The Knight of the Sacred Lake

by Rosalind Miles

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  MAP

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 48

  CHAPTER 49

  CHAPTER 50

  CHAPTER 51

  CHAPTER 52

  CHAPTER 53

  CHAPTER 54

  CHAPTER 55

  CHAPTER 56

  CHAPTER 57

  CHAPTER 58

  LIST OF CHARACTERS

  LIST OF PLACES

  THE CELTIC WHEEL OF THE YEAR

  THE CHRISTIAN WHEEL OF THE YEAR

  A Reader’s Guide to the GUENEVERE Trilogy by ROSALIND MILES

  The CHILD of the HOLY GRAIL

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ALSO BY ROSALIND MILES

  Copyright Page

  For the One

  Who Roams the Astral Plane

  IT BEFELL IN THE DAYS of Uther Pendragon, King of all England, that he loved the Queen of Cornwall, a fair lady by the name of Igraine. So he came there with a great host, and Merlin raised a mist in which Igraine’s husband Duke Gorlois was slain. Then Merlin brought Uther to Igraine in her castle at Tintagel in the likeness of Gorlois, and Uther lay with her and begat on her the child called Arthur.

  Then Uther took Queen Igraine as his wife, and willed King Lot of the Orkneys to wed the Queen’s daughter Morgause. Her other daughter, Morgan Le Fay, he put to a nunnery, because he would have it so. Then the Queen waxed great with child, and when she was delivered, the child was given to Merlin out at a postern gate to nourish as his own. Merlin placed the boy at fosterage with Sir Ector, a knight of King Ursien of Gore.

  Within two years King Uther fell sick of a great malady, and died. And after many years, Merlin called all the people to London, to show who should be rightwise king of the realm, and Arthur drew the sword out of the stone.

  And when Arthur was King, it befell that he would take him a wife. He said to Merlin, “I love Guenevere of Camelot, that hath in her house the Round Table, and she is the most valiant fair lady alive.” And Merlin said, “Sir, if you loved her not so well, I should find you a damsel that should please you more than this Queen.” And Merlin warned the King privily that Sir Lancelot should love Guenevere, and she him again, but the King’s heart was set.

  So they were wedded, and ruled together with good cheer. And a son was born to them that Arthur took to war, and the boy perished because he was too young.

  Then the King cast great love to his sister on the mother’s side, Morgan Le Fay, and lay with her and begat on her a son called Mordred. When she was found with child, Arthur gave her to King Ursien of Gore to wife, and ordered all the young infants of that age to be put in a ship and cast out to sea. And the ship was wrecked and the children drowned and their bodies cast up, save that the boy Mordred was never found.

  And Sir Lancelot of the Lake, son of King Ban of Benoic in Little Britain, came to court, and in all tournaments and feats of arms, he passed all other men. Wherefore the Queen held him in high favour, and Sir Lancelot loved the Queen above all other ladies of his life.

  Yet for the love they had of Arthur they might not partake of their pleasure, nor dishonour the noble fellowship of knights. So the Queen said to Lancelot, “Fair sweet friend, break my heart, but I must desire you to leave...”

  MORTE D’ARTHUR

  CHAPTER 1

  High on its Crag, Camelot slumbered in the shining gloom. The owls drowsed in the bell tower, and the round turrets with their pointed roofs, bright pennants, and golden spires hung in the glimmering air. The guard n the lookout shifted himself on his haunches and preared for an easy watch. On these blessed summer evenings a silver twilight lingered all night long, even in the dead hours, when the Fair Ones walked.

  He chuckled softly. The Fair Ones, yes. Well, a June watchman was never short of company. But a wise man learned to look the other way when he felt the Fair Ones near. And they’d surely be abroad tonight, what with the Queen’s feast and all.

  Thin snatches of sound came fleetingly to his ears, the chant of plainsong rising from far below. His eyes traveled down to the courtyard, where a long building huddled in the shelter of the wall. Through the high mullioned windows, a single light burned brightly in the dark. It was the flame above the altar, the symbol of unfailing hope and prayer.

  Hope, was it? They’d need it, all those poor devils down below. The watchman shuddered as he pondered it. Ye Gods, to be down there now, and all night too!

  Yet to the men inside the chapel, their night’s work was not an ordeal, but a great honor, he knew. He scratched his head, and let his mind roam free. What must it be like, to be made a knight by the Queen?

  The Queen—his senses misted with a fleeting memory of white and gold, a drifting shape, a shining smile. A haze of precious thoughts descended on him like a cloud of winged things. To kneel to her, and call yourself her knight, to touch her hand and swear to die for her—yes, any man would thrill to that destiny, that kiss of fate. And all the young men in the chapel had fought for this, chased after it for years. They had valued it above the love of women, above life itself. No matter then what they were going through. Some would endure, some wouldn’t, that was all.

  And afterward, they’d have a feast to end all feasts. Gods above, he grinned to himself, what the Queen had commanded from far and wide! Wagons full of beer and wine, carts groaning with fresh meat, every home farm raided for miles around. The cooks had been cursing and tearing their hair for weeks as the Queen’s orders flew like arrows from her high tower. “Nothing but the best! There are queens and kings expected, and all our people from here and far away. Above all we must honor our new-made knights.”

  The new knights.

  Well, their honor would be dearly bought.

  With a sigh, he turned his eyes down again to pray for the sufferers below.

  INSIDE THE CHAPEL the air was misty and cool. The young knight swayed on his knees and lifted unseeing eyes. High on the wall, the Round Table hung suspended above the stout trestles that supported it when it was in use. The great circle gleamed with its own light like the face of the moon. The knight fixed his gaze on it and tried to drag his mind back from wandering in some lost realm of pain. Dear Lady, Queen of Heaven, bless my vigil, he prayed humbly. Let me not faint, let me not disgrace my newfound honor and Your sacred name.

  At the back of the church the Master of the Novices viewed him sardonically, and echoed his prayer. Folding his arms, he leaned his ba
ck against the damp chill of the chapel wall, and surveyed the kneeling rows facing the altar, all silent now, and gray-faced like old men. They were all the same, these young knights-in-the-making, on fire to be the best in the land. But after the first hour on their knees on the cold stone, even the strongest was praying to survive.

  They could lie down, of course. Every one of the twenty young men kneeling now in prayer would spend some part of the hours between dusk and dawn prostrate before the altar, arms outstretched to form the sign of the Cross. After the first hour or two, when the stones they knelt on felt like knives of fire, the weaker vessels would fall on their faces and remain there all night long. Others would repeatedly struggle to remain upright, till the bell rang for first light.

  The Novice Master smiled coldly to himself. Already he could tell which of them would fall, and even when. And he could tell too, from this simple fact, those who would make good knights, and who would not.

  And most would not. His eye passed carefully over their ranks. He was too old a hand at knight-making to sigh over young men’s frailties and lost hopes. But every year at this time he remembered how ardently the new knights all embarked, and how few were destined to survive the course. Some would perish cleanly on the point of a lance or sword, often on their first outing from the court, as they sought the deeds of daring that would make their name. Others faced a messier, crueler end, the long slow death of hope and faith, as they measured themselves year by year against the dreams they once had had, and found themselves further back than when they had begun.

  These would be the ones who had fallen on their faces at the first trial of strength. He could smell it on them now, the stink of fear and failure, the terror of a little pain. The Novice Master sucked his teeth, and rocked back on his heels. So many were called to knighthood, and so few would prove to be knights of any worth.

  Take the Orkney princes now—

  With a frisson of unease, he surveyed the three mighty forms shoulder to shoulder at the front of the church, still rock solid on their knees. Not one of them would faint; he would take money on that. They had no fear of pain. And as nephews of King Arthur, they would surely be loyal enough. Loyal, tough, and brave. So what was it about the three sons of King Lot that made him wish they were not among his charges, not destined to become knights of the Round Table when the night was done?

  Tenderly he explored the thought like a fresh wound. Sir Gawain had been the King’s most faithful knight from the first, rough-hewn and pugnacious, yes, but as true as they came. Why then should his three younger brothers fail? Each of them was as big as Gawain, and as useful in a fight. But none would shape up like Gawain, there was no hope of that.

  Yet every year there was one who gave him hope. His eyes returned to the frail youth he had seen before. Mador, it was, yes, Mador of the Meads. Young Mador would not fail.

  With grudging approval the older man eyed the slight figure on its knees before the altar, rigid with terror, transcendent with desire. He was a good lad, Mador was, and no mistake. His brother showed promise too, holding on at Mador’s side so grimly that he would swoon with agony sooner than give in. They were good lads both, Mador and Patrise. But Mador had felt the flame, he had the edge.

  And he would make a perfect knight in time.

  The Novice Master sighed. If—

  If the lad survived the night with honor, according to his own high desire—

  If he did not lose his head for love, and forget tournaments and feats of arms—

  If he could find a worthy knight to follow, one like Sir Lancelot, not a rough warrior like Sir Gawain, or a cynic like Sir Kay—

  Lancelot—

  The Novice Master sighed now in earnest, and deeper than he knew. Did anyone in the world know where Lancelot was, and when he would return?

  PATRISE! DON’T FAIL, don’t fall, hold on!

  The young knight Mador leaned sideways to take the weight of his brother’s swaying body, and tried urgently to drop the thought into his mind: Hold on, Patrise, hold on. Patrise stirred and braced himself, and shot back a glance of grateful love. I will, brother, I will. The comforting recognition passed between them: not long now.

  Mador closed his eyes and looked out through the thin flesh of his lids. He had discovered a while ago that he could see better that way. Truly it was the best way to see; in fact it was the only way to see her at all.

  And there she was, dazzling his eyes as always, filling his soul with steel. She was all that any knight could hope to worship and adore. And now she was appearing to him in the dim chapel, shining for him, floating below the great Round Table of the Goddess where tomorrow her chosen knights would sit.

  The knights of the Queen.

  He swayed on his knees, drunk with ecstasy. Guenevere, his soul chanted, Guenevere the Queen. Every man here would give his life for her, if he could die in the light of her smile. But how could he dream of the Queen’s favor, when he had done nothing to deserve her regard? How to be worthy? Mador groaned to himself. How to live up to her knight that was gone?

  For a moment Mador’s faith faltered, and his proud heart quailed. No man could surpass Lancelot, any more than another woman could hope to outdo Guenevere herself. They both seemed to have lived a thousand lives before this, when at last they came into their own. Mador’s soul shrank further into itself. Lancelot was the best knight in the world, and would always be.

  But any man could become better than nature had made him at the start, Mador reasoned humbly in the breaks between his fervent, wandering prayers. Another man could not be Lancelot. But he could try to emulate the knight the Queen loved. Loved so much, it was said, that he had had to go away. And it was certain he had gone, but none knew where, or when he could return.

  But here or afar, Sir Lancelot was the star by which every young man set his course. Lancelot would not fail, and neither must he. Yielding again to the passion of his pain, Mador floated out of himself, above the fragile body kneeling on the stones. His spirit soared with the chanting of his soul: Guenevere my lady. Guenevere the Queen.

  CHAPTER 2

  The landlord knew what they were the moment they came in. They were modestly dressed for the road like any other travelers, but their air of dignity and quiet assurance was not to be missed. His eye quickened. The lehouse was packed, and the customers were drinkng well, but that type had to be worth a week’s takings or more.

  “Look sharp!” the landlord hissed to his harassed serving girl, delivering a swift kick to her leg. “Clear the table in the corner by the fire, and bring in three of the best goblets right away.”

  “Yes, sir.” The sweat-stained girl pushed a strand of damp hair away from her forehead, and scurried to obey.

  The newcomers stood on the threshold assessing the dim interior full of idle clamor, the low, smoke-blackened beams, the sour reek of bodies, the thick fug of beer. Only nightfall and a shortage of other accommodation would have brought them to his wretched door, the landlord knew. Best not let them get away.

  “Welcome, sirs!” he cried, wiping his hands on his dirty apron, and bustling forward with an oily grin. “It’s not often I can welcome knights like your noble selves to my poor house! Step inside, come in! The girl will have a table for you in a trice.”

  Behind him he could hear loud, drunken protests as the servant girl dislodged the drinkers at the corner table, and moved them to join the group standing round the fire. Covertly the landlord assessed the three men. Younger than they looked at first, and finer too, no knights of the road, living by their wits, but young men of the court, most likely companions of the King. Two of them were brothers, he decided, no mistaking that, though the shorter was neat, brown-haired and reserved, while the other was fairer, and more open-faced. But what to make of the tallest of the three?

  It was plain that the brothers deferred to him, and that his abstracted nod decided what they should do. The short, dark-haired knight was watching earnestly for his word, while the fair one
waited patiently in the rear. But the tall knight seemed not to care where he was. His burning brown eyes looked out on another world than this, and his lithe, slender frame stood half-turned in the doorway as if he was reluctant to enter the place and leave the comfort of the dark outside.

  Even the landlord, a complacent monument of common clay, could tell that the stranger was no ordinary man. He wore a soft green leather tunic patterned with silver studs, and a fine woolen cloak in the same woodland hue. His chestnut hair gleamed with a light of its own, and when he moved, every line of his form had grace. He stood on the threshold with an ardent, grieving air, as if searching for something he had lost and never hoped to find.

  The landlord saw all this, and it twisted his heart. He remembered a knight like this, years ago, who went to the woods one day and never returned. That one had been a good-looker like this knight too, and all the town said that the Queen of the Fair Ones had taken him for her love.

  Darkness and devils! The landlord cursed under his breath. Why was he letting this stranger knight put such tomfool thoughts into his head? And where was that idiot girl? He reached out, caught the maid by the back of her neck, and viciously wrung the scrawny flesh. “Run to the cellar, dimwit!” he commanded roughly. “And fetch the wine from the back shelf, you know the one.”

  He raised his hand to speed her on her way. To his surprise he found the tall knight standing between him and his own servant, the silly slut he had taken in only out of the kindness of his heart.

  “No need to make the maid run for us, landlord. We can wait our turn,” were the words he spoke. And do not dare to strike her again, was written in every line of the lithe body poised to enforce his pronouncement if the landlord disobeyed.

  To the end of her life, the maidservant never forgot the look in the knight’s bright eyes as he raked the landlord with contempt, then turned his thoughtful gaze on her. Great lord as he was, she knew in her small bones that something of her own sadness, the daily misery of a loveless life, hung about him too.

  As she ran for the cellar, she could hear the landlord’s groveling tones. “Just as you say, sir. Whatever you say.” He was angry now, she could tell, and a bleak acceptance settled into her soul. It was gracious and good of the tall knight to speak up for her like that. But where would he be when she paid for it later, as she’d have to, for sure?