The bestselling Guenevere trilogy concludes With

 

The CHILD of the HOLY GRAIL

 

The Third of the Guenevere Novels

 

 

The sun rose late in Camelot, weltering in blood. A baleful light played over the ancient citadel of the Summer Country, reddening the white walls looking down n the valley below. A spiteful wind ran peeking here nd there, driving the dead leaves into whispering heaps. Hurrying through the castle, the servants agreed that the omens were not good. If Sir Gawain and his brothers thought they’d get round the Queen, they’d better think again.

“The King, maybe,” opined the Captain of the Guard at the end of the night watch, taking a deep warming pull on his morning ale. “They might get round the King. They’re his kin, after all, and the King has always favored Sir Gawain. But the Queen—”

He broke off. Standing round the brazier in a raw red dawn, the young soldiers of the guard listened, and hoped to learn. The King— the Queen—these were the names of mystery and awe to them. A tall, shapely woman drifting in white and gold, a great bear of a man in royal red and blue, this was all they knew. But the Captain knew more, and seemed ready to tell them now.

“The Queen—?” prompted the boldest of the band.

“Queen Guenevere?”

Smiling, the Captain warmed his hands round his mulled ale, unaware that the glow he felt was coming from his heart. “Five thousand years and more we’ve had queens here in the Summer Country, and she’s been the best of the lot. Twenty years she’s ruled in Camelot—since before you were born,” he added, eyeing the newest of the recruits, a youth still devoid of a beard.

The lad blushed to find the attention focused on him. “What about Sir Gawain then?” he wondered. “Where does he fit in?”

“Oh, he’s all right!” The Captain chuckled knowingly. “A bit of a rough one, especially with women, but as loyal as the day. Him and his brothers too.”

A silence fell as they all recalled the three mighty figures riding into court through the early-morning mist.

“But if they’re loyal to the King,” puzzled the young guard, “what’ll they want from him that he won’t give?”

The Captain’s face darkened. “Don’t ask, lad,” he said sourly. “Don’t ask.”

GUENEVERE STOOD in the window gazing out on the blood-red sun. Far below, the fields and woodlands still slumbered in the chilly mist, and the little town huddled round the walls of the great castle to keep itself warm. Behind her came the footfall of her maid, as soft and familiar as a cat. “I’ve looked out a heavier robe, my lady, the Audience Chamber will be cold today.”

“Thank you, Ina.”

Guenevere stepped back into the low, whitewashed chamber, the private quarters of the Queens of the Summer Country since time began. Now a table by the wall gleamed with her perfumes and lotions, lavender, patchouli, and sweet almond oil. A massive bed stood in the shadows at the back, swathed in royal red and gold. A great cloudy mirror rested against the wall, and an applewood fire filled the air with spring.

In the center of the room Ina was holding a long robe of gold with a white fur collar and sleeves falling to the floor. Watching Guenevere approach, the maid marveled to herself. Was there any other woman of the Queen’s age who still boasted the same body as when she was young? Tall and inclining to fullness in the breasts and hips, Guenevere had not lost the small waist King Arthur had loved when they met, so the Queen herself had confided to Ina then. To look at her, you’d never know she’d borne a child.

Borne, and lost. And the Queen was approaching the time when there would be no more. Was that why she was looking so sad today? Or was it this awful business with Sir Gawain?

A fierce possessive love seized Ina’s heart, Gods above, how did the big knight dare? Well, no use complaining about what the Great Ones did. Briskly Ina slipped the robe onto Guenevere’s shoulders and tugged sharply at the sleeves.

Guenevere felt Ina’s devotion in the flurry of brisk touches and gave her a quick smile. For herself, she was not much interested in the image Ina now presented to her in the glass, a tall figure in a red silk, gowned in white and gold, gold at her neck and wrists and on the slender fingers of each hand. She knew that her face told the story of her life, and that the lines round her eyes showed each of her forty years. But for one who had borne all she had, she looked well enough.

“The crown now, madam?” Ina inquired. Standing behind her, the maid reached up and placed a deep circle of gold and moonstone on Guenevere’s head. “There!” she breathed, entranced. Her small face clenched like a fist. “I wish you well, lady, in the audience ahead. They’re bad blood, all the sons of Lot.”

“Not all of them,” Guenevere said with a frown. “Gawain was the King’s first companion and he swears he’ll be the last. And Gaheris and Gareth are men of honor too.”

Ina shook her head. “They are Orkneyans, lady,” she said simply, “and you know what Sir Gawain wants now.”

Guenevere’s soul darkened. “Yes, Ina.” she breathed. “I do.”

THE AUDIENCE CHAMBER had been slowly filling all morning, as the word spread through the court of what was afoot. Now, as the raw spring sun moved toward noon, the lofty hall was crowded with furs and velvets brushing against whispering silks and shining silver mail. Between the bright lords and ladies were scattered the harsh black habits of many monks, drifting together like clouds on a sunny day.

At the far end of the room, three massive figures stood with their backs to the crowd, facing the dais with its empty thrones. Sir Gawain and his brothers were waiting for the King and Queen in a silence like the tomb. At their head, Gawain shifted from foot to foot, stifling an inner groan. Gods, make it right, he prayed fervently. Let me not be wrong!

Yet how could he be? His big face knotted in an angry frown. Blood was blood. There had always been four princes of the Orkneys, four sons of Lot. For ten years now there had been only three. It was time to repair the breach in the Orkney ranks.

Not that the other two agreed with him. Gawain sighed and cast a swift glance at Gaheris, standing by his side. In Gaheris, the third of the clan, the tawny coloring of their mother had come out as true red. Her fair skin had become his milky pallor, and his blue eyes were as pale as the rain-washed morning sky.

But now his face was set in a grim stare. For his brother thought he was mad, Gawain knew.

“Why rake it all up again?” Gaheris had cried. “He’s well enough where he is, why not leave him there? He’ll only cause trouble if you bring him back.”

And Gareth too, the baby of them all, had shaken his great blond head with the same fearful regard and begged Gawain to think again. “Agravain’s born to make mischief, brother, you know that.”

Yet damn them both, Gawain muttered darkly in his heart, I am still their elder brother and the head of the clan. We are the sons of Lot, and King Lot always had his way. Gawain’s laboring brain returned to where it had been. Blood was blood. Why all the argument, then?

At the entrance to the hall, reflected in the great bronze double doors, a pair of shifting shadows appeared in a blur of red and gold.

“Attend there, all attend!” The sharp cry of the Chamberlain broke through noise of the crowd. “The King and Queen! Make way for the King and Queen!”

Gripping Arthur’s large and comforting hand, Guenevere moved forward with him into the hall.

So many people—

She stepped in to face a buzzing, smiling throng. Lords, knights, and ladies pressed in from all sides among the mighty landowners and petty kings. She smiled and nodded greetings, almost overwhelmed. So many people, a full court today—

She threw a glance at Arthur, always glad on these occasions to have him at her side. He caught her gaze and smiled, and there it was again, the old uprush of love for him, the same catch in her heart. Thank the Gods, she thought, the years have treated him well. True, the sorrow in his eyes would always be with him now, and the bright hope of youth had long ago left his face. But his keen gaze had lost none of its force, and the crown of Pendragon sat lightly on a head only brushed with gray. His great broad frame carried off the bright scarlet tunic and flowing cloak of gold as it always did, and the ancient sword of state swung from a belt no wider than in his boyhood days. He still led his troops in battle and was undefeated at the joust. Of all the men in the hall, there was no doubt which was the King.

In the body of the hall, a cluster of black habits caught her eye. And the Christians too, how numerous they are. She suppressed an angry shrug. When the men of Christ first brought the faith from the East, they had one meager church in London and huddled together in its crypt to keep warm. Now those few beginners were leaders of their church, spreading the word of their God throughout the misty isles. London, York, and Canterbury were their strongholds, and whole kingdoms now knelt to the Father God.

But here in the Summer Country, the Goddess still held sway. Here the people worshiped the Old Ones, who had made the world, and the Great One, who was the Mother of them all. The Summer Country traced its line of Queens from her, and kept the Mother-right. This was a land where women were born to rule. The Christians loudly preached the rule of men, but for years now they had not troubled Guenevere. In truth, she hardly noticed them at all. They comforted Arthur, and that was enough.

They moved on down the hall. Ahead of them the angry sun was pouring through the far window, washing the Orkney brothers in streaks of red. Waiting by Arthur’s throne were the King’s three companion knights, Sir Kay, Sir Bedivere, and Sir Lucan, their keen glances showing their sense of what lay ahead. Behind them Guenevere caught the white heads of two older knights, Sir Niamh and Sir Lovell, who had once served her mother. They were the last of the dead queen’s knights still alive. In their midst was a tall, smiling young man, cutting a striking figure in royal blue and gold, and with something Otherworldly in his air.

Arthur’s eye lit up at the sight of the handsome face. “Mordred!” he cried.

Mordred stepped forward jauntily and made a deep bow. If he wanted to show he was the son of the King, Guenevere thought sardonically, he had done that. His short cloak and well-made tunic set off a lean, well-muscled frame and long horseman’s legs. Deep gold bangles hung on his wrists, and a gold coronet held back his thick, blue-black hair. His eyes had the same hyacinthine shade, and his wide, white smile touched every heart at court.

Except one. Guenevere drew a ragged breath. She had never warmed to Mordred, and she would not now. The young man was a living reminder of Arthur’s betrayal, when her husband had yielded to his half-sister Morgan, seduced to her bed by spells. Mordred had been the result, a child of lust. Guenevere had lived through her anger long ago, and had vowed to accept the boy for Arthur’s sake. So for years she had smiled and held her peace while Mordred had grown to become Arthur’s delight. But she had never trusted the son of Morgan Le Fay.

Yet what had Mordred done to deserve her mistrust? She caught herself up. He has done nothing, remember? He is not the cause of your present fear.

They mounted the steps to the dais and took their thrones.

Arthur leaned over and fondly touched her hand. “Never fear, my love. Nothing will be done against your wish, even for my own blood kin.”

She inclined her head. “Thank you, sir.”

Arthur signaled to the Chamberlain. “Begin.”

Gawain approached the throne. “Ten years ago, sire,” he began, breathing heavily, “you banished my brother Agravain. We have come to ask you to allow him back to court.”

“Reprieve Agravain?” said Arthur sternly. A ripple had run through the court at the sound of the name.

“Yes, sire.” The color rushed to Gawain’s face. “He has paid his blood-debt. For years now he has wandered overseas. And he longs to tread on his native land again.”

“Gawain, your brother killed a knight of the Round Table, and for that the penalty is death.” Arthur nodded somberly to Guenevere. “It was only because of the Queen that he escaped with banishment.”

Guenevere clenched her fists. And that did not mean that ten years later he would be welcome back. Only a lifetime can pay for another life.

“Sire, he came upon Lamorak in the dead of night,” said Gawain doggedly. “He killed in self-defense.”

In self-defense? Guenevere gripped the cool bronze arms of her throne. Lies, all lies, Gawain, and you know it. Well, say on.

“And Sir Lamorak’s death is not the only burden that Agravain must carry till he dies.” Arthur’s voice was heavy with remembered pain. “Have you forgotten the death of your mother the queen? Mourning for Lamorak, she lost her own life too.”

Gawain’s beefy face turned an angrier shade of red. “Our mother concealed her love for her knight from us. Agravain never meant to kill her chosen one. I swear he should not be paying for her death!”

He paused, holding the moment with unconscious power. In all the court, not a soul moved.

“As for Sir Lamorak—” Gawain heaved a furious sigh. “Sire, all the world knows his father killed my father long ago. Our brother saw a blood-feud, a just debt. And all this was ten years ago and more. The dead are sleeping quietly in their graves. We beg you, let my brother return and live. He longs for nothing more than to serve you now.”

Guenevere leaned forward. He wants his brother back, that I understand. But that’s not all. She pressed Arthur’s hand. Arthur, Arthur, attend.

“Sir Gawain,” she said clearly, “you have told us why you think your brother should return.” She paused for emphasis. “But why now? What makes this the moment he should return?”

In spite of himself Gawain’s eyes slid toward Mordred, standing at the side of Arthur’s throne. Guenevere nodded to herself. As I thought.

Now Arthur was frowning too. He let go Guenevere’s hand. “You heard the Queen, Gawain,” he said stiffly. “Why now?”

Gawain took a breath. “My lord, all the world knows that Prince Mordred is to be knighted at Pentecost. When I was young, I swore my allegiance to you and in twenty years I have never broken faith.” For a moment, a searing shaft of love made Gawain’s big face almost beautiful. “I ask no more than to swear the same oath to Prince Mordred your son. And I pray that my banished brother may do so too.”

Oh, this is clever, Gawain. Guenevere sat still and allowed her thoughts to run. At Mordred’s knighting, everyone knows that the King will name him as his heir. Is it you, Gawain, or your dark-scheming brother who wants to be there to greet the rising sun? Do you even plan, perhaps, to help the new sun arise?

She watched Gawain’s eyes as they flickered over Mordred, then returned to Arthur again. No, Gawain loves Arthur. He has no desire to see Mordred in his place. If any man dreams of evil, it is Agravain. He must not return.

She leaned across toward the neighboring throne. “Arthur—” she said urgently.

But Arthur’s eyes were filling with tears of joy. He reached out for Mordred’s hand. “Take these good knights to your heart, my son,” he said huskily. “They are our kin. We shall never have any more.”

Cold certainly gripped Guenevere like a claw. Arthur means to reprieve Agravain. She seized his arm. “Arthur, wait—think what he has done—”

Without warning a dark sickness filled her sight. Through it she saw Agravain approaching with his familiar storklike stride, casting around like a hunter for his prey. He was armed for close combat with a vicious stabbing sword, daggers at his belt, and a shield on his left arm. Soundlessly he slipped through the palace corridors, pale and grinning like an avenging ghost. Behind him she could see a band of knights, all armed for the kill and smiling like him too. Suddenly she knew they were making for the Queen’s apartments, they were outside, they were here—

“Guenevere!”

She came to herself with a violent, shuddering start. Arthur was frowning at her with angry concern. Mordred leaned forward anxiously. “Oh madam,” he said, “thank the Gods—we thought you were ill.”

She waved him away. “Arthur—” she began hoarsely.

He shook his head. “The time has come for forgiveness, Guenevere.” He leaned toward her throne. “If Gawain can forgive the death of his mother, so can we.”

Arthur, beware. The Orkneys love no man but themselves. Already they are looking toward your heir. Agravain will court Mordred, and you will be cast aside— She drew a breath. “I don’t trust them, Arthur.” Another sudden tremor gripped her frame. Agravain above all—

But Arthur was already patting her hand. “Don’t worry, Guenevere,” he said reassuringly. “What is it I’ve so often heard you say? ‘We must seek love and understanding, not anger and hate?’ ”

“It’s what the Lady teaches on Avalon,” Guenevere said numbly. “ ‘Religion should be kindness. Faith should be love.’ ”

“And so it is,” chuckled Arthur. “And Agravain should come back.” A smile from long ago lit his fine-featured face. “Chamberlain, bear witness to our royal decree,” he called. “Our kinsman Agravain, banished ten years ago, is now reprieved—”

Arthur, oh Arthur—

Guenevere sat in silence as the sonorous sentences rolled on. Sir Gawain embraced his brothers, and all three wept for joy, leaning on each other’s necks. Arthur beamed on them, and on all the court, rejoicing in his power of dispensing goodwill.

Outside the sun broke through the watery clouds and poured into the chamber in shafts of gold. In spite of herself, a sliver of hope warmed her heart. All may be well. All may yet be well.

But as the court rose, she slipped a ring from her finger and called Ina to her side, pressing it into the hollow of the maid’s hand. Ina’s eyebrows flickered a question they both understood.

“Yes,” Guenevere breathed. “Send for Lancelot.”