89
MY OWN SON

I FELT MY BRAINS SOMERSAULT,” SIR GAWAIN TELLS KING Arthur. “For four weeks I’ve been unable to see straight. To think straight.”

They’re sitting on soft deerskins in a spatter of primrose-and-violet light. Beside the king lies his Bible, open, and on it rests the beautiful reading-pointer given to him by King Pellam, Guardian of the Grail. Ivory and gold and obsidian…Above them, the poplar trembles and whirrs.

“That’s how hard Sir Lancelot clouted me,” Sir Gawain says, nursing the side of his head. “But now! Spring in the air! Spring in my blood! In three days I’ll be able to fight the traitor again.”

Now a horseman gallops up to them, and both men stiffen and scramble to their feet.

“Arthur, King of Britain!”

“Take your time, man,” says Arthur-in-the-stone. “Words need breath.”

“From the Archbishop of Canterbury, sire. Sir Mordred has concocted a letter—a letter, he says, from Sir Gawain—announcing you are dead.”

“The traitor!” shouts Sir Gawain.

“He has seized your throne, sire! He says he’ll marry your queen.”

The king clenches both his hands.

“She’s taken refuge in the Tower of London, and Sir Mordred’s laying siege to it. He threatens to cut off the archbishop’s head.”

A gust of wind shakes the poplar and the primrose-and-violet spots shudder and dance.

“Half the men left in England have rallied to him, sire,” the messenger pants.

“I see,” the king says quietly. “This is how he repays his father’s trust.”

Slowly he walks away. He paces around the poplar tree; Sir Gawain and the messenger watch him.

“My son,” he says to himself. “My own son. A monster.” He pauses, then strides back to the waiting men.

“Each day you’re out of England, sire…,” the messenger begins.

King Arthur looks him in the eye. “When I need advice,” he says, “I’ll ask for it. Raise the siege, Gawain!”

“But—”

“First things come first. My kingdom. My poor people. My suffering wife. We’ll sail home and pursue Mordred. Then and only then will we fight Sir Lancelot.”

“Yes, sire,” says Gawain in obedience.

“Ah!” says the king. “But if only Sir Lancelot were to sail with us now.”