24. Wheels turning
A short while after his arrival at Lancelot's stronghold, Jeffrey watched the cavalcade's return from a hunting trip.
Horses screamed, men shouted, dogs barked and the cacophony of sounds and voices was accompanied by the bright colours of the cloaks and robes flapping in the wind. The brightest colour of all was the crimson blood of the prey that dripped from the band wagon's every corner. It sparkled in the bright sunlight.
Death had had a rich harvest today, and tonight, the tables in the castles would bend under the load of fresh meat, fine bread, fruit and loads of wine.
The entertainments the Baron du Lac provided for his present guest lacked nothing in splendour or grandeur; even the masters of the hunt in Camelot could have learned a thing or two.
Briefly Jeffrey remembered the times when he himself had been the guest of honour at such parties. Many a knee had bent, many a head had bowed to him back then, just as the people down in the yard were now scraping and bowing to somebody else.
Nobody would remember it but the old scarecrow, but the two high and mighty aristocrats who now made their way into the palace, had once been among those fussing about the man that now went by the name of Jeffrey the clerk.
As not even the prospect of receiving a most important message could change the noble routine of getting a bath and changing one's clothes, Lancelot du Lac and his guest reached the Baron's private rooms much later than Jeffrey, who awaited them humbly and demurely, Severinus' letter in his hand.
Whilst the Baron du Lac hardly noticed the presence of another human being in front of him, Jeffrey used his chance to secretly scrutinize the noble.
Time had been gentle to Lancelot, albeit fate and life had not. At least that was what Lancelot himself thought. For all his constant whining about his bad luck, the Baron was as handsome as ever, the hair still rich and jet black, the body lean yet strong and upright, eyes clear and sharp like those of a much younger man.
Like Arthur Pendragon, du Lac had grown from a pretty youth into an elegant, splendid man.
The thought made Jeffrey smirk to himself.
Here he was, Lancelot du Lac, the unhappiest noble in all Albion, widowed, shunned by the woman he loved, disregarded by his King, miserably exiled to one of the finest and richest estates in the country – and the poor, bereaved man looked a picture of health and strength.
Oh, but for the wonders good food, a warm house, fine clothes and a bunch of servants can do for an unhappy man.
The same applied to Lancelot's 'guest', who by any right should have been called a fugitive from the law of Albion. Velvet, brocade, silk – you name it, he had it.
Both nobles sported gold, silver, the finest steel available, all proudly presented in the swords and daggers they carried. Like a strutting peacock would show off its feathers.
It was true what people said, Jeffrey contemplated – for a rich man, melancholy is just one of many luxuries. The more so as the poor cannot afford it, eaten up as they are by their struggle for survival.
Once Jeffrey had been a man who threw bread to hungry dogs. Today he knew how to fight a dog over a dirty crust.
Therefore he felt entitled to having strong views on the matter. As an independent expert, so to speak.
However he had no time to dwell on it, as Lancelot now grabbed the letter, turned it in his hand, recognized the episcopal seal, and frowned. He showed it to his guest, who raised his brows. "Do you think…..?"
"And about time, too" the Baron du Lac growled as he rose and paced to the fireplace. "Let's see…" He scrolled through the letter, and his face changed colour. "I do not believe it" he pressed through clenched teeth. "Arthur would not dare … not even he could sink so low!"
His companion stretched out a lazy arm for the letter, and received it. "Dear friend" he said after a minute or two of reading "no reason to be astounded. Sooner or later, the Branguards were bound to make their move. Wolves in sheepskins, dear friend, wolves in sheepskins."
When Lancelot kept silent, nagging his knuckles, the guest smiled maliciously. "So your favourite damsel is once more in distress. Are you willing to do something about it?"
"How can you ask?" Lancelot flared up. "And my son…."
"SHUT UP!" the other shouted instantly. "NEVER let me hear these words again. Prince Galahad is King Arthur's only son, the heir presumptive to both his crowns. Under his banner we will march, to his just and lawful claim we shall give our blood."
"Oh, spare me the parsimonious propaganda" Lancelot snapped. "I'm not one of your mercenaries. I know what this is about …."
"All the more reason for you to keep your mouth shut. If you want to see Galahad on the throne of Camelot, the Branguards must go first. Then Arthur and anyone who's willing to support him."
"For that we need an army. More than one. The Branguards alone can muster two among them, let alone the rest of Albion. Arthur is High King now."
"Calm yourself, brother Lancelot, my dearest son-in-law. We will have all the armies we need, once our friends from Gaul are ready to join us together with their Saxon allies. Hengist's and Horsa's forces alone would …."
"And, pray tell me" interjected Lancelot sarcastically "how long will that take? You've been dangling this particular carrot in front of my nose for years now!"
The other noble shrugged nonchalantly. "A few months. Four, at the very worst. The Black Duke…."
"Whom I believe to be a mystic figure that died with Noah's Ark" Lancelot snorted.
"Rest assured, he's as real and alive as you and I. 12 years he worked and plotted untiringly to form this alliance. But even so he can only do so much. We must prepare the ground for him."
Hate-filled Lancelot stared at the other. "Sometimes I wonder" he snarled "why I keep up with you, Lord Erec. Always the same old fairy tales, the same big, empty promises. If it had not been for me, and my willingness to hide you here, you and this monstrous creature…..." he pointed at Jeffrey who crouched in the room darkest corner "would still be in miserable exile in Gaul."
"I wasn't miserable in Gaul" Erec snapped back. "As you know, I was the Black Duke's honoured guest. It was my friendship, and the loyalty I feel towards my unfortunate ward's widower, that drove me back to see to your affairs. But if you feel better without me, by all means, chuck me out today."
Erec, once one of Camelot's Peers of the Realm, watched Lancelot pacing the luxurious room with big strides, both fists on his hips, his head set between the raised shoulders, fuming, but silent.
"I see that this is not your wish after all" Erec stated after a while. "Perhaps you think I owe you some kind of favour for your leniency, yes, Baron du Lac?"
"Don't you?" Lancelot asked back. "If you're not obliged to me, why are you here?"
Erec crossed his legs. "Indeed, my dear, indeed. Let me pay back my debt to you. I'll see to it that your beloved Lady gives us her leave under hand and seal that we're acting on her and on her son's behalf."
Lancelot stopped in midstride. "If you touch as much as one hair on Guinivere's head…." he started to say.
Erec raised his hands and interrupted him "God's blood, Lancelot, how often did I tell you, I want the same as you. Your Guinivere and your Galahad safe and snug, on their way to the throne. Shall I write it down? So that you can refer to the notes whenever your memory fails you, in spite of me constantly repeating myself."
"But how? You keep babbling of the big plans you made, but nothing ever happens."
"All right, this time it will. Listen, Lancelot this is what we are going to do…."
For many an hour, Erec explained his plan, the schedule, the importance of timing, the importance of not taking the second step before the first one had been a secure success.
Lancelot fidgeted, shunned, doubted and questioned every step of the way.
Some part of him, the part that still remembered other times in his life, kept him where he was. Kept his mind locked in place, like feet glued to the ground, so that the one, decisive step over the threshold was not possible.
What they were discussing now was a point of no return. If these steps were actually taken, they would mean war. War against the High King of Albion. War against Leon, Percival, …. Hundreds, even thousands would die in battles fought in breach of every oath Lancelot du Lac had ever made, of every law he'd once held sacred…..
Except, of course, the one oath he'd once made to himself. To expose Arthur to anyone, as the fraud he was. To see Galahad take the throne of Camelot. To make Guinivere what she should have always been - his wife.
"I agree, Erec" Lancelot said, exhausted as if he'd been fighting all day. "Whatever the cost, whatever the outcome – I'm with you. Say no more, I beg you."
Erec nodded, hiding his triumph as best he could. "You won't regret it, Lancelot. Think of Severinus' letter. The Branguards are planning to murder your beloved, and your son. Never forget that, Lancelot. Never."
With a last pat on the brooding du Lac's shoulder, Erec went out, snipping his fingers at Jeffrey to follow him.
Once safely out of the Baron's earshot, Erec turned towards the old clerk. "I'll write the answer to Severinus myself, tonight, under Lancelot's seal. Better safe than sorry. Arthur tends to have the devil's own luck on his side sometimes. We might still be betrayed."
"The Bishop wouldn't talk" Jeffrey said with a cough. "Although he adores the King with all his heart. He thinks Pendragon is surrounded by treacherous, false friends." For some reason, Jeffrey found that very amusing, he chuckled like mad.
"Severinus is a dumbass who owes everything he is and has to me" Erec snarled. "Ungrateful bastard. Not a word from him before this letter."
"True enough, My Lord, true enough" rasped Jeffrey "although one might say in his favour that he does not know you're here. I take it you never gave him your address in Gaul?"
"Hush your mouth, you insolent imp. Did you expect me to inform the Bishop of Camelot about my connections to the Black Duke?"
"True enough, true enough" repeated Jeffrey with a deep bow from which he had trouble to rise again. "What a treacherous bastard the Bishop is. He is so very loyal to his King that a condemned traitor like yourself cannot trust him. And yet Severinus betrays Arthur to Lancelot, a knight and high noble of Camelot, who has long since betrayed Arthur to you. A fact well known to you and I, My Lord, but not to Severinus. Ours is a bad world, a bad world indeed."
With an enraged yelp, Erec pulled his sword partly from the scabbard. "QUIET, I said! Why I endure you near me is a mystery to me sometimes."
"It is my intelligence" Jeffrey chuckled unimpressed. "Give and take, their secrets for you, your news for them. People believe me, although they hate me, although they loath the sight of me, they never doubt my words. I'm a gift to you, Lord Erec, a heaven-sent."
"Or from the other side" Erec muttered. "And you need me more than I need you. Nobody would take you in but me."
"I know, My Lord, I know. No decent folk would take me in. But you are a noble man. What use have you of decency?"
Erec felt, there was a slight in that. He should not suffer it, should not let it go unpunished, but he let it go. He had bigger fish to fry.
"All right, friend Jeffrey, no need to get upset" he therefore said with forced kindness. "My doubts concern our brother du Lac. For that reason, I want you to stay. Work on him, Jeffrey, keep his worst nightmares alive before his mental eyes. You know what to say, and how. Let him not have a moment's peace, no time to calm down, to remember, to think. Understood?"
"Perfectly, My Lord. But your answer to the Bishop?"
"One of the boys can deliver it. As far as Severinus knows, you originally came from the du Lac estate. He won't smell a rat if you do not return. Now go to Lancelot, go, go. I have a heap of letters to write."
"And some of them to Gaul?"
"That's my affair!"
"And mine, too." Jeffrey raised his chin defiantly. "I miss the Gaulish ghouls!"
"What are you blabbering now?"
Jeffrey cocked his head. "Perhaps, My Lord, I should call them the ghoulish Gauls instead. For they will wreak havoc, worse than the Ghouls themselves, once they're here. A precious garden, our Albion, and preciously little will be left of it."
"It is for the good cause. Now go to your work."
"The good cause, of course. If your cause is good, it does not matter what havoc is caused in its course. I'll mark that down. Farewell, My Lord." The old clerk trotted away, and left a baffled Erec rendered speechless.
Whilst searching for Lancelot, as well as for a way to worm himself into the Baron's mind and soul, Jeffrey berated himself.
Blast this urge he got every once in a while, just as other people got the common cold.
This unseemly urge to warn them all. To tell them what they were about to do.
He had always been like that. His silly, soft heart, it was the curse of his life. He had plotted untiringly to bring them to the point where they stood today, and now he felt the urge to warn them? He had used their greed, their hurt pride, their lust for power – and now he pitied them?
Fate had made him a villain, he had not asked for it. After so many black deeds, why on earth couldn't fate provide him with an equally black heart? But no, fate had sense of humour, it took away everything, except for this damned, misplaced pity with every day human stupidity.
Perhaps there was some perverse logic behind it all. He who cannot feel fear can never really be brave. He who has no conscience cannot be really evil? Was that it?
Was he evil? Was Jeffrey the clerk really evil?
What made good good and evil evil?
Sometimes he missed Merlin terribly; the boy had had such a refreshing black-and-white view on the world.
Camelot and Arthur were good, therefore everything done in their favour was good. The Mercians might think they could fight for Mercia, because to them, Mercia was good. A High Master of the Blessed Isle might think fighting for this Isle was good, because to him, his home was a good thing; paradise even.
But no, as long as they fought against Camelot, they were, per definition, evil.
Oh Merlin, sacred innocence, how much I envy you!
Arthur, on the other hand ….. his mother's sainthood, his father's common sense and instinct. A good heart, a strong will, and a very healthy appetite for ruling - it had been a mistake to leave so much potential to the ramblings and false pretences of a parsimonious Court Physician and an upstart peasant-turned-servant, self-styled warlock-born-of-legends!
A most regrettable error of judgement.
Alas, the mistake had been made and could not be undone. Arthur Pendragon was one more obstacle to overcome and undo, before, as all else was lost to him, the man named Jeffrey could finally have his long-craved revenge.
Speaking of the great plan - where was this damned Lancelot when one needed him?
"You! Stay there!"
"About time" Jeffrey thought when he skidded to a halt. He turned and bowed reverently. "Baron du Lac. A pleasure. My master sends his greetings and would you excuse him at dinner tonight."
"Tell him, I'll gladly dine alone" Lancelot retorted.
"What bitterness, My Lord. Perhaps you still doubt our plans? My master would be overjoyed to hear your sorrows, if only to lay them at rest. If you would confide in me, I'll gladly convey them to him, sparing you both the inconvenience of quarrelling face to face."
Du Lac hesitated. Something inside him revolted against the thought of letting this creature come even closer to him. And yet …. the sycophant was smart. And Erec was a know-all, a smarty-pants who would not let anyone finish a sentence without saying two himself. "Come to my study" Lancelot said on the spur of the moment.
Jeffrey grinned contently when he did just that. Praised be the Great Mother for creating mankind as a bunch of dimwits.
Without further ado, Lancelot slumped into his chair by his desk, and poured himself a glass of wine.
Jeffrey waited.
One heartbeat.
Two.
Then the old man settled himself comfortably in the other chair, took the pitcher and helped himself to a glass.
Lancelot swallowed. Hard. His hand wandered to the hilt of his blade.
Jeffrey smiled patiently. "You wanted to say, My Lord? My master awaits my timely return."
The Baron let go of the hilt, cleared his throat, and directed his gaze at something behind Jeffrey's back. "There is something I want you to convey to your master" he said a trifle hoarsely. "And I want you to weigh your words when you tell him. It is of the utmost importance that Erec does not mistake it for cowardice or superstition on my part, as it may be decisive for the outcome of our enterprise."
"Go on, My Lord."
"We may defeat every army Arthur can deploy, but it is vital that we can lay hands on him, his person, too. To do that, we have to get his sword and scabbard first. As long as he's got them, he's invincible. The weapon is cursed."
Jeffrey raised his brow in wonder. "Forgive me, My Lord, I know there are many rumours about Excalibur, but that seems a bit far-fetched. Every good Christian knows that magic does not exist in our world." He smiled, and for an instant, his embitterment showed. "I know the latter for a certainty."
"That's as maybe" Lancelot replied "Excalibur is the one exception. Arthur's wrists were shattered during Osric's ritual, I know it from his own mouth that without Excalibur's magic powers he could not fight at all. He once told his precious Merlin so, and I overheard it."
"This is intriguing, My Lord, but ancient history. Since then ….."
"Hear me out, damn you. Since then, I've often fought against the High King, before and after Merlin's disappearance, and believe me, I did not hold back. Accidents do happen during tournaments, and it would have saved us all a lot of trouble and bloodshed if he'd died by my blade. But I couldn't reach him, whatever I did."
"Perhaps My Lord Baron is not as good a fighter as he thinks."
Lancelot paled with rage, but still he restrained himself. What did this scurrilous fellow know about sword play? "One night, I had a chance to examine the sword" he pressed out. "I took it from its scabbard, and the sheath alone made my skin ripple. I could raise the blade, all right, but when I tried to wield it, something fended me off, I had to let go, it was like lightning shooting through my body. And I heard voices."
"Voices?" Jeffrey leaned forward, intrigued.
"One or two, whispering to me. Like ghosts. Female ghosts. It was …. spooky. Must have been witchcraft."
"What did those voices say?"
Lancelot shuffled uncomfortably in his chair. "A warning, I presume. I didn't take heed, I heard someone in the corridor when I had no business being in the King's chambers. I had trouble enough putting the blade back, and getting out of there, unseen."
"I say, even for a brave man like you, that must have been an unsettling experience" Jeffrey said, securing his prey out of habit, but absentmindedly. "You're sure you could not understand the whisper? Or recognize the voice?"
Lancelot, only too glad that his ghost story had found a sympathetic ear, completed his narrative in a roundabout way which under normal circumstances would have driven Jeffrey mad with impatience.
But this time, the old man was indulgence itself. Again and again he asked the Baron for every little detail, brought him back to the core of his subject when he strolled from it, secured the facts by coming back to them.
Some hours later, Jeffrey knew all there was to know about Morgause's last present to the King of Camelot.
And with that knowledge, every single thought of pity or remorse was gone.