I actually did a little research for this part. It seems there was a monk in the 12th century AD named
Caradoc who was a scholar of history, and who lived in an abbey at Llancarfan in Wales. He was the
first to make mention of King Arthurs wife, calling her Gwenhwyfar.
Since the fictional castle Rosehaven (from my old, old angstfic English Rains) also happens to
tucked into the countryside there, I thought this would be a neat little twist on the story. For more about
Edwin, Adelaide, and Bryan, see Spring Fever.
Sources include: Drawing Down the Moon by Margot Adler, The Oxford Anthology of English
Literature volume 1, Kermode/Holland, general editors, and The Book of Guinevere by Andrea Hopkins.
See chapter one for disclaimer.
The telephone rang, and Anya ran to answer it. “Magic Box. How may I help you?”
“I am looking for a Mister Rupert Giles.” The voice on the other end of the line was stilted, as though the man speaking was trying to remember how to. “I understand that is his place of business. Is he available?”
“Hang on, and I’ll check.” She put the reciever on her shoulder and shouted. “Giles! Phone!”
Giles didn’t answer. A few moments later, she heard a toilet flush. The door creaked open and he stepped out, shaking off his wet hands. “Are we still out of paper towels?” he asked.
Anya nodded and held out the phone as he reached the counter.
“Oh. Hello?”
“Mister Rupert Giles?”
“Speaking. How can I help you?”
“This is Caradoc. I have come to the Hellmouth to find you.”
“I-” Giles was very nearly speechless. “I never thought I’d see you again.”
“It’s only been thirty years. An eyeblink.”
Fifty years ago, Gerald Gardner, a retired civil servant, published his novel High Magick’s Aid, and after the anti-witchcraft laws in England were repealed in 1951, Gardener published two more: Witchcraft Today and The Meaning of Witchcraft.
These three books caused an uproar in the High Council. Gardener had been one of their own, a gifted magician and scholar, who had left them in the late thirties supposedly to research the magical practices and ley lines in the area of the castle. He didn’t come back, instead publishing books and starting covens of “Witches” around the island. He’d been disbarred from the Watchers, and even now, eight years after his mysterious disappearance, most members of the secret organization would have given their eyeteeth to find him.
Seventeen-year-old Rupert was lost again among the gardens and towers of the old castle deep in the moors of Wales. It was a very out of the way kind of place, and had, in the Dark Ages, been the abbey at Llanfarcan, housing at least fifty monks. They had somehow founded the modern Watchers’ Council, and the property had fallen into their hands finally in 1437. The Council had left as much of it intact as was possible, and even now there were many unexplored towers and hallways.
He sighed and pushed a strand of long sandy-blonde hair out of his hazel eyes. He’d been trying to get to the highest point he could in the castle. It was summer holiday, and his father had forced him to return for the season and listen to him and the other Councillors whine about how Gardner had leaked their deepest, darkest secrets to the world.
In his right hand, he held a basket -- his lunch. Tucked inside was a well-worn copy of an old novel. He smiled wryly to himself, thinking about the vein in his father’s neck popping upon processing the information that his only son, and the only living successor to the High Seat of The Right Royal Council Of Spellcasting Pricks, was reading an old Crowley novel. A trashy one, at that.
He looked around again and realized that not only did he not know where he was, he’d never even seen this part of the castle before. The walls were high, tiled in bright mosaic patterns in materials he was sure were not from anywhere near England. One whole wall was dedicated to a mural depicting a king -- he was pretty sure it was Arthur -- being tended by a bevy of women. Opposite that, was a row of small laquered doors.
He opened the first one. It was a small room, maybe eight feet by ten, with a narrow window, a washbasin and pitcher, and low rough bed withgout a matress. Cobwebs strung every surface, layers of dust caked one atop the other. It smelled awful -- like sweat and decay. He plugged his nose, tucked the stray hair behind his ears again, and entered the room.
He inspected the bed. There were no nails holding it together, only a seried of holes bored into the planks and secured with wooden pegs. The wooden basin and pitcher stood on a table made the same way.
He left the room and began to open the other doors, and relaized that all the rooms were the same. Looking back at the mural, he saw that there was a door built in, tiles blended so perfectly that he could barely make out the makeshift hinges.
Being a seventeen year old boy with no regard for his own safety, he decided to open the tiled door and see what he could see.
He found the last thing he expected in a deserted part of the castle.
There was a huge Gallic cross hanging in the middle of the chamber, which was very large in itself, with rough bookshelves lining the walls stuffed full of old tomes. Tables everywhere were strewn and stacked with more books bound in leather of varying types and quality. Weapons of all shapes and sizes were stacked in a rough pile under the chamber’s only window, which had a stained glass mural hanging in it. In one corner, a small altar stood, and one candle burned on it. A man in a brown robe knelt, barefoot, muttering to himself in Latin.
Rupert couldn’t help himself; he went over and tapped the man on the shoulder.
The man jumped, startled, and began shouting in Latin: “Who are you? What are you doing here? You dare interrupt a praying man of God?”
For the first time in his life, Rupert was grateful for the years of extra schoolwork his father had pushed and prodded him into. Rupert answered the monk, “My name is Rupert. I’m a student here. I’m sorry I interrupted you, I was just looking for a quiet place to eat my lunch.”
The monk’s eyes changed from angry to amused. “He brings sustenance. For that, I am sure Our Lord will forgive your interruption. I know I certainly will. Have you enough to share?”
Rupert stared at him. *First he yells at me, then he wants half my lunch? I hope he doesn’t drink my beer.* “I have.”
“Then open your basket, boy, and let us see what you have.” The monk very nearly dove into the basket. As he rummaged through, Rupert asked him a few questions.
“How long have you been here, Abbot?”
“Since the year of our Lord five hundred and nineteen.”
Rupert choked. The man was fifteen hundred years old.
The abbot continued. “I am the last of the Order of Gildas, a society of clerics.”
“Clerics?”
“We call ourselves scholar-warriors. I suppose a more appropriate term would be magicians.” He smiled and dug himself out a sandwich. Rupert’s eyes widened as he wolfed it down. “I haven’t had food since seventeen hundred. My last visitor came empty-handed.”
The boy’s mouth hung open. “Seventeen hundred? You haven’t eaten for 250 years?”
“I have gone longer than that. Food is more a pleasure than a necessity. It has been so long since I have had anyone to talk to, I am not sure how to explain.” He gestured to the nearest table, clearing a space for them to eat by moving yellowed parchment drawings off to the side.
“Someone said to me once: begin at the beginning, and when you get to the end, stop.” Rupert pulled out the blanket tucked beneath the food and tossed it over the piles of books. It settled on the scratched table as he began to pull food out. Two oranges, an apple, three more tuna sandwiches, and four bottles of strong Belgian ale.
“Ale!” The monk reached for a bottle. “Cold ale!”
Rupert smiled. *At least he’s got priorities.* They each opened a beer and took a sip.
“Delicious!” Proclaimed the monk. “Boy, I have not had ale since fifteen nienty-seven. I have been desirous of it since then, and greatly saddened by its loss.” He cleared his throat. “Have you very much time? My story, as you may imagine, is quite a long one.”
“Time is one thing I have plenty of.”
“Then, I shall begin.
“It was the year of our Lord, five hundred and one, and the order had just ordained me fit to serve. The newset Slayer, Gwebhwyfar, had recently fulfilled her duties and married our valiant King, Arthur.”
“Guenivere was a Slayer?”
“Indeed, she was. As I understand it, in these times most Slayers die young, yes? Three, four months of her duty, and she fails it and dies, yes?”
“Yes.”
“When I was charged with her care, Gwebhwyfar, and each Slayer before her, was assisted by clerics and knights of our order. Most survived to the retiring age of twenty-two, at which time they were usually married to a rich noble, to live a life of comfort after the harshness of her duties. Many married the younger siblings of valiant heroes, princes that would never gain their thrones, or wealthy merchants that could care for them in their later, declining years.
“Gwebhwyfar was an exceptional beauty, and much beloved by all the order. There was an ancient law in place -- a law that prohibited a man of the order to taste her charms, if you follow my meaning.”
“I follow.”
“Will you interrupt me, boy, or will you allow me to finish my tale?”
“Sorry.”
“Well, then. As I am sure you may have guessed, Gwebhwyfar and I fell in love. Together we slew vampyres and demons, protected towns and villages...many of the things I’m sure your father has told you you may one day do, for the armies of the light. We did our best to stave it, hold it away from ourselves until she had finished her duties, but -- one night we lay together, and from that union, we begat a son, Locus, the founder of the High Council of Watchers of the World.
“We did not know that the law was in place apurpose. Gwebhwyfar birthed the babe, and then her entire womb followed it in the afterbirth. She was struck barren. It was my fault. I, drunken on flower wine, seduced her as she lay in her chambers.
“I was cursed, as well, to eternal life, stuck in this stone tomb until the last days. When that door --” he pointed to the one Rupert had come in through “When that door opens, and no one is behind it, I may leave the sanctity of this place and go out into the world to avert the apocalypse, one last time. Then, and only then, may I die.
“So you see, boy, I am equally cursed and blessed, and you are my descendant.”
Young Rupert spent the rest of that holiday in the lost recesses of the abbey, telling no one where he went during his long disappearances. The monk showed him old manuscripts, copies of prophecies millenia old, in many undecipherable ancient languages. In reciprocation, Rupert instructed him in English, Spanish, and Portugese. The monk then found time to instruct him on different species of demons, old-fashioned fighting techniques and weapons and, his and soon young Rupert’s weapon of choice, the quarterstaff.
The end of summer came, and finally it was time for young Rupert to head off to Oxford to begin college. He went to the abbey, as usual, and set down a box of the Heineken the monk favored.
“Caradoc? Caradoc?” he called. “Where are you?”
“I am here.” The monk answered. “When Our Savior calls, it is best to answer.”
“I’ve brought you something.” Rupert held a book out to him. Tennyson’s Idylls of the King.
“This...is for me?” Caradoc smiled.
“I’m not sure you’ll like it. But it’s about Guinevere. It’s in English, so you’ll be able to study it when I am gone.” He dug a toe into the packed dirt floor. “I leave for school tomorrow, Caradoc. I won’t be coming back again.”
Caradoc’s smile faded a bit, becoming wistful. “I knew this day would come. And I wish you well.”
The boy held out the twelve pack of beer. “I also brought you some ale. As much as I could steal from the coffers without getting in trouble. There’s only twelve, so you’ll have to use it sparingly.”
“Gwebhwyfar said once, a short goodbye is less painful than a long farewell.” Caradoc said, leading his friend to the exit. “Fare thee well, young descendant of mine. I may yet see you in this life.”
Rupert raised his right hand. “I hope you get out of here someday.”
“I will.”
The door closed, and that was the last time Rupert Giles saw his mentor.
“I take it that the apocalypse is coming.” Giles said into the phone.
“It is.” Caradoc’s voice was strong, stronger than it had been when Rupert had met him. “Soon. The Council said that your Slayer is the longest-lived active Slayer since Gwebhwyfar herself.”
“I learned many things from your lessons.” Giles took off his glasses. “As did Buffy.”
“Buffy? Ah. The Slayer. Such uncommon names you have in this century.” Caradoc sniffed. “Such low apparel. The women here wear no clothing, and you have the most amazing inventions. I cannot even see you, and yet I can speak to you as though you were next to me. Your father calls it a telephone.”
“My father? He sent you here? Why? How long have you been free?”
“Six months. Bryan , Adelaide, and Edwin assured me that I had the time to get acclimated to this century before the Apocalypse occurred. Why didn’t you ever tell me that they brewed wines and ales all over the world? They are a delicious extravagance.”
“You never asked.” Giles laughed. “It is good to hear your voice again. Where are you now?”
“I am standing near the Hellmouth. It appears that there used to be a library here. Do you know the place?” Caradoc’s voice crackled over the line.
Giles’ eyes widened much as they had when he was a boy. “I do. Stay there.”
“I shall wait for you outside the remains of this building.”
“Very well then. I’ll be there shortly.” Giles rang off and turned to face Anya. “Watch the store. I have to go pick someone up.”
“Who the hell was that?” Anya asked as he sped towards the door.
Giles looked back. “I’ll explain when I get back. Call Buffy and Xander, get them here. Tell them it’s important.”
“What is?” Anya shouted after him.
“I found out why the council had us researching the apocalypse!” The door banged shut behind him.
Anya picked up the telephone and dialed the garage’s number.
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and more to follow...
Equally Cursed and Blessed