Guinevere Page 7

  Geraldus turned around and smiled. “I’m glad to have you with me,” he said. “It’s lonely sometimes traveling, even with my voices.”

  The last knot in Guinevere’s stomach relaxed and she smiled back. “With the crowd you bring with you, I feel that we’re traveling in a caravan. I don’t see how you can be lonely with all this company.”

  She indicated them with her arm, especially the woman riding with Geraldus.

  He flashed her a puzzled grin. “Can you hear them, too?” he asked in amazement.

  Guinevere laughed. “How could I? I’m not a saint. But I can see them all around you sometimes. They fade in and out. The clearest one is the woman behind you.”

  Geraldus’ jaw dropped to his chest. Then an eager light came into his eyes. He groped at the air behind him, but the dark-haired woman slid off before he could reach her.

  “Do you mean to say that you can see them?” he gasped.

  “Do you mean to say that you can’t?” Guinevere was just as puzzled. “You always seem to know where they are. I just assumed.”

  “How could I not know where they were, with all that caterwauling! They have always been just sound to me. But that woman. Is she still here? I can’t hear her. Is she near me?”

  “Yes, over there by that willow. She’s laughing. She’s always laughing.”

  “What . . . what does she look like?” Geraldus’ voice trembled.

  Guinevere squinted. “She’s hard to see all the time, she moves so. But she has raven black hair fastened only by two jeweled pins at the sides. It falls to her knees and keeps swirling around her. Her face is pretty, but she doesn’t look the way I thought an angel would.”

  “Forget that, child,” Geraldus pleaded. “Tell me about her face.”

  “A straight nose, large eyes, rather pointed chin.” The woman impishly covered her face with her hands. “And beautiful long fingers,” Guinevere concluded enviously. She had always been rather embarrassed by her short, unaristocratic fingers.

  “She has a green sort of gauzy gown on. I can’t quite see how it’s put together. There seem to be a lot of loose pieces sewn to the waist so that her legs can move freely. There’s not very much of it on top.” The woman laughed. Guinevere frowned. “I don’t think Mother would approve.”

  “Never mind your mother.” Geraldus spoke sharply. His eyes were straining to see into the shadowy limbs of the tree, but he saw no one there . . . His fingernails dug into his palms and his thoughts were astonishingly secular.

  “She’s gone now,” Guinevere told him flatly. “They all are. Sometimes they do that.”

  “Oh no!” moaned Geraldus. “Do you think it’s my fault? Oh, Guinevere, why didn’t you tell me you could see them?”

  “I didn’t know you couldn’t,” she explained anxiously. “Please Geraldus, don’t you be angry with me too. Everyone is acting so differently toward me lately. I won’t be able to stand it if you change too. I’ll tell you all I know. Really! She’s just a woman; not very special except that she laughs so much. There are lots of others who are funnier. There’s the man with the long face who’s always pulling on his ear, and the short one whose robe is too long, and many other women. I just can’t see them as well. But if you want, I’ll look very carefully. I’ll tell you exactly what they look like. . . .”

  She stopped. He wasn’t listening, but still was gazing raptly into the trees. His arms reached out and then flopped to his sides.

  “I don’t hear them anymore,” he said. “Let’s go. We still have a long journey before us. We’ll have to camp in the woods tonight.”

  For the first time, he noticed the fear on Guinevere’s face.

  “Don’t worry,” he sighed. “I’m back now.”

  His knees jabbed old Plotinus, and they plodded on again.

  The remainder of the trip was made in silence. They soon left the main road and entered the forest on a thin trail so covered with moss and pine needles and decayed leaves that the hooves of the horses made no sound. Geraldus stared bleakly straight before him, his ears straining for just one note. His heart was beating so loudly that he wondered if the noise of it was not keeping them away. His body ached in a way he had often felt before, but not so strongly. He refused to put a name to the feeling. Guinevere could see that he was suffering, but couldn’t understand. Was he upset with her because she could see these beings? Was he angry because she thought they weren’t angels? She paused. But if they weren’t angels, what were they? She forgot her resentment as she tried to work out this new mystery.

  Finally Geraldus signaled a halt in a secluded natural clearing, just off the path. There was a stream nearby where they could wash. He took the blankets and bedding off the pack horse, cut some long branches from a nearby sapling, and made a lean-to bedroom for Guinevere.

  “There,” he said when he had finished. “It’s not what you’re used to, I know, but you should be comfortable enough. I’ll be right out here by the fire if you need anything, and it’s not likely to rain on a night like this.”

  Guinevere was delighted with her bedroom. It was a three-sided tent on a frame, draped with luxurious silk and woolen hangings. A thick straw mat had been placed on the ground and covered with the bedclothes. There was a curtain that could be let down in front for added privacy or warmth. Guenlian had sent the most costly and elegant of her own hangings in an attempt to pacify her daughter. They were much better than Guinevere was allowed at home.

  “I feel like a queen in here, Geraldus. Come in and see! Oh, look! Mother even sent her own vanity box for my brushes and perfumes! See, it has a painting of my grandmother on it.”

  It was an ivory box, inlaid with semiprecious jewels. On the sides were Christian symbols, fish swimming across one and a Chi Rho on the other. On the top was a portrait of her grandmother, painted on wood in the manner of the last century. It was a good likeness, Guenlian had said, and Guinevere had always loved the proud, dark woman with the huge, sad eyes. It was Guenlian’s greatest treasure next to her children, and Guinevere knew it, although she didn’t understand how any object could come to mean so much to one. She softly caressed it and put it back in the oilskin wrappings.

  Geraldus was building a fire, more for light and companionship than anything else, for the night would still be warm. They had bread, meat, and fruit for their dinner, and he brought fresh water from the brook to mix with their wine. He tried to show some interest in Guinevere’s delight and was indeed glad that she had lost her sulkiness. But he could only think of his alto. The voices had never been quiet this long before.

  “What if she doesn’t return!” he moaned. “They must come back. I won’t try to touch you again, if you don’t wish it. I promise! Anything! Only come back! Don’t leave me alone!”

  He shrank back into himself, frightened at the intensity of his emotions. “I’m used to them, that’s all,” he told himself. “We were just beginning polyphony. Oh, but what shall I do without her?”

  He tried to imagine himself back home again, on the mountains, herding the sheep and wandering alone. It did not cheer him. The fire crackled and flickered its best, but Geraldus saw nothing.

  In her tent, Guinevere was happily pretending to be Cleopatra, sending Mark Antony out to do battle for her. Plutarch’s Lives of the Noble Romans had been one of her earliest books, even before the gospels. And, although Tenuantius had added morals at every opportunity, Guinevere had only caught the glamour and grandeur of the stories.

  “Begone, minion,” she snapped at an imaginary slave. She thought of what might happen if she ever spoke to Flora or even Caet in that manner. Better not to consider it. But the thought reminded her of a new problem.

  She poked her head out.

  “Geraldus!” she called. “Mother forgot something. Who will comb my hair?”

  Geraldus lifted his head from his hands. “What?”

  “I said, there is no one to comb my hair. What shall I do?”

  The saint brushed his f
ingers through his shoulder-length hair. Although other men of the day wore their hair short, it was considered more holy to let it grow, and he had. But as for combing it. . . .

  “Can’t you do it yourself?”

  “I don’t think so. Flora always combed and rebraided it every night and morning. It’s very long. I don’t think I could reach.”

  This problem was too much for Geraldus.

  “Why don’t you just not do it tonight? We will be at the hermitage tomorrow and then Gaia can comb it for you.”

  That settled the matter in his mind and he went back to his worries. But Guinevere was still perplexed. She had been told every night of her life that horrible things would happen to her if her hair were not combed, scented, and braided again at least once a day. She fumbled with the knots in the plaits and loosened them until her hair was flowing freely about her waist. Then she discovered that she couldn’t comb one section without another getting tangled. Also, it was difficult to keep it from getting too near the lit grease lamp. She cried out in vexation, but Geraldus was straining to hear his chorus and didn’t notice.

  She had given up and was trying to braid it again as best she could, which was very badly, when she felt a tug at the back. The bone comb was slipping through her hair by itself! She gave a startled yelp and the laughing woman appeared. She put her finger to her lips. Guinevere nodded and sat docilely while her hair was expertly arranged. She felt the braids being wound about her head and fastened with something. She put up her hands to feel and found the little jeweled pins. The woman tossed her dark hair off her face and smiled tenderly at her.

  “Oh, thank you,” Guinevere whispered. “May I keep them?”

  She nodded and kissed the girl gently on the cheek. Then, laying her finger on her lips again, she slipped out of the tent.

  Exhausted, Guinevere blew out the lamp and went to sleep. She never thought of telling Geraldus that she had seen the woman again.

  • • •

  The next morning was cloudy, which matched Geraldus’ mood perfectly. He scolded the weather, the woods, and even his long-suffering horse. Guinevere had found that even silken sheets can’t make a pallet on the ground as comfortable as a bed. She hadn’t slept well and had had the strange feeling all night that something was watching her. She had even slipped out of the tent at dawn to look but had seen nothing except Geraldus curled up next to the ashes of the campfire.

  Still, the adventure of the journey was growing in her, and during the silent morning as they rode she woke up more and more. The forest had overgrown the path they were taking, and it was clear that no one had traveled that way in a long time. In some places there were tangles of wild flowers and berries. In others the deer had trampled the grass and undergrowth down almost flat. In those spots one could see far into the woods, between the trees. Occasionally, Guinevere thought she could see a flash of silver, as of something running swiftly by. There was something familiar about it; it wasn’t water and it wasn’t metal. Then she remembered the light she had followed the night she had been lost.

  She almost turned her horse to chase it now, but the form vanished. She trotted up to just behind Geraldus; there wasn’t room to ride abreast.

  “Geraldus,” she called softly. “Look into the woods. I keep seeing something, but it’s not clear.”

  But Geraldus didn’t lift his head.

  “It’s no use. I can’t see them. They won’t let me. Now they won’t even sing for me. I wish I’d never tried. Now I’m alone. All alone!”

  Guinevere wanted to say something to comfort him, but she really didn’t know what. She was sorry Geraldus felt that way, of course. But he wasn’t really alone. He had lots of friends who liked him whether he heard angels or not. And, after all, she was there now. Why wouldn’t he listen to her?

  “I’m sure your voices will come back,” she began. “But this is something different in among the trees, something silvery. Won’t you look?”

  He glanced to either side. “I don’t see anything. I told you I wouldn’t. Do you think it would help if I prayed for them to come back?”

  “I suppose so. If they are angels they will hear you and, if you are deserving, they will grant your request.” She spoke as if from a textbook.

  “Guinevere!” Geraldus shouted, rising to sit up straight. “Damn the angels! Don’t you understand . . . ?

  He trailed off. Her puzzled, frightened expression shamed him and told him that she knew nothing of what he felt or longed for. There wasn’t even sympathy in her eyes, only confusion.

  “Merlin was right,” he thought as, after a moment, they went on. “She is years younger in emotion than her age would allow. Perhaps she has a heart, but so far no one has laid any claim to it. Poor little girl! I hope life is kind to her and she doesn’t find that she can love only when all she loves is gone, like me.”

  For a time he forgot his own grief in worrying about his charge. Suddenly he felt something brush against his ear, something soft and silky. He almost turned around to reach for it but wisely remembered in time. He closed his eyes tightly as the tears squeezed through his lashes. Someone was humming. Soon she was joined by the tenor, flat again, and two sopranos, somewhat improved. With a gasp, Geraldus joined in.

  Guinevere saw the translucent green of the woman’s gown, and heard Geraldus trying counterpoint again. She smiled. It was nice that they were back and Geraldus was happy again. How silly he had been to worry so much. Perhaps now he would help her to find out what that light was.

  Chapter Five

  The ground began to slant upward as they climbed the hill to the hermitage.

  “We have only an hour or so more to travel,” Geraldus called. “But we might as well stop and finish the meat for our noon meal. Timon and Gaia won’t have animal flesh anywhere near their home.”

  Guinevere slid from her horse. “Yes, I know. Mother told me. I suppose I won’t mind it for a few weeks, but I can’t imagine how they could give up meat entirely. I don’t see how I could live without an occasional pork pie or chicken leg. I wonder if that is what is meant by Christian denial?”

  She shook her head sagely and bit into her meat avidly. Geraldus laughed.

  “No, I can’t imagine you ever living in a convent, wearing rough wool and eating beans and barley bread.”

  Guinevere laughed, too. “No, I’m afraid I much prefer to let someone else pray for my soul while I attend to the needs of my body.”

  They carefully removed the greasy traces of their lunch and started again on their way.

  As if to make up for their earlier absence, the troupe of singers had been growing all day. They crowded into the narrow path all around the horses. Some even climbed onto the pack horse, who didn’t seem to notice the extra weight. Guinevere had tried at first to look for the silver light, but she gave up. Even though she couldn’t see the singers clearly, they made an effective screen against seeing anything in the woods. Geraldus was far ahead of her by late afternoon, but his loud complaints could be clearly heard.

  “NO! No! That’s not it. DUM da da da da DUM, and then the sopranos join in. Try it again!”

  Despite his bluster, even Guinevere could hear the jubilation in his voice.

  The shadows of the trees crisscrossed the path before they arrived at the clearing where Timon and Gaia lived. They appeared to be nowhere near a place of human habitation. The forest was thick and dark about them. Suddenly, they rounded a bend in the path and the whole group spilled out into a large open space, where the ground had been scratched bare by thirty generations of chickens. The sound of water splashing over rocks mingled with the constant drone of bees.

  In the twilight it was hard to see the house. It took Guinevere a moment to recognize it as one. It was made of stone slabs that had been dragged into position and lined up to form a lopsided square. Then wood and clay had been used to fill the spaces left, except for the doorway. Later, Guinevere would see the window in the back, not made of the thick, greenish g
lass they used at home, but of some sort of cloth that had been rubbed with wax until it was translucent. In the wooden door was a small oval of real glass, with a blue Chi Rho painted on it. The roof was clay and wattle with a hole in the center for the smoke to escape.

  It was beautiful, in a wild sort of way, but Guinevere fought back a surge of depression at the thought of living in it. It was not the sort of place for a pampered Roman lady to stay. She wondered how one of such a good family as Gaia’s could tolerate such a place. As she was thinking this, the door opened and a woman came out.

  All thought of protest left her mind as Guinevere stared at Gaia. Somehow, she had imagined Timon and his sister as a kindly elderly couple. After all, they had lived in the forest for twenty years and had been grown when they came there. Gaia did not fit Guinevere’s image at all.

  First, she was tall, taller than most of the men Guinevere knew. She had had to duck her head to get through the doorway. Added to this was her bearing. Guinevere knew at once that Gaia could belong here as she would anywhere. She was a complete arrogant aristocrat. Her home was a palace simply because she lived there. She wore a white linen robe with some sort of woven belt and plain bronze shoulder pins. Her head was covered, but the black braids wound tightly around her forehead showed only a few streaks of gray. Her face was lined, but more by wind and sun and self-control than age.

  “Timon!” she called. “They are here.”

  She waited in silence as Geraldus and Guinevere dismounted. Guinevere edged shyly behind Geraldus, who didn’t seem the least bit intimidated.

  He strode up to Gaia, hugged her tightly and, to Guinevere’s amazement, gave her a smacking kiss.

  “The kiss of peace,” he said, laughing, and Gaia’s hard face relaxed.