (43 page)

“All the more reason to leave this place! You mustn’t be here when he comes.”

“I cannot leave,” he said after a long pause.

“Why? Why not?”

“I have a trust here which I cannot abandon,” Perceval said, and bowed his head toward her.

She snatched off the ring on her hand and held it out to him. “I release you from your service to me. Take the ring and go.”

He kept his head bent. “You may release me. Your father did not.”

“My father?” She rushed on: “Then I’ll go. We’ll both go. It was a mistake to come here.”

Perceval spoke slowly, as if battling to think clearly. “My father said you were best here…And after yesterday, with Sir Odiar, with the murder outside Astolat, I know he was right.”

The words slurred and jostled one another with weariness. Silently, Blanchefleur reproached herself. Aloud she said, “Oh, Perceval, it isn’t fair of me to push you on this today. But please think about it.”

He nodded as if only half hearing her words, and set his cup down untasted on a table. “I will. Good night.”

He limped to the door. Blanchefleur said, “Perceval.”

“Yes?”

“I am so sorry about your kinsmen. I cannot imagine—oh, Perceval.”

She had never known Gaheris or Gareth, so it was foolish to stand there with the tears rolling down her cheeks when Perceval, who had both known and loved them, stood looking at her with dry and stoical eyes. Yet behind them she could see that he was in pain, half-dazed with grief and in despair for the shattered heart of Logres. Worst of all was the certain knowledge that she could have spared him.

“It’s my fault. I knew something terrible was about to happen. I could have prevented it.”

He stared at her blankly and at last said: “Perhaps, and perhaps not. Do not spend tears on it. Good night.”

He went out and Blanchefleur listened wretchedly to his limping steps fade away down the passage.

31

And terms of ransom they have laughed,

And truce to haughty scorn;

For dead to do Sir Launcelot

The fierce Gawayne hath sworn.

Buchanan

O
N THE SECOND MORNING AFTER HER
arrival the Queen asked to speak to Sir Lancelot and he came at once to her chamber where Blanchefleur, Branwen, and two other damsels of Joyeuse Gard sat in silence. Blanchefleur had raided the castle’s little library of books and distracted herself with these, but not all the others had the same learning, and boredom had settled upon them like a cloud as they watched the Queen sleep or sit for brief intervals staring out her window with her prayer-book drooping from her hand. Yet she never dismissed them, she never spent a moment alone, and Blanchefleur guessed why. They were her guard: witnesses for later inquiry, to speak to her conduct.

The Queen did not rise from her chair by the window when Sir Lancelot came, and she began without formality. “Sir knight, you have once again earned my most hearty thanks, and saved me from a shameful death.”

From his place a step or two inside the open door, Lancelot bowed.

“Yet in preserving my life you have done deeds of violence against Logres. Now on my account a rift has opened within the Table, and while I live I fear it cannot be healed.”

A sinew flexed stubbornly at the corner of Lancelot’s jaw. “As long as you live, there is hope that your name may be restored with honour.”

The Queen shook her head. “Do you think this is a matter of grace given on the field of battle? I was found guilty by the Table, not vanquished in combat. To redeem my name I must be acquitted as I was condemned, by the Table—and in snatching me from the flames, I fear you have but sealed their verdict.”

“There is another way, if the King can be persuaded to take it,” said Lancelot. “The Table found you guilty, but the sentence was passed by the King. He has the right to overlook your punishment. Let him cool from his first despair and his wrath against you. When he remembers the old days, he will take you back.”

“He?” A faint red stain burned on her pale cheekbones. “Shall the High King of Logres stand before the world, cowed by an erring wife he has not the will to punish? No! If I cannot have my name cleared in the eyes of the world, let me submit myself to his justice.” Each word whispered like a knife. “He would have repented of it soon enough. I would have been a martyr, instead of—what I am.”

How like her, thought Blanchefleur with an itch of resentment, to think first and always of appearances.

“I will see you quitted,” said Lancelot, passing a weary hand across his eyes. “Until then, I beg you, wait patiently. All that I have is yours.”

“Let it outweigh the treasures of Ind; I would not take it. Not all the wealth in the world could console me for what I have lost.”

It was Lancelot’s turn to go red. “Despise me if you wish,” he said. “Perhaps I deserve it. But had I not ridden to your aid, some other gentleman would have. And you would be in his castle, if not mine. And he would be preparing to lay down life, spurs, and honour in your defence, if not I. Be kind to me for his sake.”

The Queen ducked her head, staring at her hands. At last, more gently, she said, “I do you wrong, my friend. But now that I am stronger, and have my wits about me, I do not wish to remain here. Let me go away to some nunnery, and send word to the King. He will do as he will. I do not think he will kill me.”

Lancelot’s mouth was a thin straight line. “No one will leave the castle,” he said, and pointed to the window. “Look down the road to Camelot.”

“What is it?” breathed the Queen, turning to see. But even Blanchefleur knew what the answer would be.

“The King is coming,” said Lancelot.

T
HE ARMY FROM
C
AMELOT HAD GATHERED
quickly and travelled in haste. It was small, just over half the knights of the Table and their followers, everyone who was not out questing or behind the walls of Joyeuse Gard.

But these were the best knights of the world, and Blanchefleur knew that not a man within the walls of Joyeuse Gard looked on them without disquiet as they pitched camp before the castle walls. Sir Lancelot, she knew, hoped to avoid a battle, and she added her prayers to his hopes.

Early that afternoon there came the note of a trumpet from below, and the other damsels in the Queen’s chamber flocked to the window. Almost at once, Branwen wheeled to Blanchefleur. “Come and see.”

The others fell back at her approach, and through the window she saw a small body of knights riding out from the camp of the army of Britain. Above them floated a banner she knew, the red dragon banner of Arthur of which she had dreamed as a child. Below, clearly to be seen, shone the gules and gold she knew so well, so that for a moment she thought it was Perceval himself.

Her throat went dry at the bravery of their show. “Are they attacking?” she asked.

“No, they are coming to treat,” said Branwen. “See? They are bearing green branches.”

Blanchefleur felt those clustered behind her stir and draw away, and turned to see her mother.

“Madam,” said one of the damsels, “there is a balcony with a better view.”

“This window is enough,” said the Queen. “I will not appear to array myself against the King.”

So the two of them watched from the window, where Sir Gawain’s words reached them almost as clearly as they reached Sir Lancelot and his men over the gatehouse:

“Come forth, Sir Lancelot, dishonoured knight! Deliver yourself up to justice! For you have slain good knights of the Table Round, noble men and kinsmen, the like of whom shall never come again, and you have taken the Queen by force. Come forth, traitor!”

His voice was wild and cracked, and Blanchefleur felt the hair prickle on her scalp.

Sir Lancelot, near as he stood, spoke more softly, so that they strained to hear him: “My lords, you will not take this castle. And I have good knights with me, and if I choose to leave this castle you shall win me and the Queen harder than you well can bear.”

A knight that rode with Sir Gawain took off his helm. From all that distance away, Blanchefleur could barely see his face. But from the Queen’s indrawn breath, she knew it could only be one man.

“If you dare to come forth,” said the High King, “you will meet me in the midst of the field.”

She had thought Guinevere cold. But suddenly there was heat, high and fierce, pouring out of her.

Sir Lancelot bowed. “God defend! One of us might kill the other.”

Gawain bellowed, “
Coward!
”

But Sir Lancelot went on, addressing the King directly. “Will you not hear me? I have slain your knights in the rescuing of the lady, Queen Guinevere, in fair fight and self-defence. As touching the lady, your Queen, I have only this to say: that I will prove it upon the body of any man breathing, save yourself and Sir Gawain, that the Queen is a true lady to her lord as any alive. And, my good lord, it seems to me that I should have lost all worship in knighthood had I suffered the lady, your Queen to be burnt for my sake. Have I not done battle for your Queen in other quarrels, and have I not the right to do battle for her in a just cause even against yourself? And therefore, my gracious lord, take your Queen unto your good grace: she is fair, and true, and good.”

At that distance it was impossible to see how the King looked at this. Nor did he speak: Sir Gawain was beforehand. “False recreant knight! Know that my Lord King Arthur shall have his Queen and you, and slay you both if it pleases him.”

“Is that my lord’s answer?” Sir Lancelot asked.

Sir Gawain had only paused for breath. “As for my lady, the Queen, I will never say that she is justly shamed, and let it never be said that I quarrel with her, or gainsay what you say of her. But you, Sir Lancelot—what cause had you to slay my good brother Sir Gareth, that loved you more than all his kin? Alas! You knighted him with your own hands! Why did you slay him that loved you so well, while he was naked and undefended?”

“For that I make no excuse,” Lancelot said. “But Jesu bear me witness, and by my faith to the high order of knighthood, I would as cheerfully have slain my kinsman Bors. Alas! I neither saw Sir Gareth nor Sir Gaheris in the rush.”

“Liar! Do you indeed pretend that this is not of your engineering, that you unpeople the Table, that you make war against Logres, that you drag the very name of knighthood in the dust? Flower of knighthood, they say! Traitor and miscreant, rather! I will make war to you while I live!”

“I hear you,” said Lancelot. “But what does my lord King say?”

The King appeared to stir himself. “This: That your crimes remain. Open your gates and lay down your arms.”

“Sire, I will do so, and submit myself to your justice, when I have your assurance touching the lady, your Queen, that you hold her guiltless and true.”

Gawain cried: “Shall we allow this oathbreaker to dictate terms? Does he think to hide behind the lady Queen, and so escape my hand?”

Another voice, fainter, came from the knot of men clustered with the King. “Moreover, there can be no question of our lord holding the Queen guiltless, when that question is settled by others and not by him.”

In the window, Guinevere was thrumming against the sill. “The true son of his mother.”

Sir Lancelot said, “Those are my terms. My lord, I beg you—”

Gawain cried: “Have you not heard the words of Mordred? The lord King cannot accept your terms, even if he wished to. Coward, slayer of unarmed men! We will bring you to battle, will you, nill you!”

Silence hung over Joyeuse Gard while the King sat wordless. At last, Lancelot bowed his head. “Then we will receive you,” he said, and left the gatehouse.

Blanchefleur turned to the Queen in distress. “What has happened to Sir Gawain?”

Her mother looked out the window with eyes the colour of iron and spoke under her breath. “What has happened to my lord?

“It seems to me,” said Branwen, “that Sir Gawain is looking for an excuse to fight, and cares not what that might be.”

The Queen murmured again. “He takes it so hard, so hard.”

Blanchefleur swallowed. “I wondered if Gawain had something of the sort in him.”

Guinevere turned from the window. By her side, one hand clenched; the knuckles went white, as if she forced all the pain out of her face and voice and into her fingers. “I speak of my lord. It is not like him to stand by while others speak for him.”

Blanchefleur heard the dull crash of a mailed foot in the corridor. “Someone is coming.”

In one fluid motion the Queen reached out a hand, took up Branwen’s needlework, sat, and began to embroider. Branwen made a startled proprietary snatch, then subsided into decorum as the door opened and Sir Lancelot entered.

He stood inside the door. The Queen did not look up; she held the hooped linen like a shield.

“Alas!” he said. “I must fight.”

“Let me go back to him,” said the Queen, head bent over the linen. “He will not have me burned.”

“Your life is no longer the only thing at stake, O Queen. The siege will continue even if you do return to him.”

“If it makes no difference, I will go.”

“It makes a great deal of difference. I have said I will not return you without an undertaking to treat you in all honour, as guiltless. Or I should be required to rescue you again.”

“I give you your service back,” said the Queen. “I forbid you ever to rescue me again.”

Sir Lancelot said: “I am your true servant, lady, but if I must disobey you, I will.”

For the first time, the Queen lifted her head and looked directly at him. “Must I find another protector to rid me of you?”

“Do so! If there is some gentleman rash enough to take up all your quarrels, then I shall hand you to him. Or if I may find some way to give up my care of you honourably, without delivering you into danger, you may be assured I will take it. Until then, you are under my care, and will accept it.”

Guinevere seemed to grow taller in her seat, and her lips thinned and her eyes narrowed, but Lancelot gave her stare for stare. She said, “Well? Am I to consider myself your prisoner?”