Chapter 42
The Grail Quest, as it became known—Ninianne’s attempt to remove her son from the dangers of the court—proved successful, at least for a time.
For a while, the kingdom was engaged only in the quest’s outcome, and it seemed she had achieved her aim.
Then, news of the deaths began. Knights falling to misadventure, tales of rivalries boiling over and competition so fierce it ended in blood.
By the time the Grail Quest had lasted three seasons, some had seen the mysterious object, none had achieved it, and over a third of the Round Table Knights were dead.
I sought to hear news, mainly to confirm my son was alive and well.
Elaine, as ever, had the best information, and the rest I heard from the knights who found their way, injured and exhausted, into Belle Garde’s infirmary.
Occasionally, I heard myself asking after Lancelot; where the errant du Lac was, no one knew, but most expected he would achieve the Grail.
I wondered if Morgan le Fay and her Vale of No Return ever crossed his mind.
Too often, I thought of him, sometimes finding myself back in the long bedchamber and taking the tapestries down from the walls to look at his paintings.
On the day he had been gone a year, I stood before a depiction of Lancelot and Arthur alone in a forest: riding, hunting, talking.
They were happy, but Lancelot had painted a darkness at his own edges—his guilt ever-present with the man he loved best. That week, I had gazed at the image for what felt like hours, though I could not have said why.
Perhaps Accolon was right: I was fascinated with Lancelot because he had given me the most important truth of my life, and I missed him because I still did not know what to do with it.
His rare intimacy with Arthur illuminated the lost bond with my brother that I thought I had ceased to notice, but now felt more every day.
When I stood before Lancelot’s paintings, I was seeking the perspective, and the answers, he could no longer give me.
I was rehanging the first tapestry when the huntsman appeared in the doorway.
“My lady, you are needed urgently,” he said. “Three knights of Camelot are here. One is severely injured. The knight in charge insisted he see you—he said you are family.”
My first thought was my son. “Where are they?” I demanded.
“I sent them to the red bedchamber nearest the entrance hall,” he said, “so the blood wouldn’t upset the household.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Go to Lady Alys in the infirmary—tell her I need two pitchers of water, vinegar and a pile of fresh muslin. Leave them outside the chamber door.”
He nodded and headed for the kitchens, while I went in the other direction. It could be anyone, I told myself, but most knights would give their name. Pulse racing, I hurried towards the bedchamber.
A sleek blond youth stood outside, looking at his fingernails. He glanced up at my arrival, casting cool eyes over me with interest. I had never seen him before.
“My lady,” he said smoothly. “A pleasure to meet you.”
He smiled from an aspect that would have been agreeable if not for his slight but unmistakable sneer. His face echoed vaguely, but I did not have time to discern how because another knight appeared, auburn-haired and large as an oak.
“Aunt Morgan, thank the saints,” Sir Gawain said. “Come quickly.”
I followed him into the chamber, where he rushed to a long table. Upon it, a third man lay prostrate and groaning, a puddle of blood expanding beneath him on the floor. Relief shot through me; it wasn’t Yvain.
“I did not expect you, nephew,” I said to Gawain. “Much less with a knight on my furniture as if he is a roasted hog.”
“I am grateful that you answered my plea,” he replied. “We need your help.”
“I don’t,” came a voice from the doorway. “This is a detour I could do without.”
Gawain glared at the younger man, who crossed his arms and refused to look cowed. “I don’t believe you have met Sir Mordred,” my nephew said tersely. “He is—”
The bleeding knight gave a sudden groan, twisting almost off the table. I swung towards the sound, and Gawain’s arm shot out to kept him from falling.
“Someone you’ve never heard of,” Sir Mordred concluded. “That is my curse.”
“For God’s sake, Mordred, this is serious,” Gawain snapped. “Leave us.”
“I would gladly do so,” the other drawled, “if I had anywhere to go.”
I pointed him to the door before the argument could take flight. “There’s a reception chamber just down the hallway—you are welcome to wait there.”
Sir Mordred turned on nimble heels and strode off without a second glance.
Gawain beckoned me to the table, where the patient was writhing, fighting for breath. He had taken several deep slashes to the gut.
“A sword fight, gone wrong,” he explained. “I tried to stem the bleeding but—”
I rolled up my sleeves and gestured him aside, hands already tingling with the impulse to heal. “What’s his name?” I asked.
“Sir Gaheris,” Gawain replied. “My brother.”
The golden goodness in my veins turned into a burn. I took a step back. “I’m not healing him. He murdered my sister.”
Gawain stared at me in horror. “How do you know that?”
“What knowledge do you suppose is beyond me? News travels, you know, outside of what Camelot can control.”
Suddenly, the injured knight jerked up, back arching, beginning to convulse. Gawain swooped over him, one hand to Sir Gaheris’s chest and the other on his forehead. “Hush, cuilean,” he murmured. “Try to be still.”
My eldest nephew looked fiercely back at me. “What happened with my mother is Orkney business—no one’s concern but ours. I do not condone what Gaheris did, but it has been settled between us as brothers.”
His scolding tone pricked my annoyance. “It’s no one’s concern until you gallop into my home, demanding help only I can give. That is, I would have helped, if the victim of his unjust rage wasn’t your own mother.”
Gawain stood upright, gathering the eldest-son authority he was accustomed to. “You are a healer, Aunt Morgan. The first rule of physic you taught me was healers heal, they do not harm. That is why I know you won’t let him die—because we are family, and fixing things is what you do.”
It was a rousing speech, and it struck me in the chest despite myself.
Gawain was a natural leader like his father, but his shrewd eye—his quick ability to assess a situation and convince others to his view—came from his sharp, strategic mother, who no longer walked this earth because her sons knew better.
I pointed to Sir Gaheris, juddering and oblivious, foaming at the corners of his mouth. “Was he thinking of family when he cut off my sister’s head?”
Gawain paled, his towering body swaying. He had been there when it happened, Elaine had told me; he watched his brother commit the worst crime imaginable, and was too late, too slow, to do anything about it. Beheadings haunted him, it was said, dogging his heels everywhere he went.
“Please,” he croaked. “I tried in the forest—my physic skills are strong because of you, but it wasn’t enough.
I cannot make excuses for Gaheris, but help me now.
If there was anything I could do to bring my mother back—if I could give my life for hers—I would, but I cannot.
All I can do is beg for your mercy and skill. Please, save my brother.”
The final word choked him, his eyes full of tears. They were dark blue—like his mother’s—as mine were shared with Yvain. I had not seen my beautiful, razor-edged sister for what felt like a hundred years, but I knew what Morgause would have said.
Save my son, fox cub. You know you will anyway.
I drew my spine straight. “For her,” I told him. “Not for you, or the brutal, twisted rules you play by.”
He nodded, and I turned to the table, miring my hands in Sir Gaheris’s blood. His wounds were deep and bleeding profusely; traumatic to receive, but he would live.
“Put your hands to his belly,” I ordered Gawain. “Hold the skin together so I can concentrate.”
He did so, and I let my healing touch roam, seeking lacerations to the muscle and organs, stemming any bleeding, then fusing the skin back to an unsliced state. It took some thought and a little time, but proved an interesting challenge.
Once done, I stepped back and admired my work. “He can keep the scars,” I said. “A reminder of the mercy that was shown him, when he did not show it to Morgause.”
Gawain sighed and made no argument, so I brought in the jugs and muslin left outside. Taking the warm water, he bathed his brother’s bloodied skin, while I chased the burgeoning fever from Sir Gaheris’s brow.
Once the patient was restful and clean, Gawain picked his brother up and carried him to the bed. “Thank you, Aunt Morgan,” he said. “You have no idea what it means to me.”
“I do,” I replied. “He is your brother. Just as your mother was my sister.”
He regarded me helplessly and I shook my head. “Come and wash your hands.”
I heated the remaining water with a snap of my fingers and poured it steaming into a bowl. We submerged our hands in unison, scrubbing the blood from our skin until the water was muddied pink.
“Your brother should feel fully recovered within a few hours,” I said.
“Good. We must continue on our way as soon as Gaheris wakes. Our quest should not be further delayed.”
“Let me guess,” I said. “You are searching for the Grail.”
Gawain shook his head. “No, the Grail has been achieved. We are riding back to Camelot to report our adventures to the King, as we swore to. In truth, it will be a relief when it is over. Word is, half of Camelot’s knights have fallen, some to their own sworn brothers.”
My stomach turned over. “Does Yvain live?”
“Yes,” he said at once. “I hear my good cousin is unharmed and already returned to Camelot. Of all my brothers-in-arms, I am most grateful for Yvain’s health, and Lancelot’s. We are blessed to return, even if none of us succeeded.”
“Lancelot did not find the Grail?” I exclaimed.