the first and last chapter of a Arthurian story

He found the Queen of Autumn Twilight late in the fall of the year following Arthur’s death. The search had been for several fortnights since Lance had made the decree to find her. The Knight’s Perilous had departed for Avonlea that spring, but many had given up the search and returned home in despair. Of them, several had reported her death by various means, but Michele had always found fault with aspects of their reports. Finally tiring of their defeated looks and utter despair, he informed Lance, that he himself would go and find her and bring her back.

Du’ Champ had been the one to find the first clue of her whereabouts. He had returned to the monastery in (    ) to her cell there and after a meticulous search of her abandoned possessions had a clue been found. A small piece of parchment containing an old poem was found crumpled in her sheepskin gloves that Kay had given her upon the last good Christmas. In it, Du’ Champ had learned the name of the Convent that he believed the queen had fled to too. His search had ended when he took a wound from a bandit attack upon the London Road on his way to Salisbury Fields. The wound had corrupted and Duchamp had been forced to return to London and find help from the Brothers at Saint Peters. He sent word of his discovery to the Joyous Gaurde and apologies for his failure.

Lance was ecstatic but unfit to travel, so Michele who was already heading out went on alone.  The whole of Britain had fallen into anarchy and war with former knights declaring themselves High King and fighting each other to prove it. Finding passage from Brittany to Dover proved troublesome and as Michele was about to turn south to search out a fisherman in ( ), Bedivere came ashore in a longboat.

For a long time the two men gazed upon the other with suspicion, but the sorrow of Arthur’s death won them over and they embraced. Tears were spilled as Bedivere guffawed and clapped Michele’s back. They parted and Bedivere shook his head and said that the chaos was so bad that he had decided that a pilgrimage to Rome and the Holy Land had become too tempting to resist. His own lands had been seized in Shropshire by Dennil the Arrogant and burned by his neighbor Cuimall the Bold.  Bedivere sighs at this point and comments that both of these men were no more than squires when the king ruled and now they think themselves noble enough to lay claim to lands that neither had won renown for.                                                

“All lost.” Bedivere said, showing his empty hands. “All gone, along with the king and this lust of these children knights- I will go too, nothing and no one to leave anything to.”

Having said this he inquires of where Michele is going, and Michele tells him, knowing Bedivere would not understand. Bedivere scoffs at him doing the traitor’s bidding and informing Michele that she “will not be moved.”

“You are still welcome to try, but like the Grail itself, she will come and go as she wills…” If only Bedivere had known the truth of the Grail he would have seen that Michele could move anything presented upon this earth. But that Knowledge must remain secret for all time, Michele decides as he smiles at his old friend.

“I can see that you will go anyway, so you must take my long boat, since you will need a way to escape her and those heathens who call themselves Britans.”

They said their farewells in the fog and parted ways, each wondering if they would see each other again in this world or the next. Michele stood and watched as Bedivere rode off into the morning light filtering into the moist darkness. The old knight looking lost and tired before he slipped away upon the mare that had brought Michele to this dock.

(and now the first or last. I had written more but couldn't get the story going again.)         

   He stood on the banks of the Seine as it emptied into the sea, hearing her laughter echo in the cries of the gulls flying along its shore. For the moment of it, he was lost in the days of their happiness that had come towards the end of her life. Slowly the laughter faded along with his smile as he became aware of those who stood behind him on the hill above the shore. He began to make out the sorrow in the women’s weeping, many of how leaned on their lords for support and comfort. Some of the men wept as well for him and her daughter, but none would let their sorrow be heard.

            The gulls continued to wheel about the delta of the Seine, their cries now carrying his despair rather than the joy he had thought he had heard earlier. The sun had began to rise an hour earlier and now warmed the bleak land; its light casting his shadow down across the rocks to the shallow beach before him. He imagined her touch on his neck one last time, his wife; the Lady Dumas had died this past morning.

            The morning she had died, the sun had hid itself in apparent shame or sorrow at her passing. The skies were overcast with haze and mist, the promise of rain and sorrow. He had stood in their chamber and looked down at her as she lay on the bed in a white gown. His hands had shaken as he waited for what had to happen next. She had held up her hand for his, he had hastily taken it and sat by her side. She looked into his eyes and smiled once more, and then she had whispered their own language of love as the life slid out of her. He would not cry then and he did not now. He had lost her twice to men and fate. He had cried the first time, in a corridor behind her father’s hall. He had wept for her in his saddle the second time shortly before riding off to the north. She had seen his tears only on his letters.

            He had smoothed her graying hair gently and closed her eyes, his fingertips resting briefly on each eyelid before cupping her chin to close her mouth. He wondered what Merlin would have said, long gone from this age, and smiled as his heart cried out with the loss of her companionship. Sorrow at all that had been lost overtook him and he had crumpled over her limp form. With a start, his mind returned to the present and he thought again of the old man, Merlin. His heart found its beat and he remembered himself and what he had to do.

            He slowly raised his arm and was surprised to find that he held his sword. Its blade shone in the light of the risen sun. The men, most of them knights, walked in unison from behind him bearing a row boat between them towards the sea. Six of them had been Arthur’s Roundtable Knights before the end, two were of the Joyous Guard, and the last was the Lord of San Michele.

The boat itself was significant for it had been the boat they had first crossed the Channel in to come to Brittany. The years had been kind to the boat, though he suspected that it had been patched for this occasion. It was a three man row boat with a narrow stern and tiller. In it lay his lady-wife, as if asleep upon a bed of freshly dried reeds and wood shafts. The gown she wore was emerald satin and cotton with rivulets of silver and gold. At her belt she carried Sir Pellinore’s dagger in its gem encrusted sheath. Her salty black hair surrounded her face in flowing tresses made up into the cascading ringlets arranged over her shoulders. Her royal signet bound to the chain of her former office upon her breast. She was as at that moment as beautiful in death as she had ever been in life. Now neither time nor even death would get its turn to ravage her silent form.  Her skin was as white as new fallen snow revealing her regal lineage. She was as she had always been, a queen.

The men brought the boat to rest in the delta and turned back to look at him. He nodded, noting the new tightness in his neck. His heart clutched as if in fear as they turned back to launch the boat out towards the waiting sea. He took a deep shuddering breath sucking in the crisp watery air. It chilled him as he searched for the word to bid farewell to his only love. He found the word and said it, forcing it from his throat.

“Draw.”

A yeoman stood raising his bow towards the sky, it twining creaking with the pressure of the pull. He could smell the torch that his partner held, the sulphur and ash as the smoke slid past him towards the water. He heard the crackle as the arrow lit, the hush of the crowd as the Yeoman let the arrow fly with a dull twang. The arrow soared over his head a flawing brand streaking its gray trail and hung for a lifetime in the sky before falling into the boat. He thought he could hear the impact of the arrow in the boat, his body shook with the imagined vibration.

At first, the flame seemed to go out and he thought he would have to have the yeoman try again, but the flames leaped up quickly and the fire spread to cover the boat. She disappeared in the conflagration as the flaming boat drifted out to sea. The smoke rose into the sky and the gulls flew around accompany it out. With his sword still raised he spoke out into the silence.

“Farewell to the queen of autumn twilight. We send her soul to Avalon that blessed island of peace. We bid lady of our green land good speed into the next life for we shall not see her like again.”

He heard the unsheathing of steel as the knights before him and behind him raised their own swords in salute to the departing woman, as much a legend as her first husband. He thought his voice had been hollow but it echoed around him before he realized that others are had taken them up as their own. He prayed it would be enough to serve.

“God rest her eternal soul.”

Lancelot du Lac spoke at his side, tears on his weathered face.

“Aos rest her soul.” He echoed.

The boat burned bright on as it rode the waves, then as it caught the tide it began to shine like a star in the retreating night. As it shone, the men lowered their swords and he realized it was time to do the same. He and Lance stood side by side until the boat disappeared over the horizon. Slowly each of the Knights, lord and their ladies came to him to wish him well with condolences. The men clasped arms and the women kissed his cheeks. A multitude of fragrances filled his nostrils like a fresh flower garden. With each embrace the folk swore again their fealty and loyalty to his house and then took their leave of him.

This went on until only Lance, Jeanette and his daughter, Nineveh, remained. Lance continued to stand beside him, his tears shone on his face as he cried freely now. He turned from Lance to look at Jeanette walked up to him.

“Michele?”

He looked down at her, so young she was.

“Yes, Jeanette?” His voice came out in a whisper.

“Please do not let this destroy you.” Her tears were falling down her face as she reached to put her arms on his. He let his sword fall to the grass and grasped her wrists. She leaned in to kiss his cheek.

“I swear I will not.”

She stood back to look into his eyes, hers dark and piercing confirming his promise.

“I do not know what we would do without you Michele.” Her voice was thick with sorrow and hope.

“I swear-“ He began again but she silenced him with her cool fingertips on his lips. Sorrow overtook him and he crumpled to his knees.

Jeanette held him against her as he wept the tears that he had held all day within him. Nineveh ran to their side and threw her arms around them both adding her own sorrow to the company. He took his and Guinevieve’s only child in his arms and held her as Jeanette cooed to them both comforting their loss.