Guinevere Evermore (40 page)
In the next few days Miniffer tried to get the priest to tell him more about his years with Arthur, especially the great quests and magnificent feats of courage he performed.
“They say he fought off the Saxons for three days, alone, carrying a cross on his shoulders the whole time!”
Antonius shook his head. “That was about the time was born, but I know the story. Only Arthur’s cross was on his shield, not his shoulders. Even he couldn’t swing sword under those conditions.”
Miniffer pouted. “You weren’t there, though. He might have done it.”
“Yes,” Antonius conceded. “I knew Arthur. He might have done it.”
• • •
Winter had settled in hard and fast by the time arrived at Cameliard, Guinevere’s family home. It was an ancient Roman villa, the first Miniffer had ever seen that was not in ruins. Before he could meet the queen, Father Antonius made him sit for almost an hour in the calderium, until the last few months’ dirt had floated away. Then he had to take a metal stick and scrape off another few years accretion. Finally he was allowed into the main room for the evening meal.
At the table, several women were seated. Miniffer tried to pick out Guinevere, but forgot his intention when he saw the face of one near the center. She was past her first youth, perhaps thirty, he thought, but there was something about her that made him think of spring. Her head was covered and the veil drawn tightly across her forehead. He felt the need to push it back and touch her hair.
“Who is she?” he whispered to Antonius. “Not even Helen could have been so lovely.”
“Who else could she be?” the priest answered. “My Lady Guinevere, this is a bard of Powys who wishes to sing for you and speak with you. Miniffer?”
Miniffer took out his harp, noting with fury Antonius’ amused expression. He gave them one of the old Celtic stories of the birds of Rhiannan. The women seemed pleased, but he had no idea, then or after, how he had sounded. He felt nothing but the presence of Guinevere. Looking at her, all the stories became possible again. She
must
agree to talk with him. She would know about magic, about demons and wizards and monsters slain by brave knights for her sake. With her help, he knew he could make Arthur’s court live forever.
After the meal she sent for him.
“Father Antonius has told me that you wish to create an encomium for my husband.” Her voice carried the Latin intonations of a former era. “I will try to help you. Tell me what you already know.”
So Miniffer told her about the battles and the glorious quests; how each knight was brave and each woman virtuous. He spoke of Arthur’s dream of uniting all of Britain under one law, and how he almost achieved it. His face shone as he described how the sorcerer, Merlin, had prophesied Arthur’s coming and his eventual return. He sang of the Grail, and she wept. He whispered what he knew of Modred’s treachery, leaving out the rumor that Guinevere had aided him. When he finished, he was as dry as a pomegranate seed sucked of its juice.
He waited, but the queen said nothing. He swallowed.
“Lady,” he asked. “Is that the way it really was?”
She wiped her eyes and looked at him steadily.
“Yes,” she said. “That’s exactly the way it was. Let no one tell you anything else. Arthur was the greatest king ever to live; the noblest, the wisest, the kindest.”
“And was there magic?”
“Yes. We breathed magic. It was in the very air of Camelot.”
“And dragons . . . someone told me there were no dragons!”
Tears spilled down her face.
“They were wrong. There were always dragons and brave men to challenge them.”
Miniffer grew so excited that he forgot himself and knelt beside her, grasping her hands.
“Thank you, Lady! Thank you! I promise I will make people hear the truth about Arthur.” He added rashly, “I will even write it in a book and leave it where it will be found, even after I have died, so that no man may change it.”
Her smile made him dizzy.
“Then I thank you,” she said. “When you have finished making your tale, will you come back and tell it to me again?”
“Yes, Lady.”
As he backed out of the room, her maid slid off her veil to prepare her hair for the night. His mouth opened in childlike joy. Loops and coils and curls of living gold fell to her feet. It glistened in the candlelight. She turned her head and it rose like a flock of butterflies, floating in the air.
“Oh, yes,” Miniffer breathed. “It’s all true.”
• • •
He spent the winter working on the saga. He left the warmth of Cameliard to test the parts he had finished in the courts and inns. And when spring came again, he knew it was right. But when he came back to sing it for Guinevere, it was too late. She had died quite early one morning, they told him, with the sun full in her eyes.
“We kept a few strands of her hair,” one of the women told him. “If you would like it, you may have one.”
He had a small box of silver, a present from a lord he had sung for. Into this he wound the strand. He muttered thanks and left without saying good-bye.
It was some weeks before he found the monastery he had heard of, where men and women sat day after day, in heal and frost, to copy the holy books. He presented himself as a novice. When they heard that he already knew his letters and some Latin, they put him to work at once.
He was given a life of St. Illtud and materials to copy it. The new brother Miniffer chortled over his lectern. Now he had all he needed; parchment, ink, time. He would put it all down, just the way it really happened, as Guinevere had assured him: brave deeds, great devotion, dragons and wizards. Everything. He picked up his pen and began.
Quandam . . . no, was it Quandum?
Oh, well. He went on. He scratched a few lines more.
Illius . . . no, maybe illiud, or was it . . . ? And what about this . . .
draconis metus civitas delebat et
—et what? And what about the endings? And anyway, that wasn’t what he wanted to say. He wanted to tell how a dragon, a dire tyrant of a dragon, an appalling apparition, had swept from the dark caverns of the earth like a scorching, engulfing tide and paralyzed the countryside with terror until the mighty soldiers of King Arthur had . . .
Miniffer sighed and wished for his jar of ale. He threw down the pen. Latin! A sterile language, good for nothing but laws and morals, for the dusty miracles of forgotten saints. But for Arthur! How could those stiff conjugations ever express the wonder, the enchantment, the rich, shimmering, heart-breaking perfection of Camelot! No. Only one tongue was great enough for this tale; his own. It could only truly live in the musical language of Rhiannan, of Llyr, of the ancient magic woven into the very earth of Britain. Yes, in the British tongue the matter of Britain would blossom and flourish forever.
He started again. This time his pen moved surely and, as he wrote, he saw it all before him, just as he knew it had been. The Golden Age of Britain; the time of glory that was and was to be again. The time of Arthur.
About the Author
Sharan Newman is a medieval historian and author. She took her Master’s degree in Medieval Literature at Michigan State University did doctoral work at the University of California at Santa Barbara in Medieval Studies, specializing in twelfth-century France. She is a member of the Medieval Academy, the Authors Guild and Mystery Writers of America.
Her seventeen published works of fiction include three novels of historical fantasy about Guinevere, and the acclaimed Catherine Le Vendeur historical mysteries. Her novel,
Death Comes as Epiphany
won the Macavity Award for Best First Novel in 1994. She has won several other awards for her historical mysteries. She also wrote “The Real History” series exploring the facts and myths about the
Da Vinci Code
, the Crusades and the End of the World. Her works have been translated into eleven languages.
Her latest books are
Death Before Compline
, a short story collection, and
Defending the City of God
, a biography of Queen Melisende who ruled Jerusalem in the mid 12th Century.
She lives in Ashland, Oregon.
For more information, visit
www.sharannewman.com
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