Derek turned back to us, his eyes moving from me to Connor and back to me. 'Why are you here, Merlyn the Dreamer? What do you want from me?'
'Nothing that may not be within your power to grant or to withhold,' I responded, smiling and shrugging my shoulders. 'Food and lodgings for the night at least, for me and mine, and perhaps sanctuary.'
'Sanctuary?' He frowned as he repeated the alien sounds. 'I don't know that word.'
'It means shelter, respite.'
'Respite from what? Or from whom?' He glowered now at Connor, his face clouded with suspicion. 'There will be no trouble here. You know Liam, Condran's admiral, is here?'
Connor nodded. 'Coincidence,' he said. 'Nothing to do with anything. Liam has never seen or heard of Merlyn, and is no part of his cares. The rules apply, as always.'
'Hmm.' Apparently mollified, Derek looked back at me. 'So? Respite from whom?'
I shrugged. 'It is a long story not long in the telling, but complex. I would be happy to tell it to you.'
[...]
Derek spoke again, to me. 'The hospitality, for a night at least, presents no difficulty. It would have been extended anyway. Further, I'll not commit. But your story should be interesting.' He paused. 'Tell me, do you still dream?'
'From time to time,' I answered, smiling. 'I dreamed of you less than four weeks ago. That is why we are here.'
He sighed deeply. 'I was afraid you would say something like that.'
THE TEMPLARS AND THE GRAIL
Knights of the Quest
Karin Ralls
The years 1190-1240 fall during the High Middle Ages, one of the great experimental and creative epochs in European history. This period saw not only the writing of the Grail romances and the rise and fall of the Templar Order but also among other things construction of the High Gothic cathedrals, the peak of the cult of chivalry, a tremendous upsurge in pilgrimage, the great popularity of the Black Madonna shrines, the troubadors and the Courts of Love, and the rise of certain Hermetic and alchemical themes after a period of dormancy in the West. This cluster of cultural phenomena, expressing the spirit of the times, was contemporaneous with such political and social developments as the Crusades, the signing of Magna Carta, the time of the Cathars, and the growth of the famed universities of paris, Oxford and Bologna and the lives of such figures as Henry II, Eleanor of Aquitaine, Richard the Lionheart, and St Francis. Historians note that the quest for knowledge and the arts during this time was nothing short of phenomenal. It was an era of extraordinary flowering.
Beatrice stared down. She'd felt such terrible pains, as if her body was caught and licked by raging fire, but something was wrong. Was she dreaming? She was wearing the same kirtle. She touched her head. There was no pain now. Her hair still hung unbound, cork pattens on her feet, yet there was a body lying on the cobbles before her: eyes open, a line of blood trickling out between parted lips, head twisted strangely, arms out, fingers splayed. It was herself!
I must be dreaming, in a faint or a swoon, Beatrice thought. She heard a voice call, the sound of footsteps. People came running up: Theobald Vavasour, Father Aylred, Adam and Marisa. All gathered, crouching round her body.
'No, I'm all right,' she called out.
Her friends did not respond, yet she was sure she had spoken, she'd heard her own words and she could still feel the cold night air, although the light had changed to a strange bronze colour and it was eerie.
Ralph appeared, running down the steps. He stood on the cobbles and stared across at the small group, his mouth opening and closing.
'Beatrice!' he yelled. 'Beatrice!'
She ran across to meet him but she couldn't touch him. He seemed to run through her. Sir John came out of the tower, followed by Lady Anne. Beatrice tried to clutch them but it was like trying to seize the air. She went to stand with them. Ralph was leaning over her body, shaking his head. He tried to clutch her but Father Aylred gently blocked him.
'She's dead, Ralph. God save her, she's dead. There's nothing we can do.'
Theobald had his hand pressed against her neck, then felt her wrist, searching for the blood pulse. Beaatrice was filled with horror.
