“Of course they did!” I said. “Every year you have one!”
“But that’s the Caer’s bower. The slaves make it because they have to, and naturally I sit there, but it isn’t the same as having your own young man make you a bower out of foxgloves and willow. Was Merlin angry about you and Nimue making love?”
“I should never have confessed that to you,” I said. “If he knew he never said anything. It wouldn’t have mattered to him. He was not jealous.” Not like the rest of us. Not like Arthur, not like me. How much of our earth has been wet by blood because of jealousy! And at the end of life, what does it all matter? We grow old and the young look at us and can never see that once we made a kingdom ring for love.
Igraine adopted her mischievous look. “You say Gorfyddyd called Guinevere a whore. Was she?”
“You should not use that word.”
“All right, was Guinevere what Gorfyddyd said she was, which I’m not allowed to say for fear of offending your innocent ears?”
“No,” I said, ‘she was not.”
“But was she faithful to Arthur?”
“Wait,” I said.
She stuck her tongue out at me. “Did Lancelot become a Mithraist?” she asked.
“Wait and see,” I insisted.
“I hate you!”
“And I am your most worshipping servant, dear Lady,” I said, ‘but I am also tired and this cold weather makes the ink clog. I shall write the rest of the story, I promise you.”
“If Sansum lets you,” Igraine said.
“He will,” I answered. The saint is happier these days, thanks to our remaining novice who is no longer a novice, but consecrated a priest and a monk and already, Sansum insists, a saint like himself. Saint Tudwal, we must now call him, and the two saints share a cell and glorify God together. The only thing I can find wrong with such a blessed partnership is that the holy Saint Tudwal, now twelve years old, is making yet another effort to learn how to read. He cannot speak this Saxon tongue, of course, but even so I fear what he might decipher from these writings. But that fear must wait till Saint Tudwal masters his letters, if he ever does, and for the moment, if God wills it, and to satisfy the impatient curiosity of my most lovely Queen, Igraine, I shall continue this tale of Arthur, my dear lost Lord, my friend, my lord of war.
I noticed nothing the next day. I stood with Galahad as an unwelcome guest of my enemy Gorfyddyd while lorweth made the propitiation to the Gods, and the Druid could have been blowing dandelion seeds for all the note I took of the ceremonies. They killed a bull, they tied three prisoners to the three stakes, strangled them, then took the war’s auguries by stabbing a fourth prisoner in the midriff. They sang the Battle Song of Maponos as they danced about the dead, and then the kings, princes and chieftains dipped their spearheads in the dead men’s blood before licking the blood off the blades and smearing it on their cheeks. Galahad made the sign of the cross while I dreamed of Ceinwyn. She did not attend the ceremonies. No women did. The auguries, Galahad told me, were favourable to Gorfyddyd’s cause, but I did not care. I was blissfully remembering that silver-light touch of Ceinwyn’s finger on my hand.
Our horses, weapons and shields were brought to us and
Gorfyddyd himself walked us to Caer Sws’s gate. Cuneglas, his son, came also; he might well have intended a courtesy by accompanying us, but Gorfyddyd had no such niceties in mind. “Tell your whore-lover,” the King said, his cheeks still smeared with blood, ‘that war can be avoided by one thing only. Tell Arthur that if he presents himself in Lugg Vale for my judgment and verdict I shall consider the stain on my daughter’s honour cleansed.”
“I shall tell him, Lord King,” Galahad answered.
“Is Arthur still beardless?” Gorfyddyd asked, making the question sound like an insult.
“He is, Lord King,” Galahad said.
“Then I can’t plait a prisoner’s leash from his beard,” Gorfyddyd growled, ‘so tell him to cut off his whore’s red hair before he comes and have it woven ready for his own leash.” Gorfyddyd clearly enjoyed demanding that humiliation of his enemies, though Prince Cuneglas’s face betrayed an acute embarrassment for his father’s crudeness. “Tell him that, Galahad of Benoic,” Gorfyddyd continued, ‘and tell him that if he obeys me, then his shaven whore can go free so long as she leaves Britain.”