Chapter 26
Twenty-Six
Bagotta and Galehaut sailed for two days on mostly calm seas. The archipelago was busy with merchant ships and fishing boats—polished vessels crisscrossing the Irish Sea. When the bay of Giant’s Island came into view, Galehaut jumped to his feet.
“You’re more excited to return home than I expected.” Bagotta chuckled.
A flush crawled up his neck. She had mistaken his anxiety for eagerness.
“Of course you are excited,” she continued, as she steered the ship. “You have not seen Cymidei in over two months.”
“Yes,” he said, finding his composure. Let her think that for a little longer. “It has been some time.”
“Time now to plan a wedding.”
He looked to his mother, her taut arms pulling the lines and ropes, wind whipping her tight blonde locks.
One time, after a tournament, a doting fan approached her.
The fan had short hair like a boy’s and she wore a man’s tunic, but her body was that of a woman.
Galehaut watched as this woman trailed her fingers down Bagotta’s arms, trying to convince her to join her in a nearby tavern.
Bagotta, delighting in the attention, agreed.
Galehaut ate oysters as the woman fawned.
Galehaut’s father had left them two years before, and Bagotta could have fielded any number of new suitors, both on Giant’s Island or across the archipelago.
Instead she had devoted herself to knightly pursuits, burnishing her reputation in tournament after tournament.
In this way, and others, his father’s leaving had been a gift.
Bagotta refashioned her anguish into knightly excellence.
But Galehaut wondered if his mother would ever remarry.
He had finished his oysters and cider. He was growing bored watching this woman dote on his mother.
Bagotta did not touch the woman back, but she did share two cups of ale with her.
When the woman suggested they go upstairs to her room, Bagotta politely declined.
Galehaut followed her out of the tavern, shielding his eyes from the sun.
“There are people like that,” Bagotta had said. “We must always be kind to them.”
People like that, Galehaut thought now. People not like us. People not like him. She was not intolerant or lacking in perception. But when it came to him, there was simply no room in her mind for anything else.
He had an easy boyhood on Giant’s Island. In the morning he completed his chores and studies. In the afternoon, along with his sister, Delice, he had the full run of land and sea. They could get in trouble, as long as they got themselves out of it.
“Give me a kiss,” Bagotta would say, before they left for the day. “And harden your feet.”
Galehaut joined Delice in her games. She rounded up their cousins for contests and adventures.
There were imaginary allies who required rescue, incantations that needed memorizing, a water nymph who offered an unbreakable shield to the cousin who could jump the farthest. Elders were sometimes recruited to taste potions, judge riding posture, anoint winners of throwing contests.
One time, Delice led Galehaut into a cave in the highlands.
He dropped their torch in a pool and they had to find their way out in perfect darkness.
Delice was bold in a way Galehaut was not. When their father left, she was the one who forced Bagotta from her bed and encouraged her to return to riding. She nicknamed Brunor’s new wife Maldisant. Evil-Speaking. A wicked joke.
The other children took to Delice, but most of them found Galehaut pretentious.
Only when Delice was around did Galehaut get included, and even then, they called him the Haut Prince, his sister’s lapdog.
Rather than adjust to the rhythms of his cohort, he dismissed them, isolating himself in the castle, or clinging to Bagotta at her tournaments.
As he grew into his new body, he realized it was easier to absorb the cues of manhood.
He found that he could adopt a certain way of being that would earn him, if not approval, then at least acceptance.
Over time this way of being became so total that he no longer remembered anything else.
Delice was waiting for them on the beach.
She wore a work dress and kirtle, simple clothes she did not mind getting dirty.
Delice always had a surplus of energy, and she liked to channel it into physical things.
Primarily, she kept a garden behind the castle, and she worked its plants and herbs into ointments.
Galehaut docked the boat and raced over.
“Gale!” As she flung her arms around him, he fought back tears.
“Is something wrong?” She stood back to regard him. She was as tall as Galehaut, but lacked their mother’s muscle. Her hair was the same rare shade of auburn as his. “Are you not happy to be home?”
“I am.”
“Ahh, so this is just how a knight behaves. Terse and grave. Give me another hug, Gale. Cymidei saw your boat sails and ran to get ready.”
“Delice.” He grabbed her shoulders.
“Yes?”
He stood there for a moment, paralyzed by the thought of telling her everything.
“It is so good to see you,” he finally said.
A feast was held to mark their return. Neighbors gathered breads and desserts.
Delice prepared boiled cabbage and game.
As they ate, Galehaut regaled his family with stories of his training.
He raised his cup and kept his face in a fixed smile.
With each exchange he felt a dark chasm widening within him.
His uncles took up their instruments and the great hall filled with dancing.
The Castle of Tears was situated at the foot of the island’s highlands and consisted of many buildings.
The footprint of the castle was ancient.
Its logs had been laid and replaced many times.
Everyone on Giant’s Island lived within the castle’s walls and tended to gather at Bagotta’s tower, though its high-perched hall was no larger than a typical tavern.
Cymidei took Galehaut’s hand under the table. He flinched.
“Something troubles you,” she said, low enough so others could not hear. “You are back with us. But you are also somewhere else.”
“It is nothing. I am just tired.”
“No,” she said. “It is more than that. I can tell.”
She leaned into his ear. “We are already betrothed, Galehaut. If you are worried about our future…”
“No,” he said, with more bite than he intended. “What I mean is… oh, this song. Won’t you dance?”
He took her in his arms and they spun around the floor. Cymidei looked radiant in a purple dress laced to accentuate her curves. He tried to pretend to enjoy himself, but there was little he could do to mask his distress. Cymidei knew him too well, and so did his sister, Delice.
He looked into Cymidei’s deep brown eyes and felt nothing but shame.
The song ended. Galehaut kissed Cymidei on both cheeks. Then he grabbed his cup of ale and went outside.
He stormed past the stables and the blacksmith’s, past the other giants’ keeps, the temples and devotional spaces.
The inhabitants of Giant’s Island prayed to many gods.
In shrines erected in their homes they also prayed to their ancestors—for rain, sun, robust crops, hearty livestock, for their dogs and cats, for an illness to pass, for long lives and good deaths.
They were in constant dialogue with an endless constellation of interrelated gods, spirits and relatives.
Galehaut envisioned another world, a spirit realm, layered on top of his own.
His ancestors moved about this plane, looking down on him.
Sometimes he imagined they were whispering words of guidance, urging him on.
Other times he was certain that these voices were just his own inner voice making itself known.
He slipped out of the castle and made his way down to the beach. He guzzled the rest of his ale and threw the cup into the sea.
Before Lancelot, he had resigned himself to this life with Cymidei. He had never lain with her, but she had wanted him to do other things, which were not unpleasurable, yet they left him empty, and he feared his emptiness would become hers. He needed to tell her the truth, but he did not know how.
One thing he knew—he would not be like his father. He would not leave suddenly, only to send word months later from the protective distance of a new life. He would find the courage to speak to Cymidei and say goodbye to his family. He owed them that and more.
In the warm evening breeze, he comforted himself with thoughts of Lancelot. Five days from now he would return for him. They would sail off together, and his life could truly begin.
“Gale.”
It was Delice. She was flushed from drink and dancing. She removed her shoes and joined him in the sand.
“Cymidei said you seemed upset.”
“I just needed some air. It is strange to be back.”
Her hair was whipping across her face and she tied it in a loose bun. “You are unsure about her.”
He felt himself cracking in half. He wished he could live two lives at once, one on Giant’s Island, one with Lancelot. He wished he didn’t have to choose.
“I cannot be with Cymidei.”
Delice was silent for a moment. He couldn’t bear to look at her.
“You do not care for her?”
“I care deeply for her. But I do not wish to marry her.”
He scooped up some pebbles and began to toss them at a piece of driftwood.
“Is it something that she can change?”
“No. It has nothing to do with her and everything to do with me.”
“Well, this is quite the predicament.” Delice gathered some stones and joined him in the throwing.
“It very much is.”
“How do we tell her?”
“We? You mean me.”
“Well, yes. You’d be doing the telling. But as your older sister I’d be giving you the proper language.”
His mouth dropped open. He had anticipated confusion and anger, an immediate defense of Cymidei. Not this.
“You are not angry?”
“Angry? Ha.” She tossed one of her pebbles at him. “I like Cymidei enough, but I was never overjoyed at the prospect of her as a sister-in-law.”
“You hid it well.”
“What was I to say?”
“Maybe, Galehaut, you’re about to make a mistake?”
“I wouldn’t have gone that far, but I might’ve dropped some subtle hints.”
“What do I do now? What do you think I should say to her?”
“Well, that depends,” she said. They were both tossing their stones at the same driftwood log, attempting to strike its sun-washed limb. “Is there another woman?”
“No.”
“Your training then. It has changed you.”
“To my core.”
“And in that time away,” she said, trying to find the right words to frame his news, “you came to the conclusion that Cymidei is best kept as a friend.”
She sat in the sand and motioned for him to join. “Tell me. I’m curious. What was Viviana’s charge like? Lancelot?”
The question prickled down his spine.
“What about him?” he asked.
“Is he good-hearted?”
“Very.”
“Is it true what they say? That he’s going to be a great knight?”
“Likely the greatest. I have never seen such a gifted fighter.”
“What of his looks?”
Galehaut gave a nervous laugh. “His looks? Let’s see. Blue eyes. Smooth, sun-tanned skin. Blond waves of hair.”
“Handsome,” she said to herself.
“He can play the fiddle,” Galehaut added.
“How delightful.”
“He is an excellent hunter.”
“A great skill.”
“He nearly killed a merking.”
“He what!”
“It’s a long story.”
“I’d like to hear it. And I’d like to meet this Lancelot. Does he hold you in the same esteem?”
“I am certain he does.”
She looked him sharply in the eye, a glance that articulated the truth he could not speak. “That is good. About your training. It would be worse for Cymidei if you chose another woman over her.”
They let the silence pass between them, broken only by the plunk of stones striking the driftwood.
“Lancelot has orders to go to Camelot,” he said, affecting a casual tone.
“I see. And those orders do not involve you?”
He shook his head no.
“And you couldn’t just ask to go to Camelot on your own? Join Uncle Dinadan?”
“Brunor’s brother? You know Bagotta would never allow it.”
“So this is also a predicament.”
“Not as much,” Galehaut said.
“No?”
“I have come back to see you.”
She gave a long, slow sigh, fully understanding. “You have come back to say goodbye.”
Galehaut looked out to the horizon, the many islands like soft bread loaves crisping in the sunset. The round shapes were interrupted by the triangular cut of a sail. Multiple sails.
“Do you see that?” he asked, pointing to the three large ships.
Delice cupped a hand to her brow. The ships were slicing rapidly into the bay. Galehaut could make out the black crosses on their red sails.
“Is that…”
“Roman legionaries,” she whispered.
She squinted at the prow of the lead ship. “I believe our father has decided to pay us a visit.”