Guinevere Read online

  They had little use for these peripatetic “holy” men who believed that by making their bodies as loathesome as possible, they would be closer to God. Flora refused to attend to them when they came.

  “Closer to God,” she sniffed. “I wouldn’t sacrifice a lame cow to a god who’d own that sort. It would have to be a god without a nose.”

  Guinevere followed her mother as she went through the house overseeing preparations for the evening meal. Guenlian murmured to herself as she planned and organized.

  “Lark pie would be nice, but not filling enough. It will have to be a chicken, too. Better tell Rhianna to tell the cook to have someone kill a chicken. At least there is enough for a nice, green sallet. Thank goodness these gardeners have watered, bless their dear, bent backs. I must remember to reward them. Now, wine . . .”

  She noticed Guinevere, humming along with her at her elbow.

  “Guinevere, dear, go tell your father we need more wine.”

  “Yes, mother.” Guinevere ran off happily. She liked the bustle that came with company. She found Leodegrance in the stables, inspecting a late-born foal.

  “Father,” she panted. “Mother says we need wine for dinner. May I go with you to get it?”

  “Yes, yes,” he answered. “I’ll just wash my hands. Did you bring a pitcher?”

  She nodded. He gave some last instructions to Caet about caring for the spindly new animal and followed Guinevere down the side of the tor.

  About halfway down the incline was a well-concealed cave. Whether it was natural or manmade, no one knew. Some thought it was the tomb of one of the giants who had roamed the earth years ago, as the Bible stated. Others suggested that it might be a passageway from one world to the next, as the Old Religion preached. Most of the peasants, whose ancestors had lived there since time began, simply said it was a dangerous place and refused to go near it. Leodegrance only shrugged at the speculations with the good nature of a man who has had time to worry only about the immediacies of life, and is not bothered with what comes after.

  “It’s big, dark, and always cool,” he decided. “A fine place to store wine and winter roots.”

  He never sent any of the servants down there, though, even those who professed not to be afraid. Whenever a new supply of wine was needed he would fetch it himself, even if it meant leaving his guests.

  But not only supplies were kept in the cave. Guinevere and her brothers had long ago dared each other to explore the mysterious cavern. The boys had gone first, one at a time, without even a candle, to show their courage. Then they had generously taken their little sister in to see it, too. Leodegrance and Guenlian had been furious when they first discovered this, for Guinevere had had strange and horrible dreams for weeks after her visit, which had to be explained.

  She soon got over her fear, though, and demanded to be taken in to see it again. There was something compelling about the enormous table, round like the moon, deep in a dark cavern where no company would ever sit. Leodegrance had wisely ruled that the children could only enter when he was with them. Only then might they stare at the table, hidden in the gloom beyond the torchlight. Guinevere, at least, kept the bargain.

  While Leodegrance opened a new jar and poured the wine into the flagon, Guinevere edged over to the table. She ran her hands over the wood, watching her fingers move in the flickering light. For the first time, she noticed grooves in the top, lines that might almost be letters. Slowly, she spelled out what she felt. “S-I-E-G-E-P-E-R- . . .”

  “Stop!” Her hand was jerked roughly away. “That is not for you to touch!”

  Guinevere stared at him in horror, rubbing her wrist. She was too startled to cry.

  Leodegrance held her close in apology. His voice was more gentle.

  “That table is very old and has strange powers. I do not know them all. It is not even mine; I only hold it in trust for another. What is written on it is not for us to know. Why do you think I keep it down here in the dark? Even touching it could be dangerous. You must never do it again.”

  He kissed her softly, to show he was not angry, only worried. Guinevere nodded. Her eyes were wide. She didn’t really want to touch it again. There was something strong and powerful about it, something she was afraid of. Still, she wished she could see it in the light. Not for the first time, she wondered how her father had come by this thing and whom he kept it for, but she knew he would never tell.

  He laid his arm on her shoulder as they climbed back up the tor. She threw hers about his waist and smiled back at him. The beating sun drove out the chill of the darkness.

  Preparations for dinner were well under way when they returned. Geraldus had been bathed and rested and was making polite conversation with one of the fosterlings as they waited. She was trying to decide whether she should treat him with the respect due a saint or the coquetry needed to amuse a handsome and eligible young man.

  Guenlian was truly pleased to have Geraldus stay with them. She encouraged him to spend several weeks each year under their roof. She liked him. He reminded her of her own sons. He was a charming guest who enlivened the meals with his conversation. He knew all the local gossip and much of the distant news. He could sing the old sagas that pleased the servants. She was sorry for him and his problem. If he occasionally acted a bit odd, speaking to the air or swatting at unseen flies, well, that was to be expected from a man who heard voices. Guenlian wasn’t entirely sure that Geraldus was, in truth, a saint, but she knew he was a good and kindly man. And his manners were impeccable, which, after all was something even harder to find in a guest these days than claims to sainthood. She also heartily approved of his family ties.

  Geraldus’ family was one of the old Romano-British liaisons. They were descended from a rather obscure officer of an undoubtedly noble Roman family who had fallen in love with a Welsh princess and decided to settle. Her father was unable to give her much but a line of one hundred fighting ancestors, so they had settled on a smallish estate well up in the Pennines, where they raised cattle, sheep, and horses—fine horses. The family kept to themselves as a rule, sending messages of support in times of trouble and swift cavalry mounts when the invasions threatened their safety. During some of the darkest days, Guenlian, first alone and later with her children, had found a friendly refuge with them, and she did not forget.

  Geraldus had been born into this tranquil, airy world. He belonged there, a gentle child, full of light and music. He showed little interest in Roman history or literature, slightly more in philosophy. He mastered reading only enough to study some fragments of Pythagoras on an old papyrus manuscript, which was fast crumbling in the damp climate. He spent most of his time in the hills, watching the clouds and the sheep and playing his pipe. He always had an air about him as if he heard and saw more than others did. His parents feared he might be simple. But no one doubted his word when, at the age of seventeen, he announced that he had begun hearing voices. When asked what the voices told him, he had replied cautiously, “They seem to be singing.”

  At that, the faces of his dear friends and relatives had lit up with a holy awe and they had backed away from him, reverently but swiftly.

  “Angels!” they whispered. “It is only natural that one who lives so close to God would one day hear the heavenly choir.”

  Then they racked their brains to remember any slight or offense they might have given this chosen one. To be on the safe side, they brought him gifts, most of which were useless to him. That didn’t matter. It didn’t pay to be in disfavor with the Almighty, especially in these uncertain times.

  After his announcement, Geraldus tried to resume his normal life. He continued to spend most of his time in the mountains, tending his sheep and playing his music. He was already a brilliant piper and did well on the small Celtic harp. He would have done justice to a Greek lyre, if he could have found one intact. At first the voices didn’t bother him too much. If angels wanted to serenade him, he wouldn’t object. The “choir” generally hummed the same
four or five tunes, all variations in one octave. It was boring, but easy to ignore. Geraldus did wonder about the quality of heavenly taste, but, being modest, decided that it was probably a lack in himself that failed to appreciate their sounds. After a while he noticed that when he played his pipes, the voices would make a clumsy attempt to follow him. He liked them for that. It seemed very thoughtful of them to take an interest in his music, too. Also, an appreciative audience was something he had always lacked. Sheep are not strong on lyric and melody.

  Slowly he began to recognize the different voices. Some picked up new tunes instantly, while others grumbled on in the same old monotone, no matter what he played. He grew comfortable with them, though his opinion of their ability grew less. Some days they would all sing together charmingly; on others, the cacaphony would be unbearable. There was one pure alto with a slight vibrato who consistently followed his playing beautifully. Geraldus fell half in love with it. Finally, it occurred to him that these were probably not the voices of angels. He concluded that a celestial choir would simply have more good voices. There wasn’t one tenor who could stay on tune and the sopranos were positively shrill. Even his alto was a little too sultry for true piety.

  His attempts to explain this to his family and friends were brushed off as attacks of modesty. They had decided that there was a saint in their midst, and they would settle for nothing less.

  He became more involved with the voices than with the people he could see. He spent more and more time with them, or, at least, paying attention to them. They were always with him. As they showed signs of improvement, he started coaching them out loud; playing to them; practicing scales—until his family wondered if having a saint among them was really such an honor. The question was finally resolved one night at dinner.

  Several guests had been invited from the surrounding estates. They were all old friends who were content to overlook Geraldus’ new status. The meal was a good one and the wines were old and strong. Everyone was enjoying himself immensely when Geraldus suddenly stood up, pointing his finger at something across the room. He glared into space, seemingly at nothing, and shouted fiercely.

  “If all of you don’t stop screeching and groaning in my ears you can go back to wherever you came from!”

  He then upset his wineglass and fingerbowl with a sweeping gesture and stormed out.

  Naturally, the guests thought he meant them. There was some confusion as a few accused their neighbors of being the source of the noise. Fights were breaking out at the lower tables by the time Geraldus’ parents had managed to calm down those at the main one. It took quite some time before everyone returned to their meal, and a new cask of wine had to be opened to soothe the hurt feelings.

  The next day, Geraldus’ parents decided that it might be better for everyone if their dear and holy son went to a place more suited to his nature—a monastery, perhaps or some other retreat far, far from sinful man.

  They told him at once, as kindly as they could, but Geraldus was listening to an alto solo and heard only a fraction of what they said. His face was dreamy and peaceful and it gave his mother a moment’s sorrow to have to give him up to God. But she was a devout woman and assumed that God would see that he ate properly, dressed warmly, and didn’t overtax himself. And it would be nice to be able to entertain again.

  So, a few days later, Geraldus set off on foot down the mountain. He was supposed to strike out toward the west to an Irish monastery on the coast, but he soon discovered that he could survive quite well on his own. His fame had spread through the mountains and he was greeted enthusiastically whenever he appeared. He sang well, didn’t steal, and left a blessing on each house he stayed at. The reverence of his hosts was occasionally tiresome, but the food and lodgings were usually good and he enjoyed the society of different people. After eighteen years in the company of sunrises and sheep, human companionship can be very interesting. At one stop he was given his horse, a creature of a philosophical nature, whom he named Plotinus. Plotinus apparently didn’t mind music as he plodded along, and they got along well.

  Geraldus was always glad to rest a while with Leodegrance and Guenlian. The food was excellent, the wine superb and the conversation interesting. Best of all, they respected him without placing too much emphasis on his supposedly saintly attributes. They asked a blessing on arrival and departure and nothing more. He liked them.

  When he had washed and put on the new, soft robes that were left for him, Geraldus joined the family at dinner. He fervently hoped that the maids who had brought him the bath had not stayed to watch him from behind the curtains. He had thought he felt a draught and more than once he had discovered a maid, or even a fosterling, outside his chambers, curious to discover if saints were made the same as other men.

  Leodegrance wanted serious news, however, and Geraldus’ concern over his privacy faded as he found himself flooded with questions.

  “Yes, sir,” he repeated between bites. “This young King Arthur is supposedly doing marvelous deeds against the Saxons, and it’s doubtful that we’ll have to worry about them coming this far again, at least while he is in command of the army.”

  “We have heard such fantastic stories of him,” Guenlian complained. “If we believed them all we would be sure that he was a giant with flaming hair, a magic lance in one hand and an invincible sword in the other. He must not feel the need of a shield, or does he carry it in his teeth?”

  “He does indeed have a fine sword. Excaliber, he names it,” Geraldus answered. “And there are many tales of his finding it. All agree it is beyond the skill of modern man to forge such a blade. As for the other tales, I do not know. They say he once went into battle carrying a cross on his shoulders, but that is hard for me to imagine. A man has enough to weigh him down when he fights, without adding a cross as well.”

  “Perhaps it’s a metaphor?” Guenlian suggested.

  “Perhaps it’s all nonsense, made up to fool the ignorant louts who like that sort of thing!” Leodegrance snorted. “We’ve heard about his battles, how he slew this and that ridiculous number alone and saved the day. Assuredly we’ve had no Saxon incursions near here and it’s the first year in many a long summer that we haven’t. But I want to know who this boy is, this lad who says he’s king of all Britain. Not that it’s much of a title now, with Saxons eating away at one coast and Irish raiding at the other. Do you know who he is, where he comes from?”

  “I’ve heard it said that he was nurtured at the northern estate of Ector, a fine man who is oddly self-effacing. But as to his parentage, I know nothing, only that there is some mystery about it and that it is somehow tied in with the prophesies of Master Merlin, made so many years ago. I was not born then and do not know the correct words for all the prophecies . . .”

  “Merlin was half out of his head when he spouted all that!” Guenlian began. Merlin was second cousin to her and she thought his dabbling in wizardry did not reflect well on the family. “The poor lad had been dragged from his home, slandered as a devil’s spawn and threatened with horrible death. Anyone would babble under those circumstances.”

  Leodegrance interrupted her. “I’m sure you know that shortly after that episode, all Merlin’s family were killed in a sudden raid on their home. The horror of it unhinged his mind and he totally lost his reason. Indeed, he disappeared for months afterwards. We try to be very gentle with him regarding those times and never refer to them if we can avoid it.”

  Geraldus was unconvinced. He was familiar enough with the story to know that Merlin had been spared because he had been able to solve King Vortigern’s problem through his second sight. Geraldus had also encountered Merlin many times in his travels and had been deeply impressed with him. There was no sign of a weak mind that he could detect. In this house, however, he was a guest, so he kept his thoughts to himself.

  “I almost forgot,” he announced. “Until we spoke of him, your magnificent dinner and delightful wines had pushed Master Merlin from my thoughts, and also m
y reason for arriving here now. I am here at the bidding of Merlin to inform you that he will soon be traveling this way, probably at the end of the month. He hoped you would have a place for him for a few weeks. He wanted me to warn you that he might be accompanied.”

  Guenlian smiled graciously, mentally already assigning rooms and wondering which of the stock should be slaughtered.

  “I am always happy to see my dear cousin,” she said, adding wistfully, “So many of our people are gone now, either killed in the raids or fled over the sea. It’s good for one to have family about.”

  Guinevere heard this at her end of the table, where she sat almost in darkness. She was not so thrilled that Merlin was coming. He had rarely spoken to her in the past and then had glared at her so fiercely that she was half afraid of him. He always made her feel as if she had done something terribly wrong. She tended, therefore, to be silent and evasive with him. Now, thinking of him, she withdrew from the conversation around her. As her attention wandered she noticed something odd about the people in the dining hall. There seemed to be too many of them. And there were people she had never seen before.

  They flitted among the guests, now sitting, now standing, and she couldn’t focus on them clearly. As she tried to stare at one, the person would melt away and another would appear just out of her range. She tried to see them clearly for several minutes with no success. Then, just as she had given up and returned to her meal, she noticed a laughing woman with long black hair sitting directly across the room from her. Guinevere stared fixedly at her but the woman didn’t fade. She smiled directly at her. She was seated next to one of the local small landowners. Potius had happened to be in the neighborhood that day and had been invited to dinner. Such luck didn’t often come his way and he was doing his best to stuff himself with fresh meat and fine wine. He never glanced at the woman, even though she was almost touching his elbow.