The Guinevere's Tale Trilogy

Chapter 11-2

Pellinor started to object once again.

Lyonesse silenced him with a wave of her hand and went on. “We attend Holy Mass at dawn every morning. I expect you to accompany us and show the proper respect. Perhaps you will even learn the meaning of true faith.”

I desperately wanted to remark that my chances were better of learning it from a sermon than from her actions, but I bit my tongue.

“It is late and you must be tired from your journey,” Lyonesse said, showing compassion for the first time. “You.” She snapped her fingers at Isolde. “Show her to her chambers.”

Isolde threw Lyonesse a look of clear distain as she emerged from the shadows near the wall and took my arm, leading me up the stairs like a lamb to slaughter.

I closed the door behind me and leaned against it, trying to comprehend what had just occurred.

“Is that their idea of a welcome?” I was trying to reconcile the warm memories of my youth with the odd greeting I had just received.

Isolde shrugged. “It’s normal, if that is what you are asking. Pellinor is a just man ruling with patience and compassion, while Lyonesse is ever lording her self-importance over everyone around her. They are rather judgmental of those who do not conform to their standards, though.” Isolde opened one of my trunks and fished around in the contents. “I dare say that an Avalonian priestess is nearly as bad as Irish royalty in their minds. But I would think you would have anticipated as much.”

I shrugged. “No, I did not. I—I cannot remember them acting like this when my family came to visit.” A stab of pain hit my heart at the word “family,” and my brow furrowed involuntarily. “Maybe I was just too young to notice, but I think they have changed.”

Isolde turned from the bed to face me. “That was nothing. When I first arrived, Lyonesse would have had me shackled and handed over like a prisoner.” A sly smile spread across her face. “But she had to receive me like a second daughter, with all the pageantry and circumstance accorded to my rank, and it nearly killed her.” She was grinning.

Curious now, I raised my head to meet her green eyes. “How did the heir to the Irish throne come to live in the kingdom of Dyfed?”

Isolde stopped unfolding my garments and looked off into space, c*****g her head to one side and pursing her lips. “Actually, that is one thing we have in common. It was your father’s idea.”

My confusion must have been plain to read because she smiled.

“Do you not remember? You were there when my fate was sealed, or so they tell me. All of nine years old, you were sitting at your mother’s knee when the council of western lords met with my mother’s ambassador and agreed to trade my freedom for a promise of peace between Ireland, Gwynedd, Dyfed, and Cornwall. My presence here, and the promise of a strong marriage to some unnamed British noble, is all that stops my people from devouring this coast. Your father offered me up then to protect his seaports from plunder just as he offered you up to placate that Powys pig, Evrain.”

I looked down at the floor, seeking the shadow of my feet in the firelight. “So we mean nothing to them, any of them?” I asked in barely a whisper.

Isolde snorted and I started. “Oh, we mean plenty to them. We are the most valuable currency there is to Christian men.” She thought for a moment. “Well, we’d be more valuable as virgins, but you understand my point.”

I met her gaze. “So you’re not. . .”

“No.”

“But what about Lyonesse’s test?”

Isolde laughed, a hearty, throaty sound of genuine joy. “You believed that nonsense? Guinevere, did all those years on that isle rot your brain? Lyonesse is all talk, a liar determined to sell her shell of Christian perfection to everyone, including herself. But Pellinor is her biggest mark. Sometimes I think she fears he would send her away at the slightest hint of imperfection. So she overcompensates. There is no healer, no test. And even if there was, such things are easy enough to fake,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand.

I eyed her suspiciously, wondering how she came to such knowledge.

Isolde put aside the item she had picked up and looked at me purposefully. “Life in this house is one extravagant game. You will learn to play it, and I will teach you how.” She wiggled her eyebrows. “It’s actually kind of fun.”

She sat down on the bed, motioning for me to join her. “But to win the game, you must first understand the other players.” She looked impish. “You were probably too young the last time you were here to understand the details. Let’s start with Pellinor. He claims to be a descendant of Joseph of Arimathea, the man in whose tomb their Christ was buried. According to legend, he was a tin trader, and after the death of Jesus, he escaped along the trade routes to Britain, where he hoped Roman law wouldn’t be able to find him.”

Isolde grew serious, her eyes distant as she recalled the tale she had no doubt heard countless times. “As Pellinor tells it, the prophecy of the Grail was spoken by the apostle John after Christ was laid to rest. In appreciation for Joseph’s generosity, the seventh child of the seventh generation after his would bear a man of unparalleled purity, second only to Christ himself, and that man would bring the world the gift of the chalice of Christ. Some say that the one who bears it will never die, while others claim it will bestow everlasting peace on the land in which it is held.”

“But that is ridiculous,” I said. “It is no relic of their god but one of the treasures of Avalon. It is highly symbolic in our faith, but it has no magical properties, at least not that anyone in Avalon speaks of.”

Isolde glared at me warningly. “Do not let those words, or any like them, escape your lips in this house. If you do, Pellinor will send you back to your father before you have had the chance to blink.” She gripped my shoulders, looking me square in the eye. “You must understand that this prophecy is all that Pellinor has. His sons have disappointed him, so he has no hope for a stronger kingdom until Elaine marries, and given his high standards for her, that is unlikely to be any time soon.”

My eyebrows knitted together in frustration. I was about to ask her to clarify when she interrupted with a question.

“Did you see the painting behind Pellinor’s throne?”

“Yes, I assumed it was of his family—ancestors perhaps.”

She nodded. “You are correct, in a fashion. You see, that is a painting of what the Christians call ‘the holy family.’ The man is Joseph, foster father of Jesus the Christ; the woman is Mary, his mother; and the child is Jesus. But what makes this painting unique is that it also contains two others: Joachim and Anne, the parents of Mary.”

I stared at her, thoroughly confused, despite my basic knowledge of Christianity. I failed to see what that had to do with Pellinor.

Isolde sighed, seeing I was not making the connection. “To Pellinor, this painting represents his past, present, and future. He believes he is related to a man who performed a great service for this savior-child. He is the sixth generation since that fateful event. Elaine is the seventh child of the seventh generation, if you count all of Pellinor’s children, living and dead. Therefore in Pellinor’s mind, his progeny—Elaine—is fated to bear the man who will discover the Grail. That makes poor Elaine sacrosanct, for she will bear the most perfect man to live since Christ. In a way, she is to Pellinor a reflection of the Virgin Mary, which makes him and Lyonesse like Joachim and Anne.”

I nodded. Somehow this was beginning to make sense. “But who then will be Joseph? You cannot mean to say that Pellinor believes Elaine will conceive miraculously? I do not think that their god would allow a wonder of that magnitude twice—if he even did once.”

Isolde laughed. “No. Pellinor’s mind is still partly anchored in reality. He knows she must have a husband for the child of prophecy to be born. That is why he has already begun compiling a list of possible suitors. Lyonesse says they will be brought to Dyfed to interview for her hand as soon as Elaine’s monthly courses begin.”

“And Elaine? What does she think about all of this prophecy? That must be a mighty weight to bear.”

Isolde shrugged. “It is hard to say, really. Pellinor keeps her locked away in her room most of the time. I keep her company when I can, but that is only when Lyonesse is out. She wouldn’t want her daughter associating with one such as me. Honestly, I think Elaine is a little . . . well, eccentric. If you had that pair as parents, you would be as well. All of that time alone has made her prone to mistake her imaginings for real events—although that could partly be my fault too.” She smiled sheepishly, and her cheeks reddened.

“What?” I stammered, taken aback. “What do you mean?”

She ducked her head and stood, pacing to avoid my gaze. “As a good Christian lady, Elaine is not allowed any books other than those the tutor supplies her and the lives of the saints the nuns let her borrow—all rare and valuable resources that must be returned in a timely manner. I noticed when the bards come to entertain, she is enraptured by their tales of romance and adventure, so I started sharing with her the legends of my homeland, the very same stories of tragic love and magical creatures I was told as a child. The difference is that as I grew, I learned what was real and what was not. I don’t think Elaine has the same ability.” She paused, facing me now. Her brow was creased with concern. “I think she believes some of the stories are true. Maybe she has convinced herself she is one or more of the characters, I don’t know. Not long ago, she told me she had seen a vision of her future husband in her mirror.”

I c****d an eyebrow. “But doesn’t that run contrary to her faith, seeing such things?”

Isolde shook her head. “Elaine is well-versed in the extraordinary abilities attributed to some holy men and women. She believes her god has blessed her with a special gift. I believe she needs companionship. It is good you are here. She is not a danger to anyone, but the more you can draw her out of her fantasy world and into her real life, the better off everyone will be.”

“If Lyonesse lets me,” I corrected her, grimacing at this new responsibility.

“Oh, she will; just give her time to warm up to you. All you have to do is be good for a while.” She winked.

“Does no one else notice her behavior? Certainly Lyonesse must be aware.”

“Elaine is adept at keeping to herself anything that might upset her parents,” Isolde explained. “She knows what best suits her strategically. Her parents love her in a way I will never understand, and she returns that love by being to them exactly what they want—the model of virtue. But every so often, her carefully crafted mask slips, mostly in private. Beware of her jealousy and remember you are dealing with a mind more fragile than most,” she warned darkly. “But she has been well lately, so hopefully she will not cause us any grief.”

Isolde grew silent, no doubt ruminating on the slim likelihood of a peaceful winter with us all cooped up under one roof. I seized the opportunity to change the subject.

“Why do you let Lyonesse treat you like a slave?” I asked bluntly, surprised at how easily I spoke my mind around this girl.

“It is her way of teaching me humility,” she answered with a deep sigh, showing no sign of offense. “I’ve grown used to it. I matured faster than Elaine and Lyonesse began to see me as a threat—or rather, as competition for her daughter,” she corrected herself. “That was when she began insisting I walk behind her family and ordering me about.” She exhaled loudly through her nose. “I’m surprised she still lets me dine at table with them. I go along with whatever she wishes—attending Mass every morning, doing tasks she finds distasteful during the day, and praying on my knees every evening with the rest of the family.” She pointed a slender, pale finger at me. “You’d do well to take a lesson from me in that. The same will be expected of you. You may be a future queen, just like me, but in this house, you are little more than a servant.”