I am bathing in the castle bathhouse when Mother speaks to me through the waters. Neave, she says, a man has strayed across the border. Wake him and send him away.
I’m bathing, Mother, I reply. Send Nemone.
The foolish girl has run away to Fulfarne.
Again?
Again. See to him.
Yes, Mother. Of course.
I climb out of the bath and conjure my robe. I can sense the man at the northern end of the Lake, under my mother’s sleep spell. He and his horse have come over the mountains. Typical. As far away from the castle as it’s possible to be. Going that way I’m sure to see the shrimp, unless he’s hiding away with the nuns. Why Mother didn’t simply do away with him when he was born has always baffled me. He was very clearly a mistake. Nerina and I had this conversation the last time Mother went away on her own.
‘If she admits one mistake, does that not put all of us in doubt?’ Nerina said. ‘If she gets rid of Drift, does she then start worrying over Nemone?’
‘Nemone is flawed,’ I said. ‘It would not be much of a loss to us.’
‘And then once Nemone is gone –’
‘She turns to you, Nerina, and that thing squirming in your belly. I am, after all, Mother’s favourite –’
Nerina patted her still-flat stomach. ‘You’ll want a baby eventually, Neave. Whether in a year, ten years or one thousand, you’ll want a daughter.’
‘Nonsense,’ I told her.
The blacksmith once suggested to me that Mother did try to get rid of the boy on the day he was born. ‘It was love that saved him,’ she said. ‘Much as your mother disguises it, there’s love for him in her.’
Which was nonsense, but then what would Martha know about how we think? She’s blinded by her own love for the ugly sprat. How ridiculous she makes herself, sneaking off to the hollow tree with food for him! As if we wouldn’t know! She should stick to steel; that she understands.
I go past the hollow tree on my way along the Lake, but there’s no sign of him. I wonder where he is today? I haven’t made him cry in a long while. In truth I grew bored of it, but today feels like a good day to relive the old joys. The sun is shining over the Lands of the Lake, and Nemone isn’t here to tease about that boy Balan, who does not love her, no matter how hard she pretends otherwise. How can she be so blind to things that are so clear, if only she’d believe her eyes and ears? There is something wrong with her.
Of course, if Nemone had any sense she would simply do as Nerina did to get her squirming tadpole – pretty Sir Perceval (Perceval the Pure!) will never know he is father to a daughter of the Lake. That whole month Nerina snatched out of his mind.
I reach the end of the Lake and walk past the nunnery. I find the intruder just below the tree line at the foot of the mountain. And he –
He is the most beautiful creature I have ever seen.
I cannot breathe. There is a fluttering in my belly.
There he sits, upon his white horse, in golden armour that matches his golden hair. His heavy lids are closed in sweet repose. His lips inspire such longing in mine. A teardrop resides by his eye, the one lovely blemish in his perfection. He is a poem most beautiful. A prayer I did not know a moment ago.
My wonder mixes with the fear. What if, when I wake him, when he opens his eyes, this feeling dissipates and never returns? What if he does not return this astounding feeling of mine? Finally, tentatively, I raise my hand and break Mother’s spell.
He wakes.
‘My apologies, fair maiden,’ he says, and his voice is as strong and warm as I had hoped, his eyes more blue than I could have dreamed. ‘I did not see you. You appeared as if from nowhere.’
I cannot let him go from me. I cannot send him away as Mother ordered. But if I take him to the castle, then would I not be giving a part of him away to the others?
‘Oh sir, I am in distress,’ I say. ‘Will you not come to my aid?’
‘Fair maid, it is my duty and my pleasure to aid all in distress. I am pledged so to do. For I am Sir Lancelot du Lac, of the land of Guyenne.’ He dismounts and comes to me.
His smell is sharp and masculine. I am overpowered. If I tried to defend myself against him I could not. He is the child of another lake far away; our meeting has been fated; love is our destiny.
‘Follow me, Sir Lancelot,’ I say. ‘I will take you to my home, and unfold to you my pains.’
* * *
There is an abandoned cottage in the mountains, beyond the borders of the Lake. It is a poor place, but Lancelot’s presence makes it lovelier than the grandest palace. I cook meals for him, I provide ointments so he can tend his hurts. He will not let me touch him, though his touch is my only desire. He is much-adventured, and wears scars on his body and in his mind, where foolish knights and sorceresses have sallied.
‘Now will you tell me your woe, lady?’ he asks each time he reaches the close of a tale.
Days have passed. I have not been home. No, this is home. Home is wherever he is now.
‘Hold a little longer, fair Sir Lancelot,’ I tell him. ‘I would do what I can for your hurts, before you do this thing for me.’
‘Would you at least honour me with your name, beauteous maid?’ he says.
‘Do you think me beautiful, Lancelot? Truly?’
‘Aye, my lady. In all the world I have met but one woman who surpasses you.’
A dagger! A dagger to my heart! Does it show on my face? I do not know. He has wounded me.
‘Pray tell, who is this other maid, most fortunate to be thought so lovely?’ There is a tremble in my voice. I do not care for this feeling.
He looks to one side. His tear accuses me. I will kill this other woman. He will be mine.
* * *
It is later the same night. Lancelot is sleeping. I wet my hand. I touch his face. She haunts his dreams, and she is a nothing. A squinting, scrawny, curly-haired girl from Cameliard. Yet his heart sings for her: Guinevere. I hate her.
I will leave for her now. She will drown tomorrow. But then... but then will he hate me?
No. He will never know.
No. He will know. He is noble and wise. He will find me out.
I step away from him. I go to the window and look back over the Lands of the Lake. The turrets and towers of my mother’s castle stare back at me. I conjure a mirror of ice, and stare not at myself, but at his reflection in the candlelight.
They have taught me what to do: my mother, Nerina, even Nemone has taught me through her folly. I harden my heart and summon the spell. I will ruin him for Guinevere. I will tie him to me forever.
When I go to the bed, when I force open his eyes, I see that the blue has lost some of its lustre in the spell I have cast. Clouds linger at the edges of his eyes; he looks up at my nakedness, uncomprehending.
In the morning I feel a bud unfurling in my womb. How fast it grows, doubling and redoubling from the smallest seeds.
Lancelot wakes. For a moment he looks at me. I lie naked beside him, utterly content. There, I think, I have won him. He is honourable and he cannot leave me now. Not the mother of his child. But the moment of contentment I feel is just that. As he wakes fully I see the realisation of what he has done in his eyes. And then I see his horror.
‘My love,’ I say.
He leaps out of the bed. He accuses me of drugging him, of ensorceling him. He calls me a witch, a harridan. He damns his own soul to hell. He rakes his pretty face with his fingernails, drawing blood. Then he runs naked from our cottage.
I find him in the woods, once again fallen under Mother’s sleep spell. I dress him in his golden armour and put him on his horse. I keep the wooden cross he wears round his neck for myself. Then I lead him to the castle, where I will keep him until he loves me. As I enter the gates I see my hunchbacked brother at the water’s edge. He is watching us, the horrid little spy.
But my mother will not allow the mad knight to stay. She sends him away. The Lady Nemue looks at me with suspicion. I do not tell her where I have been the last three days and nights.
* * *
I weep in the bathhouse, my tears flowing back to the waters that made them.
Nemone enters.
‘Hold, sister,’ I tell her. I will not share my love for Lancelot with her. I will not allow her into my mind to see the secret growing in my belly.
‘I had such a nice time at Fulfarne, Neave,’ she says. ‘Balan was so nice to me this time. He didn’t speak, but he did nod to me at dinner. He’s gone a bit scruffy; I do believe he is distracted with desire for me. And I only lost my temper once. Do let me bathe with you; I want to show you how wonderful he is.’
She dances at the edge of the bath, the silly girl. Nemone knows nothing of real love. I remove myself from the water before she can get in.
* * *
I try to distance myself from the pain by imagining what my sisters are doing. I wonder if they will dance the Maypole in my absence? Will Mother put Enid or Martha in my place? It would be funny to see Martha dance –
Oh, this pain. Why does my daughter cause me such pain?
I scream as my skin stretches, as my whole lower half flexes like a band of iron.
Is it this form? If I was wearing my own body would it be easier? Why did I choose this poor peasant disguise?
Oh my daughter, I plead, come quickly.
The midwife strokes my hair. ‘You’re alright, lassie,’ she says. ‘You’re doing well. I can see its head. Just a push or two more.’
‘No more, no more,’ I pant. ‘Please.’
‘Nearly there, my love,’ says the midwife. ‘It’s almost over and you’ll never remember how this felt, not really.’
‘Here it –’ I scream. My knuckles have turned white as I try to transfer the pain I feel to the bedclothes.
I cannot do this. I am going to die.
Then there is a heave. A long slick of movement. Relief. Silence.
‘Is he?’ I say, for in that moment, without looking, I know that my baby is not a daughter, but a son.
He cries his first gurgling cry. He lives. Thank and praise everything that can be thanked and praised: he lives.
‘What a fine lad you have, my dear,’ coos the midwife. ‘What a beautiful boy.’
She helps me to lie back, and places my boy at my breast. I know it is not quite over, but this is the most perfect moment of my life. I love him. I love him even more than Lancelot.
I smile and weep and laugh over him. ‘Galahad,’ I say, telling my boy his name.
The midwife smiles down at me. ‘That’s a big name for a peasant lad to carry,’ she says, ‘but I think this one deserves it.’ She kisses my forehead.
I take Lancelot’s wooden cross from around my neck and give it gladly to our child.