Читать книгу The Idylls of the Queen - Phyllis Ann Karr - Страница 10

CHAPTER 7

The Wife of Sir Gaheris of Orkney

“And upon Michaelmas Day the Bishop of Canterbury made the wedding betwixt Sir Gareth and the Lady Lionesse with great solemnity. And King Arthur made Gaheris to wed the Damosel Savage, that was Dame Linet; and King Arthur made Sir Agravaine to wed Dame Lionesse’s niece, a fair lady, her name was Dame Laurel.”

—Malory VII, 35

I slept until prime and woke with the idea forming that if all else failed, I could act on one of Mordred’s hints and take the blame for the poisoning on myself. It would not be a glorious way to save the Queen, but it would be a surer way than for me to fight as her champion. Mador has kept himself in fighting trim, while, thanks to the other duties that have taken too much of my time, I am no longer the man of arms who killed two kings with one lance beside the Humber. If I fought the Queen’s fight against Mador and got myself killed, the only good result would be that I would no longer be there to watch her burn.

In the end, it came to nothing; but for a time the idea of confessing had its charm—the ultimate in secret chivalry, if there can be such a thing as chivalry without glory. For a moment I considered making a confession at once and sparing Her Grace the weeks of doubt and uncertainty. But a mere confession of incompetence would carry no weight without some kind of proof, while the price of an open confession of malice aforethought would probably be death, without recourse, King’s foster-brother or not. I have never been suicidal, and the price of suicide is Hell.

On the other hand, if someone would accuse me, if some line of reason or evidence would point strongly enough at me to persuade Mador to drop his accusation against the Queen and charge me instead, then I could fight my own combat cheerfully, win or die. There were still enough folk who remembered Arthur’s bastard Lohot, Dame Lyzianour’s son, and blamed me for treachery in his death, even though, in the lack of any other witness to the deed, no one quite dared accuse me in open court, especially with the King himself inclined to accept my word. It should not take overmuch to convince some gossipers that this new treachery also was my work. They might be whispering it already.

The chief trouble with the scheme was that, although my taking the blame for Patrise’s death would save the Queen this time, it would leave the real traitor at large. Unless Patrise had been the intended victim, and the danger to the Queen only incidental, there would still be someone sneaking around court waiting for a new chance to strike against Gawain, or Her Grace, or maybe all of us in general. At best, it would leave unpunished a piece of scum who was willing to see Dame Guenevere burned for his own treachery.

We had at least fifty-five days, time enough to reach Dame Nimue’s Lake and bring her back with three fortnights to spare, possibly even time enough to find Lancelot, if we had exceptionally good luck and he was easier to find than usual. I decided to keep my confession as a last measure, with the result that the secret, noble gesture died stillborn.

Nat Torntunic brought me the rats and mice entrapped during the night—not as many as I had hoped, but they proved to be more than enough. I thought of turning the task of testing my bags of fruit over to Mordred, who would have enjoyed it; but he would probably have used cats and hounds instead of rats and mice, and I was not sure I could have trusted whatever results he told me. It occurred to me, rather late, that I should have marked exactly where each piece of fruit had come from; but, as it turned out, it would have made no difference. Not one of the mangy beasts burst its entrails and died from nibbling an apple or pear. The fruit in storage was safe. There had been no viper, no venomed earth. The stuff had been poisoned after being dug up.

I could account for it from the time old Rozennik and her scullery-lads dug it up to the time Coupnez collected it, already arranged in its bowl, in the Queen’s antechamber. Gouvernail, Clarance, and others confirmed that there had been servants in the small banquet chamber from the time Coupnez brought in the fruit to the time the Queen and her guests arrived. Therefore, it must have been poisoned between the time Coupnez left the Queen’s apartment and the time he arrived in the banquet chamber. The little wretch had either taken it to someone—likely for the bribe of some silly trifle—or put it down somewhere while he played or dawdled. At this point, I was angry enough to have racked the truth out of him, Earl’s son or not, child or not, Arthur’s and the court’s outrage or not—but probably it would have done no good, since the greater chance was that Coupnez had set the bowl down and the fruit had been poisoned while he was not watching. It would hardly have been of much use to question Coupnez straitly if all he could confess was leaving his bowl of apples and pears unwatched for a few moments in a place where we should have had nothing to fear.

I could envision someone creeping up behind Coupnez’s back with a long, thin, envenomed pin, or even a bag of ready-poisoned fruit to substitute for the good… but I could not envision the traitor’s face.

During the burial I tried to watch all my fellow mourners, and thought I saw a few of them watching me, but with no better results than on the former occasions. Suspicious glances darted around like gnats at the meal afterwards, too, but if anyone else had any insights or revelations, he failed to share them with me.

A seat at the Round Table can be empty in a number of different ways: because the man who used to sit there is known dead of battle wounds or sickness and his place has not yet been refilled; because he is presumed dead but nothing can be done about filling his seat until the fact of his death is documented; because he is away on some quest or errand but was alive at last report; because he has chosen to stay away from court at his own castle or on his own adventures, like that noble bladder of half-cooked valor, Prince Tristram of Lyonesse, or like Pelleas the occasional brilliant dabbler in knightly combat; because he is in infirmary or his own bedchamber with a wound sustained in the latest jousting or simply with an ague. The Siege Perilous is empty because Heaven allows no one else except Galahad to sit there, and Galahad only used it a few days before going off to his Grail and holy death. That Siege Perilous has been useless lumber for most of its existence, a permanent gap with a golden chain stretched from arm to arm across its seat to prevent accidents. We used to debate whether the chair was deadly in itself or because of its position at the Table—if it were removed, and another chair put in its place, would fire still fall on whoever sat in the new chair at Lancelot’s right hand, or would it fall on anyone who sat in the old Siege Perilous wherever that was placed, or would it fall on both chairs, or on neither? But although it is fine and noble to risk a few hundred men’s lives at a tournament, it has never been judged worth the risk of one man’s life to find out whether, by substituting another chair for the Siege Perilous, we could fill the gap and gain another Companion of the Round Table. (An animal would be worthless for the test. We used to have an old brindled cat in Carlisle that loved to jump up under the chain and nap on the Siege Perilous during our conferences. No one dared put his hand near the chair to touch her, but the dumb beasts are apparently absolved of evil intent in the sight of Heaven.)

Every knight’s name appears on his chair in magical golden letters, but only if he is within a mile or two of the Table and acting as a Companion. If, for instance, he is alive and in the immediate area but has chosen to take another shield and fight against Arthur’s side in tournament, on the grounds that it will enhance his personal fame to fight with the weaker party, then his name will not appear on his chair at the Table. Another example of old Merlin’s craft, more showy than practical. If a man’s name disappeared at his death, wherever he was at the time, we would not have to wait months or years before electing someone else to his place. Lancelot’s name had faded now from the back of his chair, which might mean he was dead, or merely riding around incognito within three or four miles of London.

It had happened before that a seat was empty because of murder and treachery, but the treachery did not often come about by poison. Mador, curse him, was already planning the epitaph for his cousin’s tomb, in which he would name Her Grace as a destroyer of good knights.

Gawain’s gathering was to take place two hours after dinner. There was one other person I wanted to see before that: Dame Lynette.

* * * *

The court has more dames who pretend to sorcery than who can actually practice it. Most of those with any real skill choose to spend the greater part of their time elsewhere. Dame Lynette is the exception. She probably has more knowledge of necromancy than she lays claim to, but, like Dame Nimue, she practices what she has for purpose rather than display.

I had enjoyed Dame Lynette’s company since she first came to court to find a champion for her sister and, on being presented with a kitchen-boy (who knew then that Beaumains was anything else?) very sensibly gave Beaumains, the King, and everybody within earshot a good tongue-lashing. She reminded me of my old nurse.

She was alone in her chamber. Probably she had been at her prayers. “My lord Sir Gaheris has already gone to join his brother,” she told me. Since they kept separate chambers, the remark implied that he had been visiting her this afternoon, and that she chose to assume I had heard of it and come to find him.

“I have no use for Gaheris right now.”

“Have you any use for Lancelot now? Or did you not know they are planning a new search for him?”

“They won’t all make their vows and fly away from London before I join them. I’d like to know if there’s any use in starting out.”

Lynette whistled one of her brachets to her, took it into her lap, and began slowly stroking its hair. “If I could tell you there was no use in seeking Sir Lancelot, do you not think I would have told my husband?”

“No,” I said. “I think you’d rather see him away from court knocking his brains loose on a wild-goose chase.”

She smiled. “I will not say you are right. A wife should speak no ill of her lord, even though he deserve it. But I do not advise you to linger with me. Tongues clack, and Sir Gaheris can be jealous even of what he does not prize.”

“My tongue can clack as loudly as anyone else’s. But call in your pages or your gentlewomen.”

“Do you think my lord Gaheris would believe anyone who is devoted to me?” She shook her head. “If you insist on staying long enough for gossip to link us, I would rather it be a private chat.”

With more than half of our court dames, that would have been an invitation to bed. With Lynette, it was an invitation to a game of wits. Her nails were long and sharp, her fingers heavy with studded rings that she deftly kept from tangling in the dog’s coat, and the small meat-knife at her belt was not strapped into its sheath between meals. Some tongues had even clacked to the effect that her marital troubles with Gaheris were more her fault than his.

“Gaheris aside,” I said, “is there any chance of finding Lancelot in time to save the Queen?”

“Now Heaven be praised, I have lived long enough to see a wonder. Kay wishes to find Lancelot! Why not champion her yourself, now you have the chance at last?”

“Maybe I will. Let the mightier-than-thou take second place for once.”

“Then do not come forward until the last moment, preferably not until the torch is at the faggots. Nothing will bring Lancelot back sooner than news that someone else is to fight for Dame Guenevere.” Lynette smirked as if she had hinted at some profound secret.

“If someone else doesn’t play Meliagrant’s trick and ambush him on the way.”

“Meliagrant’s prison did not keep him from appearing in time to absolve the Queen of the charge of sleeping with you.”

“Meliagrant’s mistake,” I said, “was leaving Lancelot alive in his prison.”

“Have a care, Seneschal. You will involve yourself in the death of Lancelot as well as in that of Patrise.”

“Is he dead, then?”

“My opinion would not make him less alive or less dead.”

“I’m not asking for your opinion, Dame,” I said. “I’m asking for a little of your magic.”

She rolled the dog over in her lap and began to rub his belly. “Magic is an idle toy. I have put it away with the other toys of my childhood.”

“Your old man-at-arms can be grateful you didn’t put it away any earlier.”

She had sent one of her men, years ago, to attack Gareth when he tried to bed her sister a fortnight or two before they were officially wedded. When Gareth cut his attacker into pieces, Lynette gathered up the pieces, put them back together like a broken crock, and mortared them with a magic salve of hers which restored the man to life.

“What a fool I was in those days,” she said, “to think I could keep other folks’ morals pure with a few scraps of murder and magic. And the jest of it is that it was Gareth, the purest of the brothers, whom I meant to keep clean. I knew more of death than of life in my youth, did I not?”

“At least you knew your own mind. I suppose you had only so much of that salve of yours to waste?”

“I could have made more. It requires many days and much privacy, but where men devise means of killing, women can perhaps find worse ways to waste their time than in devising means of restoring life.”

“Especially if they’ve been the ones to send men into the fight. Why don’t you make more of the stuff, Damosel Savage?”

“If I did,” said Dame Lynette, “I might someday have to use it on my lord Gaheris.” After giving me a long look, she returned her attention to her brachet, this time fondling his ears. “Did you come to beg my magic salve against the… accidents… you are likely to meet with? Or did you come to learn where to find Lancelot?”

“I’m not going to meet any accidents, and if I strike a man down, it won’t be so that I can help him up again.”

“So you think you will find a man you can strike down? Will he be knight or churl?”

“Is that a prophecy?” I said.

She shook her head. “It is mere mortal prediction. I doubt that anyone can gaze into the future. Mage Merlin pretended to, but his prophecies can be interpreted however you will. Nor can I see into the past, except with my own memory. Perhaps Dame Nimue can pick other folks’ memories, but I cannot. I can sometimes see what is happening elsewhere at the moment it happens, but most of it is tedious and the rest might be better not to know.”

“So, by your reasoning, if Lancelot is dead, it would be better not to know it, so we can squander our time looking for him?” I got up and started for the door. “Forgive me for asking you to interrupt the exciting routine of your monotony with a few moments of tedious magic, Dame.”

“Seneschal.” She spoke quietly and sarcastically, like my old nurse. I turned back. She went on, “My magic is not as strong as you may think. If I were to look for Lancelot in a candle flame or bowl of still water, as you seem to be asking of me, it would take me many years and much luck to find him, and the image would be wavering at best. Even if I could tell you where he was to be found, he might no longer be there when you arrived. But I will make you a human prediction. Do not waste your time searching for the hero. Lancelot will come in time to fight Sir Mador.”

“Something you know?” I said. “Or something you feel?”

“Lancelot could not bear to let anyone else fight for the Queen, not even his own favorite cousin. And Sir Bors de Ganis has agreed to serve as her champion.”