Olafar sat forward. “Oh yes, Arthur was the epitome of strength and honor, always a shining presence, an ideal for a man to aspire to. And all the pure knights were presented as examples of chivalry and honor and idealized love.”
Olafar paused, then said, “You do understand it is up to me to go back and discover the truth. Was Malory’s vision true? Did Guinevere and Lancelot betray Arthur? Did Mordred really kill him and destroy Camelot?” His eyes burned with an intense light. “Next time, with Pip, I will find my way to the real Camelot, not this chimera tossed at me by a strange time flux. I want to right the wrongs, discredit Malory’s story that is now viewed as history. I pray I discover Guinevere did not betray Arthur, that she and Lancelot remained loyal and true.”
Grayson slowly nodded. “I believe it would be helpful if you explained to Pip what you and he were going to try to accomplish. He is only five years old, but he is smart. He sees people and things clearly for so young a—human.” Grayson rose. “Let me know what you decide. Until tomorrow, Olafar.”
Grayson looked in on all three children before he returned to his bedchamber. All were sleeping soundly. Dreaming of galloping on the back of an incredible black stallion?
When he was back in his bedchamber, on his back in the soft bed, the covers pulled to his neck, the Virgin Bride appeared at the foot of his bed. One moment, there was only still silence, and in the next, there was filmy light and a presence so vivid it seemed the air nearly parted for her. “Good evening, Mathilde. Did you hear my discussion with Olafar?”
She shimmered. Grayson fancied he could feel her excitement. Oh yes, I listened in wonderment. The story about Guinevere and Lancelot’s betrayal—so real, so much a part of the legend, yet it was made up hundreds of years later. It is accepted as a whole, no matter if parts of it were added at a later time. You accept all of it or none. Ah, the passion Arthur’s name still evokes. I think it is like the legend of the virginity of Queen Elizabeth, which was not at all true, but now it is accepted. My mother believed the Arthur legend. She hated Guinevere for her betrayal, but not Lancelot for seducing her. Is that not strange?
I have wandered through many human lives in my time, Grayson, seen a bit of happiness, seen immense cruelty, so many tragedies, witnessed births and deaths. I have made Sherbrooke lives easier when I could. Even though many of your ancestors, and yes, the current earl, Douglas, does not like to accept me as real even though he knows very well I am since I helped him save Alex all those years ago. Well, many years to you, but a moment in time to me. I have visited the Sherbrooke children who became men and women and moved from Northcliffe, but always, I must return here to where I first appeared so long ago.
I did not think I could ever be surprised, people being what they are, never changing through the centuries, repeating the same mistakes over and over, but still pushing on, ever on. But, Grayson, the kelpie, Olafar, he is different. I know he is brave. I know he has a burning curiosity, and he wants to right wrongs that were only created by a human man in the first place. He truly believes this Malory was part kelpie and had visions of ancient Camelot. I do not know if this is true, only it is of vital importance to him. I believe I now like Olafar. I trust him with the children. I want to help him. Will you ask him if I am able to journey back to Camelot? With him? With all of you? I know you, Grayson—you want to journey back with him and Pip, do you not? You want to see for yourself.
He grinned. “Yes, you do know me well, Mathilde. Why don’t you ask him if it is possible for you to journey back? It seems to me it would not be a problem, given you can leave Northcliffe and go where you please, so why not in the past as well?”
Her hair whipped about her head in an unseen wind, and her white face seemed to glow. Her pale veils shimmered. It makes my heart pound, Grayson, so very fast and hard. Yes, I will ask Olafar. Do you think he will let me ride him when he shifts to a black stallion? When will we leave?
He wasn’t going to mention she didn’t have a beating heart. “Soon, I imagine. Perhaps tomorrow night.”
I want to prove my mother wrong, prove Guinevere did not betray Arthur. But will she know it? I do not know where she is. I only hope she is nowhere near me. It was her fault I died so young.
“What happened?”
An evil man, a covetous woman, namely my mother, and a disposable child, namely me. I killed him, Grayson, on my wedding night when he would have raped me, and she killed me in a rage. So long ago, yet only a moment in time.
The Virgin Bride whisked away and left Grayson’s heart pounding.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Friday
Grayson didn’t want to go to the Smythe-Ambrosios’ party. He wanted to stay with Olafar and discuss how they would all go back to Camelot tonight. He accepted there was no logic to any of it, no result he could see that would make a whit of difference. Except to Olafar. Well, if it turned out the so-called vision Malory had of Guinevere and Lancelot’s betrayal wasn’t true, well, then Grayson knew Thomas Straithmore would somehow prove it. Would his readers consider it simply another otherworldly tale spun from his imagination? He had a frightening thought: What if Camelot hadn’t really existed? What if King Arthur was nothing more than the imaginings of another long-ago writer, like himself, spinning a story to entertain?
Grayson thought about the twelfth-century French poet Chrétien de Troyes. He’d been the one to invent Lancelot in his work Lancelot, or The Knight of the Cart. Logic dictated Malory had only loaded on, making Lancelot and Guinevere lovers. He realized he was getting a headache trying to weave his way through fiction, visions, and what really transpired in a place called Camelot, a place not every scholar even agreed existed.
He wondered if he could conveniently claim illness when Maximus informed him Miss Elphinstone was riding her white mare, S.W., up the long drive. But no, he was a gentleman. He walked out of the house to see her turn her mare into the west gardens. He followed her, without much hope of getting out of attending her aunt and uncle’s soiree. He saw her dismount and walk to where his aunt Alex was discussing her roses with a group of visitors who’d been making themselves at home in her gardens. She immediately joined in. When she saw him, she excused herself from a voluble older lady accompanied by her maid, and called out, “Mr. Sherbrooke, I was hinting to anyone who would listen that her ladyship employs Cornish elves to keep her gardens in fine fettle.”
“They’re not elves—they’re piskies in Cornwall,” Grayson said.
A lovely eyebrow shot up. “Just so, Mr. Sherbrooke. Now, I am here to ensure all of you are coming this evening to Blandish Manor.”
Grayson nodded, no choice in the matter. His aunt Alex, on the other hand, was looking forward to the evening. She said, “It has been too long a time since we have visited with all our neighbors in one place.”
After more pleasantries, and too many looks from Miss Elphinstone, she whistled and her beautiful mare, tail high, came prancing to her side. “Until tonight,” she sang out, leaned down and said something to her mare, and off they went. Grayson and Alex stood watching her ride down the long drive. “It is odd,” Alex said, “but two days ago I did not believe her beautiful. Indeed, I believed her barely passable. But today, watching her speak to the visitors, I found her quite charmingly lovely.” She cocked a dark-red eyebrow at him. “Best take care, Grayson. She was looking at you with a bit too much interest, like you’re a desired dessert, mayhap even a nutty bun. What do you think?”