- - - An Arthurian Britain story by Brenda Cooper.
Flames licked at the edges of her silk wrapping, caught, and burst up the fabric in a twist of wind. Even then, I overheard Mother whispering that surely he would come. Mother and her friends believed that if Gwennivere died, all love would fall from the surface of the world and we would land in darkness. Yet as I watched what I could see of events between the shoulders of the jostling crowd, I knew that hope was not enough to save her.
Her human shape was already lost to fire when he came around the corner, riding alone on his great black battle mare. Even though I had not seen him before, it had to be Sir Lancelot. I caught the moment his face fell into itself. I saw the slump of his armored shoulders before he squared them to pull back hard on the reins, sawing them cruelly over the horse's neck to force her into a sliding stop. Luck had put us so near Lancelot we could see sparks on the cobblestones as the horses hooves slid, then scrambled again for purchase as Lancelot leaned forward and dug his long spiked spurs into the horse's sides. I heard an equine scream of protest above the indrawn breath of the silenced crowd. My mother's hand clenched my arm so tightly it hurt.
Lancelot drove the horse as near the flames as it would go, her great head tossing between the mixed desires of running and pleasing her master. He raised his long sword towards the sky, threw it at the charred body tied to the stake, and watched it fall below the smoking bones of Gwennivere's feet. Even at twelve, I knew he meant it for surcease, and that this offering too was belated. It rested beneath her, partly covered with blood red coals. Finally, Lancelot allowed the horse to run and was gone.
It took my mother and me a half-day to walk home. She was silent the entire time, muttering in my wake as I led us home. A few times she leaned on me for support as if I could undo the damage of Britain's fiery political winds.
Light did not fall away from the surface of the world as much as a stunned sadness fell on all of us. It was as if we had awakened from a dream of feasting and plenty to find a beggar's wrappings. Arthur burned Gwennivere in the first days of spring. Then he went inside Camelot and stayed, refusing to come and bless the crops. Even with a mild summer, crops were planted late, harvested late, and grew thin from lack of attention.
Darkness and anger rested in our own house as well. My father was a traveling merchant and had failed to return the previous fall. Our resources ran thin and with them our meals and the tenderness of our home, gone from gentle to silent and sad. Mother alternated between blaming the King for burning Gwennivere and blaming Lancelot for failing to save her. Once I caught her praying to Gwennivere as she had once prayed to the old gods. Mother took sick and bitter with the hard winter that followed, and went to live with her sister, leaving me to fend for myself.
I chose to go where all young men still lodged dreams, to Camelot.
I was lucky to find a job cleaning horse stalls in the King's stables. The work left me stiff and exhausted; warmed only by the soft breath of the horses as I patted them on my way to sleep in the loft each night. Two years after Gwennivere's burning, the air remained sodden, changing only from mist to rain to black cloudiness, and back again. The horses were restless every night. I knew from the stable chatter that the yard had once been a fine and warm place, with evening songs and games of chance. Now we almost all worked and slept alone.
Yet even the King's stable had work that did not wait for the resolving of outside events. After a season, I was allowed to help groom the horses. The work was as hard, but the horses were better and more willing company than the dour, sullen stable boys. The horses shifted their bulk against my brushes looking to be scratched just there, and bent their heads back to snuffle my shoulder as I curried the swirled hair where leg meets stomach. When no one was looking, I crawled on top of the more docile beasts and lay belly against back, my pale hair blending with the horses great dark manes, arms around the muscled necks. I moved on the horses the way I imagined a rider moved.
A stranger found me that way one day. He laid back his head, and laughed softly. He came up behind the horse and slapped its rump just so. The horse's head snapped up, and I wobbled and nearly fell. I managed to hold my tongue and do no more than glare at the man, since I could see he must be noble. His dress was fine, if simple, and all black. His long beard and hair were neatly combed with curls at the ends. I fought off the embarrassment of being caught in my imaginings by sliding down the horse's great side and picking up my brushes again.
"Daydreaming, boy?"
I stared at the horse's belly. "I love the feel of the horse under me. I imagine some day I might ride out there - in the fields." It was bold of me to talk so, but he did not have any authority that I knew of in the stables. My hand kept moving up and down with the brush while I waited to see what he would do.
"How about today?"
That I did not believe. The Stable Master would never allow it. Still, I murmured, "If it please you, Sir" and moved forward to start picking straw from the horse's forelock.
The stranger left then, not answering, and strode on down the walkway between the stall doors, patting a horse here or there. Some he greeted by name, but I knew I had not seen him here before.
Some time later, I was teasing mud from the coat of a large silver gelding with a dark mane and tail. He was high strung and had bit me before. I was careful to keep an eye on his mouth as I started to work on his withers. So when the man spoke I jumped.
"Ready?" he said, holding an old bridle in one hand and a saddle in the other. There was a strange grin on his face, one that matched my cautious joy at seeing him there with a bridle. "I fixed it with your Master, boy."
He saddled the bay he had found me on, and left me holding the horse's reins awkwardly while he pulled a large black warhorse, Triumph, from the end stall. I'd never seen anyone but the Stable Master with that horse, and we all knew the horse had a reputation for being fractious. But he settled to the man's touch, and I swallowed my fear.
We walked the horses out to the muddy practice yard, and he cupped his hands so I could step up onto the bay, and he led me around twice. The rocking motion as the horse walked under me was wonderful. At first I had to look straight at his ears to avoid feeling like I was too high for even this slow speed. Then the man pulled off the lead leather and went and sat on top of Triumph and silently watched me. The bay stopped dead in its tracks and swished its tail contentedly. "You might try kicking him softly," the man said.
As I pulled my heels into the horse's side, he put his head down and scratched his face on his leg just below the knee.
"Mean it more than that. Be in charge."
I kicked harder.
"Again."
This time the bay started walking lazily, and the man trotted Triumph up next to me. He was careful to teach me how to direct the horse, how to hold my weight and add pressure with the knee opposite the way I wanted to go. He did not talk down to me, nor give orders. He spoke only of horses. There was sadness about him, as if he had gone quiet inside. He spent few words except in teaching me to ride, which he did as if it were critical to something. I recall one moment when the sun came fleetingly out and shone on us only. I felt like we were bathed in a circle of warmth and light.
He came again the next two days, encouraging me to be brave and ride even bigger horses. I learned quickly, only meeting the ground hard a few times. Each day, after about an hour, he headed his mount back into the stable, handed its reins to the closest stable boy, and disappeared. I did not have any close friends in the stables even then, and so I chose the horses to talk to about this change in my life. I think I was afraid that if I spoke about these afternoons they would evaporate like mist in the sun and turn to dreams.
From then on I was allowed to exercise the more docile horses, and the Stable Master treated me unusually well. I was even given an empty stall to make into my own place. Each morning I brushed and talked to the horses in my row, and each afternoon I rode them all, coming back tired but always in time to clean tack and hooves and visit with each horse again. Nights I spent on straw bedding in the stall listening to the rustles and snorting breath of the horses.
The noble man did not come back for a month, even though I watched for him. Then, finally, he simply showed up in the practice field at my side, smiling as I sat straight on the horse like he had taught me.
"You're doing well."
"Th..th.thank you."
"Well, I should know what they call you."
I laughed. "Usually just Boy. But my mother called me George."
"Then I shall call you that, too."
"But.but what do I call you?"
A soft smiled played on his face, bringing light to it. "You do not know me?"
I shook my head, and said "You are the man who taught me to ride."
"Then you may call me Wart."
"It seems a strange name for a nobleman."
"It was a strange name for a boy as well." With that, he kicked his horse into a long lope, and gestured for me to follow.
We rode every day the dank winter weather allowed, talking of horses and woods. He knew so much woods lore that I pestered him constantly with questions. These he answered at great length, and with fine details like which plants liked to grow together and which thickets rabbits prefer and why. My confidence increased as I grasped new words and skills. I looked forward to seeing him each day. Sometimes we flushed deer with our horses and cantered after them until they found shelter in the trees again.
One morning, he pointed out the first crocus of that year; a scraggly purple flower with rough edges from the hard frost. He did not seem glad to see it and rode back in silence. The next day he did not come to ride, or the next, or for a long time. I wanted an explanation, but after all he was noble and did not owe me even what he had given. For the rest of that spring I rode alone, constantly seeking ridges and open spaces where I might see him if he was nearby.
During that time border skirmishes were fought and some went awry - the Saxon were raiding from two directions and burning farms. The King was back to fighting, but almost all of the battle news was bad. I even heard that Ban was calling for Arthur to step down. And through the land, people whispered that Lancelot was amassing an army to pull Arthur down with. I imagined my Mother lit with hope at this rumor.
Gossip often swirled around us in the stable, but daily life stayed close to the same: feeding and cleaning and exercising the horses that remained in the stables. The great war horse that Wart favored was gone, and I thought perhaps he had gone to war with the King.
Wart did not come back to ride with me all that summer. But someone else came to ride, and my head turned from the mystery of Wart to the mystery of women. The girl was tall and willowy, with red hair that fell straight down her back and eyes that were sometimes blue, sometimes green. She came with her governess daily, and took out a small brown mare named Brook. In this time when our world was still dark with the sadness of broken dreaming, she was like the beam of light that had fallen on Wart and me the first day of our riding.
I managed to be first in line to saddle Brook for her almost every time she came down. I rose early to be sure Brook's light coat gleamed with oil from perfect brushing, that her mane was clear of tangles and cropped to fall perfectly. All that summer I paced her rides from a distance, and contrived to be in the barn when she took the mare out and brought her back. I loved watching her from afar as she rode. Once I became so caught in watching her that I forgot what I was doing, and the fractious young horse I was exercising dumped me into a rocky stream.
By midsummer, she was all of my life, even though we had said no more than ten words to each other. I daydreamed that she looked forward to seeing me as much as I to seeing her, and sometimes she would smile sweetly at me as she took Brook's reins. I learned her name, Glynnis, and spoke it to myself constantly. I slept badly, dreaming of her and waking soaked in sweat and sometimes other body fluids. For the first time in years the stable was a small world, and I longed for Wart to talk to.
Frost began to lend the grass white halos in the mornings. Wart came back, a new scar on his shoulder and stiffness in his gait. He seemed glad to see me, and smiled as I chattered on about each horses individual traits. When I asked if he had been off fighting with the King, he only said "yes" and would not talk of it any more, no matter what questions I posed. Instead he pointed out the small signs of fall, and challenged me to look with him for leaves turned the brightest reds. If possible, he seemed even more reticent about his life than he had as we came into spring. But he was not entirely inside himself, for by the third day he noticed the way I looked at Glynnis.
"She is beautiful," he commented.
"The stars shine in her."
"Do you know who she is?"
"No - but I know that she is the only love of my life." I tried to make my tone light and teasing, but I think he heard the depth of my feelings, for he grew serious.
"She is the daughter of Ban of Benwick. Likely to be married within a year to someone who will make a good alliance for Ban." Then he reached forward and patted his horse's mane. "The King himself could not make her available to you, George. But women are best left alone. They betray you. Horses do not."
I did not care if she would betray me, and said so. "Even one kiss would be worth it. I would gladly pay a high price," I laughed, happy to be alive and in love.
He looked at the ground. "You have no idea what a kiss can cost."
After that he turned back quickly, and it was three days before he rode with me again. But I, I hardly noticed. Glynnis once put her hand over mine briefly while I settled the saddle onto the little mare for her. My hand throbbed with her touch for a whole day.
The third day, she whispered, "You are the one who rides with the King."
I blinked at her, then stammered, "No.no. No. I have never met the King."
Glynnis simply looked at me. "I am no liar," she said, and her laughter sounded like water in my ears, confusing me.
I told Wart about this an hour later when he came to ride with me, and he surprised me as much as he had that first day in the stall. "She's right, you know."
My mouth opened large and I almost fell off my horse in front of him yet again. "Your Grace."
"I did not mean to deceive you. The man who taught me to ride called me Wart, truly. I needed to know someone who would not treat me as a King." He looked up at the sky, watching a falcon wheeling in its search for prey. "I have tried to do you only good my friend. George. But if people like Glynnis are noticing, it is time for you to know it from me."
"But...but.but --"
"You have been a friend when I needed one. And watching your love for Glynnis has reminded me of the innocence of some things."
I was confused, remembering that he burned Gwennivere, hearing again my Mother's hatred for him, and how she had told me he was selfish and cruel. I looked straight ahead, and kicked my horse forward a bit; perhaps an unwise thing in the presence of a man I now knew was the King. I should be riding a pace behind him.
"I am sorry," he said.
Now King Arthur was apologizing to me. I had no idea what to say.
"I did not mean to deceive you," he repeated.
"You have helped me greatly, Sir." I could hear the formality in my voice and knew it was not what he wanted. I rethought his words. "I can't help but love Glynnis. But it's only a dream."
"You said you would kiss her if you could."
"Yes, I would. And probably be damned for it." I kicked myself inside, remembering the things he was damned for, the way the land was damned with him, and that he had damned it. Recalled my Mother's ill and angry face. My stomach twisted on itself and I felt dizzy.
"Love, George, can cause great pain."
I turned on him then; I couldn't help it. "Wart, no Your Grace, why did you burn her? " "I had to."
"We will all die."
"Maybe." He was matter of fact about it.
"You can change it."
"Maybe."
"You can," I insisted.
He looked down at the ground and I went on in a rush, unwilling to think about it, about the great disrespect it was to talk to him so. "You can. Bless us again - bless the land. Win the Saxon wars. Find Lancelot and bring him home. You did it all before - gathering up the knights and making this the strongest land."
"All done when I had love, and before I destroyed myself."
"And wasn't burning her enough? You've paid for love's loss. So have we. My mother lost her health and her hope. I lost my home and came here. We did not betray you. Don't you see how dark and unpleasant Camelot is now? Don't you feel the weather and the sadness in the land?" The words and questions tumbled out like wind, some of them exactly my Mother's words. Who was I to tell King Arthur anything? He had never said an unkind thing to me, never actually lied, only hid a part of who he was. I spurred the horse under me and rode away lest I say anything else. He had betrayed me. He had betrayed the land. Without him, I would never do what I loved best: ride his great horses every day. For this was, after all, his stable.
I was glad that he did not follow me. All that night I tossed uneasily, finally getting up and talking with the horses. We did not reach any resolution, the horses or I.
The next morning I found a set of squire's clothes laid across the door of the stall I slept in. I did not want to see them. I methodically brushed out two of my favorite horses, taking deep scraggly breaths and imagining I had freedom to choose. For of course, I could not refuse. As I finally pulled on the fine new clothes, it crossed my mind that I would not come back in the same way. I would not hand Brook's reins to Glynnis again, or be able to simply ride and watch Glynnis ride. And then I understood why he did not tell me his true name at first.
Anger and sadness argued in me as I stepped out blinking in the morning sunshine and went off to look for Arthur, the King.