The Lazarus Vault

VI

You can conquer the Welsh, but you can’t defeat them. My father says it’s because of the land: mounted knights can’t pursue the rebels up mountains and through forests, or into the deep marshes. My mother also says it’s because of the land — but she doesn’t mean it the same way.

My mother is a Breton — which, she says, makes her a cousin to the Britons who plough fields and cut wood for my father. She says Brittany is like Wales, a wild realm on the rim of the world. In these places, the borders between worlds grow thin and permeable; we scuttle across the surface like a spider on a pond. In England and Normandy, rocks are rocks and trees are trees, or they are iron and firewood. In Wales, every rock and tree might hide the door to an enchanted land. Once, when I was playing on the mudflats by the river estuary, I saw a shimmering wall of air, as you get over a fire. Another time, I put my ear to a crack in the rocks and heard laughter far below.

Last August, three of my father’s hayricks burned in the field. In October, someone broke into the stable and cut the hamstrings on his warhorse. My father had to slit its throat himself: when he came out of the stable, up to his elbows in blood, it was the only time I ever saw him cry. He blames brigands, but behind his back the servants whisper about the faerie people.

My mother knows many stories of the faeries. Sometimes, when the fire has burned low in the hall and my father has drunk his fill, she takes out her little harp and sings the tale, while I sit by the fire and the dogs lick fat off the hearth. Sometimes we sit together on the grassy bank under the willow by the river. All the ones I like best begin the same way: ‘A long time ago, when Arthur was king …’

I ask my mother when Arthur was king, but she just frowns and repeats that it was a long time ago. I ask Brother Oswald, who has been teaching me history. Was it before Duke William? Before Alexander? Before King Solomon? I think he will cuff me and tell me another story about Jesus or Saint David, but he chews his reed pen and tells me how Arthur was descended from Aeneas and Brutus; how he lived some six hundred years ago in the time of Saint David, when the Romans had gone and the Normans hadn’t yet come. He says he killed a giant on Saint Michael’s mount, and grew so powerful he even overthrew Rome. Some men, he whispers, say he is not dead but merely sleeping in a cave, and will come again in Britain’s deepest hour of need.

A light comes into Brother Oswald’s eyes as he tells this. Then he remembers himself, and sends me back to my declensions.

I sit in the sun and listen to my mother.

‘A long time ago, when Arthur was king, a knight went hunting. He spied a white stag and gave chase, following it until he found himself deep in the forest.

‘Suddenly, on the evening air, he heard a scream that made his horse rear up in fright. He spurred through the trees, and presently came out in a leafy glade. A hawthorn grew there, and tied to it stood a maiden, the loveliest he had ever seen. She wore a plain white shift and a plain white dress, nothing else. Her golden hair was so fair even Isolde the Blonde would have looked like a Moor beside her.’

I stir. ‘Who was Isolde the Blonde?’

My mother shushes me. ‘I will tell you that story another day. When you’re older.

‘The knight drew his sword to cut her free. But the moment he dismounted, the ground trembled with the approach of rushing hooves. The lady groaned. “Now you must flee,” she warned him. “That noise is Sir Maliant, the wicked knight who holds me prisoner. If he finds you here he will surely kill you.”

‘“Upon my honour, I have never fled from any man,” said the knight. He remounted his horse and spurred towards his enemy. Their lances bent like bows and shattered; they drew their swords, laying about each other with such fury that wood splintered, iron split and both horses were killed. The knight pummelled his opponent until every lace of his armour was broken. At last, he struck off his helmet and knocked him to the ground.

‘“Mercy,” his enemy pleaded.

‘But the damsel demanded his head, and the knight obeyed. His blow fell hard; the head flew out onto the heath and the body crumpled.

‘Heedless of his wounds, the knight approached and cut the cord that bound the lady.

‘“Thank you, Sir Knight,” she said. “You have saved me from a grievous fate. What reward would you have?”

‘“Only a token, and perhaps a kiss.”

‘She laughed. “I will give you better than that.” She took his hand and led him around the back of the tree. “This is what the wicked knight sought from me.”

‘The good knight saw nothing. But the damsel reached into a hollow in the tree and pulled open the bark like a curtain. Within, the knight beheld a tree-root stair twisting down into the earth.

‘“This is my realm,” said she. “Come down, and I will give you your full reward.”

‘But the knight delayed, for he saw that the lady was an enchantress, and he feared what might befall him in her kingdom.

‘“Have no fear, Sir Knight. You may depart whenever you choose. All you must promise is that whatever you find, you must leave behind when you return. There is a great treasure in my castle, and many are the thieves who have tried to take it.”

‘Then the knight swore, and eagerly followed her down the twisting stair. And he was not disappointed, for the lady’s kingdom was just as she had said. She had a fair castle with a great hall and galleries, and every room was piled with treasure. Servants came to dress his wounds; they served wine in golden cups, and a haunch of venison cooked with hot pepper. And the knight thought there had never been a place so wondrous.

‘He stayed there a year and a day. At night he feasted and took his pleasure with the lady, and in the daytimes he hunted and never came home empty-handed, for she had hounds who never lost the scent, and a bow whose arrows always hit their mark.

‘But eventually he grew weary of this constant leisure, and thought he would return to his own world. And as he took his leave, he spied a goblet of fine, pure gold, set with precious stones. And though it was small and plain next to the other treasures in the castle, yet he thought it was the most beautiful piece he had ever seen.

‘“She has so much treasure here she will not miss this one small cup,” he said to himself. “And they will never believe me at Arthur’s court if I do not take back some proof of where I have been.”

‘So he slipped the cup inside his tunic and stole out of the castle. He climbed the twisting stair, hurrying until he reached the top. He could see sunlight through the hole in the tree and the green leaves beyond. For the first time in a year he could smell the air of our world.

‘But he had forgotten the cup in his tunic. The moment he set foot on the threshold of our world, the earth began to tremble. The jaws of the tree snapped shut; the tree-roots withered to dust, and he fell back to the ground. And when he limped back to the castle, the towers were torn down and the rooms empty; the treasure had vanished.

‘The lady received him in her great hall. Her eyes were like drops of ice, her skin white as bone. “You have broken your oath,” she told him. “Now you can never leave my kingdom.” And she cast him into a dungeon, and whatever he ate tasted like ash in his mouth, and whatever he drank never slaked his thirst.’

‘Go on,’ I say. ‘What happened next? How did the knight escape?’

My mother puts down her harp and folds her hands in her skirt. ‘He never did. He had broken his promise, and he could not return to this world.’

I haven’t told this story as well as my mother told it. Perhaps because I don’t like it. Surely, I think, there is always a way back?