Gawain had said that Merlin had not prayed with the army that day at Mount Badon, and Guinevere knew that though he was an enemy of Mab, he still used the magic she had given him. How could the weapons of Darkness be used in the service of the Light?
For questions such as these, the young queen had no answer.
The chivalry of Britain thundered out upon the field, and the air was filled with the sounds of clashing swords and shouting men. Merlin looked out over the melee, spotting Lancelot without difficulty. The knight which the Lady of the Lake had sent Merlin to find was holding his own against all foes. His sword flashed in the sun and the coat of his black charger gleamed like silk.
“Your Majesty,” Merlin said, bowing.
“Oh, don’t be so formal with me, Merlin!” Arthur urged. He reached up his hand to clasp the wizard’s, his eyes intent upon the tourney field. “You used to be willing to call me Arthur—and much worse, too. Where have you been? You were gone so long—the others all said you’d left for good, but I knew you would not leave without saying good-bye.”
“And so I would not,” Merlin answered. “But magic is a tricky business. The moment that you think you’re the master of it, magic will master you. But I survived well enough—and brought you Lancelot.”
“He fights like no knight I have ever seen,” Arthur said, his eyes never leaving the spectacle before him. “Where did he come from?”
“The Lady of the Lake sent him,” Merlin answered, “and so he is known as Lancelot of the Lake.”
There was a crash on the field as Lancelot unhorsed a knight—it was Agravain, one of the Queen’s brothers, and she gasped and stiffened, seeing him fall. Lancelot rode out of the melee, raising his sword to salute the royal box, then rode back into battle once more.
Squires and pages ran onto the field to capture riderless horses and help their masters to safety. The assembly rose to its feet each time a favorite was in trouble, the ladies crying out to the knights who bore their favors into battle.
The fighting continued for hours, and slowly the number of combatants declined. As the field thinned, the melee combat gave way to the joust, as knights rode to the sides of the field to claim their long ashwood lances, then thundered toward each other in a brutal contest of strength and nerve. The crack of splintered lances sounded over all the other sounds of the field, and slowly the number of undefeated knights diminished.
Gawain, on his huge blood-bay destrier, was still in the fight, and so was Bedivere, though Gawain’s three brothers and Bedivere’s cousin had been unhorsed and defeated earlier. Those knights not under the care of the chirurgeons had gathered upon the sidelines of the tourney field to watch the contest, for as the day had worn on, it gradually became clear to all those watching that Sir Lancelot of the Lake was a knight without equal … unless that equal was Gawain.
At last only the two of them were left.
Gawain rode to the edge of the field, taking a fresh lance from his squire Simnel. He turned into the rays of the westering sun. At the far side of the field, Lancelot was also accepting a spear. The setting sun gilded his armor, turning its silver into gold and his black stallion into a horse of blood.
Merlin had left the king’s side hours before to go into the tents where the chirurgeons cared for the wounded. After the first few minutes, he had no doubt that his champion would defeat all others to become the guardian of the crown, and his healing skills were needed among the players of this rough sport.
If only he had some art that would turn Arthur from this unwise quest as easily as he had summoned a champion to support it. Let the king stay here where he was needed—others could waste their time seeking after the Grail.
Merlin’s thoughts were so much an echo of things he’d said to Nimue over the years that he stopped, wondering if he was actually right or if he’d simply fallen into an unexamined habit. Perhaps Arthur had spoken the truth. Perhaps the spiritual quest was truly as important a task as the mundane rule of Britain. Perhaps one was not complete without the other.
Merlin shook his head ruefully.
Perhaps I have judged Arthur too harshly. Part of me, I fear, will always see him as the child I took into my care when he was but a few hours old. But if I havejudged him, I have also helped him to do what he thinks is right. I’ve brought him Lancelot.
He heard the crowd roar at something that happened upon the field. Bradamante passed him, heading toward the stands. She had shed her armor for a tunic and breeches, for the woman warrior was under a vow not to assume women’s dress until Jerusalem had been freed.
“Come on, Wizard! Gawain’s in the lists—he’ll take that Lancelot down a few pegs!” She clapped Merlin on the shoulder as she strode past him.
Merlin smiled. It was Gawain who was in for a shock, not Lancelot. He headed for the royal box. The moment he had been waiting for all day had come.
“Look, Guinevere. You’ll get what you wanted after all. Gawain will face the stranger,” Arthur said, taking her hand. “Your hands are so cold.”
“I’m tired,” Guinevere answered shortly, pulling away. She sat forward in her chair, staring at the field, clenched fists hidden in the folds of her skirts. All around her, the spectators laughed and cheered, while on the field the fate of Britain’s queen was being decided.
On one side was her brother Gawain, a giant of a man, laughing and fearless, his gold-washed bronze helmet glinting in the evening light. On the other side of the field stood the stranger, Merlin’s protégé, faceless and menacing in his shining steel armor. In a moment they would charge, and one would fall. Guinevere prayed with all the passion in her heart that it would be Lancelot who fell, and Gawain who would prevail and lend her his strength, just as he had since she was a small child.
The onlookers began to cheer as both men spurred their horses forward. As the charge began, each held his lance high, but as they approached one another, they lowered their lances into position, each aiming for the other’s heart.
She could not look. And she could not look away. With helpless anguish, Guinevere stared as the two armored titans pounded toward each other on an inevitable collision course.
There was a crash, and both lances splintered, the pieces flying across the field to lodge in the turf like a flight of arrows. Lancelot swayed in his saddle, and for a moment Guinevere thought he would fall, but it was Gawain who fell, cartwheeling over his horse’s rump to fall, spread-eagled and dazed, to the ground. The black horse neighed as Lancelot reined it in.
No one cheered. There was a long moment of silence, broken by a few groans of disappointment, then some of the spectators clapped forlornly.
“He’s unhorsed Gawain!” Arthur said in disbelief.
But you knew he would. Merlin brought him here to do just that, Guinevere thought. She sat very still as the stranger knight on the prancing stallion rode up to the royal box, holding the stump of his splintered lance in his right hand. How Merlin must be exulting to see all his plans fall so neatly into place!
“Lancelot of the Lake takes the honors! He is the best—and the noblest—of the knights!” Arthur cried gallantly, rising to his feet. Guinevere rose with him, but her legs would not hold her. She sank back into her chair, staring at the stranger as the rabbit stares at the fox. He reached up to raise the visor of his helmet.
And time stopped. Lancelot was no monster, but the most beautiful man she had ever seen … and more. There was a melancholy in him, a secret sorrow, that tugged at her heartstrings. She felt herself reaching out to him, as if her whole soul could drown in those storm-blue eyes.
Merlin really makes this too easy, Mab thought with glee. He made all his plans openly, in the light of day, and trusted them to endure by their own strength. All she needed to do to thwart him was to wait until he acted, then destroy his hopes. And all the while at Castle Tintagel, Mordred was growing big and strong, and there was nothing Merlin could do to prevent Mab’s eventual victory.
Invisibly, she appeared
beside the Queen’s throne. Merlin was only a few feet away, yet he sensed nothing of her presence. She watched as Merlin’s chosen protector rode up to the royal box. Her hold on Arthur might be broken with Mordred’s begetting, but his Queen could still be led astray by fairy arts. When Lancelot lifted his visor, Mab was there to whisper in her ear: “He’s very handsome, isn’t he?”
And the Queen whispered: “Yes. …”
“What did you say, my lady?” Arthur asked.
“Nothing,” Guinevere answered. She leaned forward, the better to see Sir Lancelot.
“Your Majesty,” Lancelot said, gazing up at the king and queen, “I offer you my sword—and my life.” Bright pearls of sweat stood out on his forehead, as if his skin were studded with diamonds.
“It is an honor, brave knight,” Arthur answered easily. He raised his voice to be heard by all. “As Champion, Lancelot shall—”
With a moan, Lancelot crashed unconscious to the ground, cutting off the king’s next words.
It was Gawain who reached him first, cradling his fallen opponent in his arms. “He’s wounded,” Gawain cried. “My lance splintered and took him in the shoulder—a fearful blow.”
Though the tourney lances were deliberately blunt, not tipped with the killing points they would have in war, accidents happened. A splintered lance could pierce the defenses of even the finest armor.
“Save him!” Guinevere cried. Arthur glanced toward her approvingly, but Guinevere did not see. Gawain’s shout had fetched attendants from the edges of the field, and under Gawain’s supervision they carried the unconscious Lancelot off to Gawain’s own arming pavilion. Guinevere watched until they were out of sight.
The tourney was over, and as the sun set the spectators rose from their seats to return to their lodgings.
“What about the feast, Your Majesty?” Sir Boris asked.
“The feast?” Arthur said blankly.
“The feast, Sire, with which you intended to honor the Queen’s Champion,” Merlin explained. He had heard people talking about it while he had been helping among the healers. “It will be a bit strange to have a feast for a man who isn’t there.”
“Nevertheless,” Arthur said with a sigh, “I can’t just change my mind. All those people would be so disappointed, and the cooks have been laboring for three days. We’ll just have to hope that Lancelot recovers in time to join us.”
When the others returned to their chambers to prepare for dinner, Guinevere slipped away and went to the tourney field. She did not think she could rest until she’d seen how Lancelot was. She wrapped her thick wool cloak around herself, hoping no one would recognize their queen. The knights would only think it was their right to bundle her back off to Camelot as if she were some unruly child. She was Queen, Guinevere realized, but she did not rule. No one listened to her.
“Jenny! What are you doing here?” a voice demanded from behind her.
She turned around, heart hammering in her throat, but it was only Gawain. He, at least, wouldn’t send her packing.
“I came to see Lancelot. Do you know how he is?” she asked.
“No,” said her brother, “but I know where he is. I was just going to see if the others are all right: you know Agravain, nothing can dent his hard head, and Gaheris was lucky as always, but Gareth’s horse fell on him, poor lad, and he’s broken an ankle. I sent Simnel to him, as he wouldn’t have the doctors, and now I’m going to see how Lancelot fares. It was a grievous wound that he took, and I’m sorry for him.”
“He can’t die!” Guinevere gasped. Gawain looked at her oddly.
“I mean,” she stumbled on, “that it would be very poor hospitality—to kill him—when he’s only just come to us.”
“You’re right of course,” Gawain said, walking along beside her. “Here we are.”
He pushed open the door-slit of his arming pavilion so that his sister could precede him.
The interior of the pavilion was dark, and reeked of the smoke of herbs burned to clear away the foul humors. Gawain’s armor and shield were shoved into a corner to make room for the three distinguished physicians who were debating the proper treatment for their patient.
“How is he?” Guinevere asked.
“Fair to middling,” the Chief Physician said, “considering we haven’t taken the lance out yet.”
“And why not?” Gawain demanded, following her into the tent.
“There is a dispute—a scholarly dispute—as to whether we should take it out con or contra-wise, which means—to the mere layman—turning and pulling it to the left or to the right. …”
The other two physicians eagerly joined in the debate, but Guinevere ignored them. She moved on into the inner room, where Lancelot lay, still in all his armor, on the narrow pallet on which they had carried him from the field.
His face was pale and stark with pain, but he managed to smile when he saw her.
“Is there anything I can do for you, Sir Lancelot?” she asked in a low voice.
“Hold my hand, Lady,” he whispered, reaching out to her. His fingers were cold and strong, and she could feel the tremors that the pain sent through his body.
“—as the planets Venus and Uranus will be the dominant influences—” came from the outer room.
“You’re physicians! Instead of arguing about it—do it!” Gawain demanded loudly.
The three doctors regarded him with identical affronted expressions.
“Do it?” the first asked. “We must talk about it first.”
“Indeed,” said the second, “these are weighty matters, fit only for experts.”
“Trust us!” the Chief Physician said. “If we treat a knight for a broken arm, that’s what he’ll die of.”
But Gawain—simple, honest, straightforward Gawain—had lost what small store of patience he possessed.
“That’s enough! Enough! Lancelot—”
He followed Guinevere to the inner room and looked down at the man lying upon the bed. “Are you ready, Sir Knight?”
“Do it, Gawain,” Lancelot answered steadily.
Gawain bent over the bed and grasped the splintered end of the lance in his strong hands. The point of the lance had entered beneath Lancelot’s arm, the weakest spot upon a knight’s armor, and the silvery scale mail around the wound was dark with pooled blood. Without warning, Gawain yanked the spear point free.
Lancelot’s hand tightened upon hers in a crushing grip, but Guinevere would not cry out. Lancelot endured the agony in silence, his mouth open in a soundless scream as the point slowly worked free of the wound. Suddenly his muscles went slack and his head lolled to the side. He had fainted.
“Now make yourselves useful!” Gawain bellowed at the men standing behind him. “Bandage the man up before he bleeds to death, and a scurvy pox on your planets!” He flung away the bloodsoaked lance.
As the doctors scurried to obey, Guinevere gently laid Lancelot’s hand across his chest. The way he had stared into her eyes through the pain, as though he had stared into her soul! He had needed her. No man had ever needed her before … not even her husband.
The doctors were hurrying to obey Gawain, and Guinevere stepped back to allow the doctors to do their work. Some of the blood had gotten on her skirt, making mahogany shadows on her gay red gown.
“Come on, Jenny. Arthur will wonder why you aren’t at the feast,” Gawain said, leading her gently out of the pavilion. The evening air was cool after the heat of the tent and she shivered. “I’ll stay here and tend to him,” Gawain added.
She stared up at her brother’s face in the soft twilight. From the moment she’d first learned to walk, Gawain had been there to protect her. But now something had happened—something for which she had no words—and Gawain could not protect her now.
“Your Majesty?”
She turned, to see Arthur’s wizard behind her. Flustered, her hands darted about—to her crown, to her hair, to the folds of her skirt—trying to smooth away her disquiet. “Yes?” she ans
wered, her voice higher and sharper than she intended.
If Merlin noticed her discourtesy, he gave no sign. “The king asked me to see if there was anything I could do for Lancelot.”
“Gawain pulled the lance from his shoulder,” Guinevere answered.
“The doctors are bandaging him now. I do not think there is any more harm they can do him, and in any event, I will stay to keep watch over him,” Gawain said to Merlin. “Take the Queen back to Camelot. This is no place for her.”
“I shall be honored,” Merlin said, and offered Guinevere his arm. Reluctant, but unable to do anything else, she took it.
The Great Hall of the castle was still unfinished, but the torches that ringed its walls this April night dispelled the dark and damp, and the golden stone the king had chosen for his city shone warmly in the firelight.
The High Table was covered with a cloth of white linen and set with cups and plates and pitchers and trays of jewel-studded silver and enameled gold. Though Arthur had not yet reigned a year, the peace he had brought had already caused the land to flourish, and the Eastertide banquet held this night was evidence of how far Britain had come in just a few short months. Every savory treat that the cooks could provide had been set forth to delight the company assembled to celebrate the choosing of Arthur’s champion, from whole roast swan and peacock in their plumage, to venison in spiced frumenty, to large cased pies of beef and pork. There were conserves of quince and roses, wines flavored with saffron and the Grains of Paradise that turned the vintage a deep ruby, glazed fruits in honey, and for dessert, a subtlety of a unicorn with a gilded horn made entirely of spun sugar and marzipan.
Arthur, seated at the High Table in a painted and gilded chair with his device—an image of the Blessed Virgin enthroned upon a crescent moon—carved upon its back, presided over it all. Around the King sat his closest friends and advisers—Lord Lot, Sir Boris, Sir Hector, and others—but one who might have been expected to be present was not.
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