“He went with Arthur,” Rhys said quickly. “He could be a messenger.”
Galahad shot him a furious glance and Orrin chuckled. “Search him, Rhys. I’ll wager you’ve hit it on the nose.”
Rhys put a hand inside Galahad’s tunic and withdrew the High King’s scroll. He glanced at it quickly. “Who’s it from?”
“Your sovereign King,” Galahad replied acidly. “Arthur of Britain.”
“Who’s it to?” Orrin asked.
Galahad just stared back at them unmoving. The man with the dagger grinned.
“Take his weapons,” Orrin ordered. “Rhys, you take the scroll. We’ll see what King Mordred has to say about this.”
“King Mordred!” Galahad gasped. “Then it’s true! I knew it! He’s a traitor!”
Orrin raised a fist to strike him but Rhys held his arm. “Let be, Orrin. These are only words, and not without meaning. Take him to the commander before you break his jaw. He might have valuable information.”
Galahad was thrust onto his horse and led into the camp. Men stared curiously as the three soldiers marched him toward the central tent. Orrin gave the password and a brief message to the guard outside, who bowed and disappeared within. Minutes passed. Galahad glanced at the curious faces around him. They were strangers, all of them. He had never seen any of them in Camelot. And they were all young, some of them as young as he, too young to grow beards. This was Mordred’s army! An army of beardless boys! He smiled in contempt, and then suddenly remembered Arthur’s words: Let no one say a youth not yet fifteen cannot acquit himself with skill and honor on a battlefield. He wiped the contempt from his face as the guard reappeared and gestured them inside. His captors pushed him ahead of them into the lighted warmth of Mordred’s tent.
At first he thought the tent was empty. A wineskin hung over a small fire in the center, a handful of crimson cushions ringed the firestones in a neat circle, but no one was there. The three scouts shuffled uneasily behind him. One of them coughed. A shadow on the far wall moved. It was then Galahad noticed a partition at the other side of the tent. A lamp burned somewhere behind it and a tall man paced before the lamp.
The shadow became a presence, a dark silhouette lit from behind. Against his will Galahad began to tremble. The dark figure stepped forward until the firelight touched his face.
“Well, well, well,” Mordred said softly. The scouts went down on one knee. Galahad remained standing. Firelight lit the planes of Mordred’s face and threw his eyes in shadow. The grim expression, the steady stare, the power that fit like a second skin, the hint of explosive rage and grief—this was the same face he had confronted two nights ago under the stars on Cerdic’s Field.
Mordred nodded to Orrin, who gave a brief report of Galahad’s capture.
“Where are his weapons?”
“Here, my lord.” Orrin handed him Galahad’s sword and dagger. “He’s a messenger of some sort. We found a letter.”
Rhys held out the scroll. Mordred examined it carefully, staring at the seal, his mouth set in a grim line. Slowly he looked up.
“You’ve done well. Excellent work. All of you. Back to your posts now and keep a sharp lookout. My father’s been known to send two couriers when the message is of dire importance.”
They bowed and hurried out. Mordred stood looking at Galahad, who trembled under his gaze. He hefted Galahad’s dagger in his hand.
“Turn around.”
His lips moving in quick prayer, Galahad turned his back to Mordred. If they killed him no one would miss him. They could toss his body in a wayside ditch and he would never be found. Arthur would think he had gone on about his business, Percival would think he was off on his quest. No one in Britain would think to look for the bleached bones of a lost Breton boy. They all had more important things to think about. He jumped at the touch of hands.
“Calm down,” Mordred said quietly, “I’m only cutting your bonds.”
When his hands were free he rubbed them together to rid them of their numbness. His raw wrists were starting to swell.
“Cranach!” Mordred called.
A guard poked his face into the tent. “Yes, my lord?”
“Let no one in. No one. Until I give you leave.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Mordred hesitated. “Come with me.” He led Galahad past the partition into a small bedchamber. A gilded double-flamed lamp stood above a stool and a low table. A weapon stand held Mordred’s sword, his brass-studded fighting vest, his leather helmet with the King’s gold circlet on the brow. Against the other wall was a simple soldier’s cot with a single dark blanket of combed wool. The furnishings were plain enough, but by the standards of Arthur’s ragged, shipwrecked army, they were luxurious indeed. The knowledge that until recently Mordred had been in Camelot only heightened Galahad’s resentment.
“Sit down.” Mordred pointed to the stool and Galahad sat. The fine hands, so like Arthur’s, poured a cup of water from the carafe on the table and handed it to Galahad. Mordred placed the unopened scroll with Galahad’s sword and dagger on his own cot, sat down, and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. “So. My father really is in Britain.”
Galahad stared at him. He wasn’t sure what he had expected, but it wasn’t this. “Of course he is! Do you pretend you didn’t know it?”
Mordred looked at him steadily. “You called me a traitor to Orrin. Is that what they think of me, then? Is that what my father thinks?”
“Of course,” Galahad cried hotly. “What else could he think?”
Mordred bowed his head and passed a weary hand across his face. Galahad felt a stab of acute anguish. He had seen that gesture a hundred times before.
“Your men called you King. You wear the crown on your helmet. You can’t deny it.”
“It’s by my father’s order I took the title!” The admission burst from Mordred with a force that shook the tent. He rose, unsettled by the violence of his emotion, and began to pace back and forth across the small space. Galahad heard nothing in the ringing silence but Mordred’s soft footfalls— no soldiers’ voices, no laughter at the campfires, no jingle of bridles or tramp of boots. The whole camp waited while Mordred paced, his lined face as cold and pale as marble.
“Tell me,” he snapped, “what happened at Autun. I’ve had reports from couriers, but they have proved unreliable. The last one we had told me Arthur was dead.”
His voice quaking, Galahad reported what he had seen, the source of the confusion, Arthur’s return and Lancelot’s near death, Constantine’s letter—here Mordred’s face grew pinched, but he did not interrupt—the procession to Benoic, the crossing home, Gawaine’s death, the battle and the burning of Cerdic’s Field. As he finished, he glanced at Mordred, who stood half turned from the lamp, clutching the amulet at his throat, his eyes closed.
“I see,” he said slowly. “I see how it happened.” He sat down on the cot again, as still now as he had been restless before. When he spoke his voice was calm and clear. “Where are you bound for with this letter?”
Galahad did not reply.
“Never mind. That’s an easy guess. Camelot. This is Arthur’s message to Guinevere.” Mordred smiled at Galahad’s expression. “I know my father well, you see. Do you know what he says in the letter? Does he call me traitor to her?”
Galahad passed a tongue across dry lips. “I don’t know.”
Mordred nodded. “Well. I will have to take my chances with that.” He picked up the scroll and tossed it back to Galahad. The boy stared openly.
“You . . . you aren’t going to read it?”
“No. It’s not meant for me.”
Galahad looked down in amazement at the scroll in his hands. The seal was unbroken. He tucked it back inside his tunic with the slow, clumsy motion of a man in sleep.
“Do you know,” Mordred continued, “what his plans are? Is he willing to parley or is his heart set against me? I’m certain he’s heading toward Camelot, but I need to know his intentions.�
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Galahad swallowed. “He is coming to take back his crown.”
“Well,” Mordred whispered, “it is his for the asking.”
Galahad stared at him blindly, unable to speak. Mordred rose, picked up Galahad’s weapons, and handed them to him.
“You’re not going to kill me?” Galahad croaked, sliding to his knees on the dirt floor.
Standing above him, Mordred smiled. “No. Once I wanted to, for pride’s sake. But there’s been water under the bridge since then. And even if I wanted to, I wouldn’t. You’re my father’s courier to his wife. You’re free to go.”
“But . . .” Galahad’s world began to spin. “But why not? I have sworn to kill you!”
“If you want to kill me, draw your sword and take your chances. But you should know”—he reached down and raised Galahad—“I have held Britain only in his absence and at his order. I will not oppose him. He is my father and my King. I will yield to him as soon as I can meet him face-to-face.”
“But what about the Queen?” Galahad said under his breath. “Constantine’s letter! Aren’t you married to her?”
Pain stabbed Mordred’s face and his lips twisted in familiar bitterness. “Don’t you know slander when you hear it? The gods know I’ve loved her since first I saw her—so have Lancelot and a thousand others—but she is Arthur’s wife, not mine.” His voice dropped in weariness. “And if I were the last Briton living, she would not have me. There is not a truer heart on earth.” He turned his back on Galahad. “Go on. Get out of here.”
But Galahad’s legs would not move. They were rooted to the floor. “I don’t understand—you show me mercy, but . . . you are my enemy.”
“Oh, yes,” Mordred replied softly, facing the shadows, “and abomination, too. Your God, Bishop Landrum’s God, is a cruel god. I wouldn’t have Him as a gift.”
“He is Arthur’s, too. There is only one God.”
“Arthur’s God is merciful. He forgives. Yours doesn’t.” Mordred turned and spread his arms out in a gesture of inclusion. “Do you still think me evil, Galahad? Are these the actions of an evil man? You don’t know how lucky you are to have an honorable destiny. Everyone who hears Niniane’s prophecy will honor you for it, although you have done nothing to deserve it. My destiny”—his voice shook—“is a bitter gall to me.”
“Your destiny?” Galahad repeated dumbly. “I never heard . . . I never knew . . . who foretold it?”
“It is the curse of the witch Morgause, Queen of Orkney. My mother’s curse. Few know.” In the heavy silence Galahad could hear the flutter of the lamp flame, the held breath of the waiting night. The words, when they came, hovered on the edge of sound. “I was born to be my father’s doom.”
Galahad gasped. Mordred’s black eyes burned. “Ever since I met him I’ve spent my life trying to avoid this unwanted fate. I love Arthur. I honor him. I would not knowingly harm a hair on his head. And yet, and yet . . .” He closed his eyes and his features creased in anguish. “I feel it coming fast upon me. I feel it breathing on my neck. Like a boulder some unknown hand has already set in motion down the slope.”
Galahad found that his eyes were wet. “My lord, can I take a message . . . can I let him know . . . surely what you fear can be averted.”
Mordred’s lips twisted. “I’ve already sent a message asking for a parley. My fate—his fate—is in his hands. And you are his messenger, Galahad, not mine. But I thank you for the offer. You have changed, I think, since I saw you last.”
“Everything in the whole wide world has changed, my lord.”
Mordred nodded and shrugged, grim amusement pulling at the corners of his mouth. “The wheel of time has turned again. Niniane said it would happen at Autun. It must have been a slaughter. . . . Well, I will not hold you here. You must be off to Guinevere. When you see her”—his gaze softened and he looked quickly away—“do not tell her about my fears. Don’t alarm her. Tell her Arthur is on his way and Lancelot is healing. That is all she’ll want to know.”
“My lord, I cannot tell her about Lancelot.”
Mordred looked at him in surprise; then his gaze narrowed in a long, assessing look. “So that’s it. I knew there was a barb in you that pricked your spirit. I never knew it was Guinevere.” Galahad avoided his eyes. Mordred sighed. “You believe the rumors because your father loves her.”
“And she loves him. The High King told me so.”
“Yes,” Mordred said evenly. “My father believes in facing facts. What he did not tell you, I imagine, is that she loves him more than Lancelot; she loves him more than life. She had a chance to choose between them once, years ago, after her abduction. Niniane herself put the choice before her. She chose Arthur.” Galahad’s eyes widened and Mordred smiled. “Do not imagine she and Lancelot are lovers bereft, pining for each other behind the King’s back. They would laugh at the very idea. The center of their world is Arthur. And it always has been.”
“But she has been the cause of so much misery—”
Mordred laughed quietly. “Every lovely woman is. Don’t take it to heart so. No one can make you unhappy, Galahad, without your consent. Don’t listen to gossip. Take men as you find them.” He raised his arm in a gesture of dismissal. “I apologize for the sermon. The Queen awaits you. Take up your weapons and go on your way. And may your God go with you.”
In a daze Galahad buckled on his swordbelt and stumbled from the tent. The army of boys watched him with open curiosity. A groom held his stallion ready. They had watered the horse, picked his feet, and groomed his coat. He rode unmolested out of camp, unable to speak, unable to pull his whirling thoughts together. Of his own accord the stallion headed toward the Camel ford and home. Mordred loyal! It was the only thought his mind could summon, and it stunned him. I’m sure of this: Arthur is good, Mordred is evil, and the Saxons are our enemies! How was the world turned upside down in so short a time! A lightning flash lit the sky. For the space of a heartbeat he saw the dark silhouette of Caer Camel rising in the distance, her summit pricked with light. Then the world went black. Thunder rumbled ominously in the distance.
“Come on, Farouk, old boy. It’s a night of revelations—nothing is as it once was.” He put his leg to the horse’s side and the animal broke into an eager gallop. Who knows, he thought as another flash ripped open the brooding sky. Who knows what awaits on such a night?
42
THE QUEEN OF CAMELOT
Galahad stood in the Queen’s garden in a drenching rain. A fitful wind tore at his cloak and stung his face. It was the middle of the night, but a dim light shone above him from the Queen’s chamber. A shadow passed before the light, a slender shadow, pacing. Still, he paused at the bottom of the steps to her terrace. His ebullient mood seemed to have dissolved in the pelting rain. Now that he was here, he would rather fight a hundred Saxon savages than face this one woman. Every man he knew had fallen victim to her charm. Yet she was not an enchantress; she had no magic; her power over men was a fully human kind of charming. He was determined to make his visit short. He would climb the steps, deliver his message, give her news of Arthur, and depart. He was only a messenger. There was no reason to linger.
He shifted his shoulders and water streamed from his cloak. Still, he waited. The storm had broken well before he reached Caer Camel. He had cut through the woods at the base of the high hill, tied his horse at the spring, and approached the secret entrance by the route the King had described. No one had seen him. It had been easy. Not so easy to scale the wall into the garden, but not difficult for a strong youth on an urgent mission. He looked up and saw the dark shadow of a woman standing by the terrace door, gazing out. As she turned to draw the curtain he saw a glimmer of her face—it was not the Queen. Swiftly, he ran up the steps and scratched at the glazing as she pulled the curtain closed. How many times, he wondered suddenly, had Lancelot done the same?
The curtain parted. A slender, plain-featured young woman stared at him in surprise, a candle in her hand. Galahad open
ed his cloak to show he carried no sword, no knife, no weapon of any kind. He reached into his tunic and showed her the scroll, then beckoned her urgently to open the latch. She hesitated, watching his face. There was no hint of beauty about her, but she had wide, intelligent eyes, and she had poise. She lifted the candle to get a better look at him, and then slowly unlatched the door.
“Who are you?” she whispered fiercely as he stepped forward. “Quickly, man, or I’ll call the guard!”
“I come from the King,” he whispered back, shaking the water from his cloak. “I bear a message for the Queen. In secret.”
“King Arthur?” she said softly, wide-eyed. “Does he live?”
“Of course he lives! Did you not know it?”
“Praise God!” she quavered, crossing herself with feeling. “We have heard only rumors. We don’t know what to think. Mordred is High King now.”
Galahad shook his head. “Not for long.”
“Where is the King? Is he without?”
“No, but he is coming. Only Mordred still stands between him and home.”
She covered her mouth with her hand.
“Anna!” a voice spoke from behind them. “Who is there?”
Anna whirled and Galahad dropped to one knee. “Queen Guinevere.”
She stood in the doorway but her presence filled the room. Robed in dark cloth, she was invisible among the shadows but for her white-gold hair and her alabaster skin. She crossed the room with quick steps and stood before him. He bent his head.
“I know your voice. Who are you?”
To his amazement, his body trembled. He, who had killed a hundred men that very week, he had to draw upon his courage to face this woman! He raised his head and his hood slipped back.
She drew a quick breath. “Galahad! What does this mean? How did you come here?”
“By the garden gate, my lady, and up the stairs. In my father’s footsteps.” He instantly regretted his impudence, but her very presence made him fling up his defenses like a hedgehog.
“You presume too much!”
“Forgive me,” he murmured. “It will not happen twice.”
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