platform. Years ago her brothers used to join her, but Gabriel was now a novice with the Franciscans, while Raphael was a serjeant at law and her redoubtable father’s principal henchman. She stopped and turned to her mythical companion, Melisaunde.
‘No one comes here, you know. This,’ she gestured towards the gardens, ‘is our Avalon. Here Galahad will come bearing the Grail and Morgan le Fay to spin her web of dreams.’ She stared out over the gardens, with their turf-topped stone seats, their fruit trees, herbers and flower plots, the patchwork of paths across the lawn. ‘They claim that I am fey,’ she murmured, ‘but Avalon is definitely here.’
Katherine smiled. She knew she was imprisoned in the past. Father had been raised on the Glastonbury estates, and had crammed her mind with stories of the great abbey where Arthur and Guinevere had slept; the Holy Thorn planted by Joseph of Arimathea; the ghostly knights; and the whereabouts of the Grail and the Crystal Cave where Merlin rested until he came again. In the principal tavern refectory her father had nailed swords to the wall above the inscribed names of their owners, Arthur’s knights: Lancelot, Galahad, Gawain, Bors and all the others. Tapestries in the elegantly furnished solar, the Camelot Chamber, proclaimed the story of the Green Knight and the Lady of the Lake. In the centre of that chamber stood a huge round table, modelled on the original kept at Winchester, with silver arrows painted on it proclaiming the titles and positions of Arthur and his glorious chivalry.
‘But when will Mordred come?’ Katherine whispered. ‘Mordred, Melisaunde, Morgan le Fay’s death-bearing son? Will he come and shatter Avalon? Is this our time of sunset? Will Father take his special sword, Excalibur, from its carved chest?’
Undoubtedly, she reflected, the shadows were stretching closer and deeper. Five years ago, around her thirteenth summer, the terrors had sprung out of the darkness: Cade’s minions milling about the tavern, only driven off by a host of spears and clusters of notched bows. Nights of fire and horror. A time of chaos and sorrow, when Uncle Edmund had slipped away. They’d eventually brought his body back in an arrow chest, his severed head resting against his blood-soaked trunk. Father Benedict and his curate Father Roger, who according to Malkin, master of the taproom, were closer than man and wife – though God knows what he meant by that – had tended to the corpse. The two priests, who had served in Father’s retinue in France, had sewn the head back on, and cleaned and waxed the corpse for burial in its elm-wood casket, but even then Aunt Eleanor could not bring herself to look. Mad with grief, she had withdrawn to All Hallows and remained there ever since. Why? What had Uncle Edmund intended by slipping out that summer evening? Who was he to meet? Katherine, who had honed the skill of eavesdropping, had heard the name LeCorbeil mentioned, but who or what they were remained a tangled mystery.
‘Mordred’s time has certainly come, Melisaunde,’ Katherine whispered, half listening to the cooing from the dovecote, which was answered by the heart-thrilling song of a thrush hidden in a hedgerow. ‘Father is concerned. Rumour has it that he could be indicted.’ She wished her mother was here, and swiftly crossed herself. Father had intimated that tonight he would convoke a consilium juratorum, a council of sworn men. She would be part of that. Father had insisted on it, overruling her taciturn brother Raphael. They would meet in the Camelot Chamber, gathering round Arthur’s table. Raphael would be present; Ignacio too, with his soul-dead eyes, long fingers fluttering as he and her father talked their silent speech.
Gabriel never came. He would meet Raphael when his elder brother brought in the wine smuggled from cogs in the river – barrels and tuns unstamped by the keepers of the custom – along with corpses culled from the
‘No one comes here, you know. This,’ she gestured towards the gardens, ‘is our Avalon. Here Galahad will come bearing the Grail and Morgan le Fay to spin her web of dreams.’ She stared out over the gardens, with their turf-topped stone seats, their fruit trees, herbers and flower plots, the patchwork of paths across the lawn. ‘They claim that I am fey,’ she murmured, ‘but Avalon is definitely here.’
Katherine smiled. She knew she was imprisoned in the past. Father had been raised on the Glastonbury estates, and had crammed her mind with stories of the great abbey where Arthur and Guinevere had slept; the Holy Thorn planted by Joseph of Arimathea; the ghostly knights; and the whereabouts of the Grail and the Crystal Cave where Merlin rested until he came again. In the principal tavern refectory her father had nailed swords to the wall above the inscribed names of their owners, Arthur’s knights: Lancelot, Galahad, Gawain, Bors and all the others. Tapestries in the elegantly furnished solar, the Camelot Chamber, proclaimed the story of the Green Knight and the Lady of the Lake. In the centre of that chamber stood a huge round table, modelled on the original kept at Winchester, with silver arrows painted on it proclaiming the titles and positions of Arthur and his glorious chivalry.
‘But when will Mordred come?’ Katherine whispered. ‘Mordred, Melisaunde, Morgan le Fay’s death-bearing son? Will he come and shatter Avalon? Is this our time of sunset? Will Father take his special sword, Excalibur, from its carved chest?’
Undoubtedly, she reflected, the shadows were stretching closer and deeper. Five years ago, around her thirteenth summer, the terrors had sprung out of the darkness: Cade’s minions milling about the tavern, only driven off by a host of spears and clusters of notched bows. Nights of fire and horror. A time of chaos and sorrow, when Uncle Edmund had slipped away. They’d eventually brought his body back in an arrow chest, his severed head resting against his blood-soaked trunk. Father Benedict and his curate Father Roger, who according to Malkin, master of the taproom, were closer than man and wife – though God knows what he meant by that – had tended to the corpse. The two priests, who had served in Father’s retinue in France, had sewn the head back on, and cleaned and waxed the corpse for burial in its elm-wood casket, but even then Aunt Eleanor could not bring herself to look. Mad with grief, she had withdrawn to All Hallows and remained there ever since. Why? What had Uncle Edmund intended by slipping out that summer evening? Who was he to meet? Katherine, who had honed the skill of eavesdropping, had heard the name LeCorbeil mentioned, but who or what they were remained a tangled mystery.
‘Mordred’s time has certainly come, Melisaunde,’ Katherine whispered, half listening to the cooing from the dovecote, which was answered by the heart-thrilling song of a thrush hidden in a hedgerow. ‘Father is concerned. Rumour has it that he could be indicted.’ She wished her mother was here, and swiftly crossed herself. Father had intimated that tonight he would convoke a consilium juratorum, a council of sworn men. She would be part of that. Father had insisted on it, overruling her taciturn brother Raphael. They would meet in the Camelot Chamber, gathering round Arthur’s table. Raphael would be present; Ignacio too, with his soul-dead eyes, long fingers fluttering as he and her father talked their silent speech.
Gabriel never came. He would meet Raphael when his elder brother brought in the wine smuggled from cogs in the river – barrels and tuns unstamped by the keepers of the custom – along with corpses culled from the
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