The Knight of the Sacred Lake

by Rosalind Miles

  Arthur waved Ursien and Accolon to draw near. “So, Ursien, what news?”

  Ursien planted his feet like a soldier and fixed his eyes on the ceiling overhead. “None at all, sire.”

  Arthur stiffened. “She can’t have disappeared!”

  Guenevere clasped her hands, and forced herself to be calm. Arthur, you know she can.

  Arthur’s color changed. “And the boy?”

  Watching his face, Guenevere suppressed a groan. Arthur, why ask, why torment yourself? Wherever she is, he’s with her, we can be sure of that.

  “We’ve scoured the country from our borders to the sea,” Ursien returned. “We searched into the Welshlands, and up as far as the shore looking over to the Druids’ Isle.” He gave a harsh laugh. “Without success. Anywhere in these islands could be home to Morgan Le Fay.”

  Arthur flinched at the sound of the name. “Don’t remind me, Ursien! Do you think I’ll ever forget what she can do—what she’s already done to all of us?” He turned to Guenevere, his face working, and took her hand. “Oh, my love—”

  He paused, struggling to master his welling grief. “I—I—” He shook his head. “Forgive me, Ursien.” Abruptly he left the chamber, covering his face.

  “My lady!” Ursien was aghast. “Did I offend the King?”

  Guenevere crossed to Ursien and took his hand. “Don’t reproach yourself,” she said sadly. “The King has never forgiven himself for drawing you into this.” She paused. “When he knew—when we all knew—what Morgan was like—”

  Ursien nodded, recovering himself. “Comfort yourself, madam, I did too. I thought I had the measure of the witch.” He laughed savagely. “Never was I more wrong!”

  Guenevere shook her head. “The King does not blame you. He knows you did your best to keep her decently.”

  “But there’s no keeping a witch and a whore!” Ursien broke in violently. “A thing of evil, who sucks out men’s souls! The King must want to see her stripped and whipped in the marketplace, then broken on the wheel, joint by joint. Not only for all the men she has enslaved, but for Amir.”

  A faint gasp escaped Guenevere unaware. She stood quite still.

  Amir.

  She hardly ever heard his name these days. The sound of it went rolling around in her mind. Then her sight faded, and he came to her as he always did, his arms outstretched, his fair hair glinting like Arthur’s in the sun, his face turning up to be kissed, his sturdy little body warm in her embrace.

  Lost and gone, years ago now.

  Guenevere gave a violent shudder and came to herself again.

  “Never fear, King Ursien,” she said gently, laying her hand upon his arm. “My son is worlds beyond any such revenge. And do not fear that King Arthur would ever take the life of a woman, still less of the queen your wife. She is still his sister, and his own kin too. We are both hoping that she has finished with us now. The King prays every day that she has gone, never to return.” She paused, and nerved herself to say the name. “But if Morgan Le Fay is found, I swear to you that the King will be governed by reason, not by lust for blood.”

  Could any woman be so generous to a rival who had seduced her husband, and plotted to take her place? King Ursien chewed at the mouth hairs of his beard. Yes, Guenevere could. Too many had died already against her will. From now on, she would end the march of death. He looked at Guenevere with new respect.

  “. . . and till then,” she was saying, “let us make as merry as we can.” She tried bravely for a smile. “Tomorrow we celebrate ten years of our marriage, and ten years of our reign. You must raise a glass with us at the feast, my lord, and drink to the honor of our new-made knights.”

  Her eyes were glistening with unshed tears. Unexpectedly Ursien felt his old eyes moistening too. So beautiful, so sad, and all alone. What was it he had heard about Lancelot? Well, time enough for that.

  With a sweep of her hand, Guenevere gestured toward the window and the world beyond. Outside a deep purple dusk had settled on the Summer Country’s rounded hills and green pastures, its rich forests and wide woodland ways. Above the horizon, Venus the love-star shed her blazing beams. Guenevere smiled.

  “The night is clear, and tomorrow will be fine. My Druids tell me that the Old Ones plan to honor our celebrations with a run of perfect days.” She drew Accolon toward her and took King Ursien by the arm. “And when the feast is over and the other guests have gone, will you take the King out hunting in the forest, good sirs, somewhere sweet and wholesome, far away?”

  Ursien nodded toward his knight. “Sir Accolon has already suggested as much.”

  Guenevere pressed his arm. “Will you ride out with Arthur then, old friend, and help him drive this wretched grief away?”

  Ursien’s sigh sounded like a groan. “If we can, my lady,” he said heavily. “If we can.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Was he dreaming, or was the sky paling toward dawn? Gawain blinked his bleary eyes and felt a sharp stab in his back as he straightened up from leaning on his word. Gingerly he flexed his heavy limbs. He was aching in every joint.

  Gods above, he cursed softly to himself, but the night had been long! The courtyard in front of the chapel had been as damp and cold as the grave. The weight of his armor was grinding into his flesh, his mouth felt full of sand, and strange sights and sounds had vexed him all night long. What had possessed him to swear such a mighty oath to keep the vigil along with his brothers, hour by hour?

  He groaned. What but the drink, and being a sentimental fool? He’d had no fears for the three of them, not even Gareth, the youngest of them all. Youngest? He laughed quietly to himself. Youngest and biggest of all the sons of King Lot, Gareth was, and that was saying a good deal. They were all great brawny lads, big and hard like their father, King Lot had seen to that. But Lot’s death had left Gawain head of the family, and responsible for them all.

  The family—

  The big knight shifted his weight, dimly conscious that the simple everyday word came nowhere near to describing the tangle of his kin. Of course Uther Pendragon had been a hero, much beloved of the Old Ones, and no ordinary man. But to set his heart on a queen with a husband, children, and a kingdom of her own, and take all that from her in order to make her his— Well, that was not the highest act of chivalry, it had to be said.

  Still, Gawain reasoned uneasily, who was he to say? Kings were not governed by the rules of common men. And Uther’s misdeeds had come to some good in the end. If he hadn’t married Queen Igraine, Arthur would never have been born. If she had had to lose her husband in the battle as the two men fought for her love, well, those were the fortunes of war. And if her daughter Morgause had not been given to King Lot, neither Gawain nor his brothers would ever have been born.

  So, then! Gawain’s furrowed brow cleared, and his mighty frame relaxed. There was a purpose behind all this pain and suffering. All that had happened was written in the stars, and even cruel acts could have a good outcome if the Old Ones willed it so. Oh, it was true that King Uther had parted Igraine from her daughters so that he could have the Queen all to himself. But the girl sent off to the far Orkneys had delivered four sons who were now the most loyal knights of Pendragon, and devoted to Uther’s son.

  Uther’s son, yes. Gawain sighed. It was his proudest boast that he had been the first knight to declare for Arthur when he drew the sword from the stone. He’d taken an oath that as he had been Arthur’s first companion, he would be the last. And now his three brothers were joining the knighthood too. To add to their joy, their mother had traveled down from the Orkneys to witness the great event. So good had come out of evil after all.

  Gawain shifted his aching body and gave a soft groan. It was true that his mother had not been the happiest of women, married to King Lot. But the death of her husband had left Morgause ruler of the Orkneys in her own right, every bit as much a queen as she would have been if she had stayed at home, and succeeded to her mother’s land. Now Morgause was free of King Uther, free of
King Lot, and could call herself her own woman again. And he, lucky man, as King Lot’s eldest son, had inherited the role of taking charge of them all.

  Taking charge?

  No, not quite.

  Gawain grunted derisively to himself. No one, not even King Lot, had been in charge of their mother, Queen Morgause. Oh, she was quiet enough when her great black-bearded husband was around. They all were, for King Lot inspired fear, not love. And never had he heard his mother raise her voice, despite the harsh treatment the King gave her, or throw a single glance of resentment her husband’s way.

  But Morgause was a daughter of Tintagel, and the land of Cornwall still kept the rule of queens. She had been born and bred in a land where the Mother-right held sway, where the worship of the Goddess taught the faith of love, not fear. She had walked warily around her husband, for Lot worshiped at altars far older still, the Gods of blood and bone, and he loved to kill. But never had she crouched to him to live. Only where Christians ruled were women forced to bow to men. No one told a woman of the old world what to do.

  And not even an elder brother could rule the three Orkney princes now, any more than he could the queen. Gawain rubbed the back of his stiff neck and grinned to recall the pitched battles of their childhood, when none of the four boys would give in without a bloody nose, split lip, or battered head. Even Gareth, the youngest, was a baby giant with a will of his own. Gaheris, the third-born, had a spine of iron too, forall his quiet demeanor, pale blue eyes, and milk white skin. And as for Agravain—

  Gawain sighed heavily. Well, he would think about Agravain another time.

  Stretching, he raised his eyes to the east. Red streaks like infected veins were racing up the sky, and a dull glow lit the distance as if the whole horizon was on fire. Clouds and rain on the way after all the fine weather the Queen’s star-watchers had promised for the feast? But bad or good, there it was, he rejoiced, true dawn at last.

  And with it, the release of those inside. He turned back toward the locked doors of the chapel deep inside the low porch and, tired though he was, became instantly alert.

  “Who’s there?” he growled. He leveled his sword and pointed it at the door. There was a slight movement in the darkness and a light Welsh voice. “Gawain?”

  “Bedivere!”

  Emerging from the shadows was a lean, brown-haired man with mild hazel eyes. Behind him came a shorter, neat-made figure, showing signs of fatigue but still dapper after a night out of doors.

  Gawain burst out laughing. “And Kay, by all that’s wonderful!”

  “Who did you think it was?” Kay queried tartly as he limped forward into the light. “You didn’t think we’d leave you out here to keep this fool vigil by yourself?”

  Gawain let out a guffaw of delight. “So the two of you have been in the porch all night?”

  Bedivere gave a tired smile. “You kept watch for your brothers, and we watched for you.”

  “And we’ve all wasted our time, and worn ourselves out for nothing!” Kay fretted. “Your mighty brothers will have come through the ordeal with banners flying, I’m quite sure. It remains to be seen if we’ll survive the night!”

  Gawain surveyed his short companion lovingly. Kay had never been the same since he had lost the good use of his leg, stabbed through the thigh long ago by a treacherous dwarf. His drawn face showed that he was in pain now, and would be till the wine went around tonight. But Gawain knew better than to say a word. Kay had the small man’s touchy dignity, and would not be consoled.

  “So!” Gawain said lightly. “I had you two wretches with me all along, did I? Well, we saw out the night. Let’s hope they did inside.”

  As he spoke, they heard the iron groan of hinges as the doors behind them opened on the day. Inside the chapel, moving like the risen dead, a ghostly group of swaying bodies met their gaze. First out through the arched doorway and into the rising sun was young Mador, with his brother Patrise. Mador’s white face had a worn and waxy sheen, but the look in his eye was pure exaltation.

  Half shouldering, half carrying his brother’s stumbling form, Mador was gently coaxing Patrise forward step by step. “Mind your footing, brother, easy now,” he breathed. Joyfully he hugged his brother to his side, and murmured in his ear, “Take heart, it’s over. We’ve done it, dear Patrise!”

  The three knights watched them cross the courtyard and pass through the cloisters to disappear from sight. Behind them came the rest of the novices in ones and twos. At the far back were three towering figures sized like Gawain. He pushed forward eagerly to greet them in the porch. “Brothers, how goes it? How was the night?”

  “How do you think?”

  The speaker shouldered past him with a face like lightning hidden in a cloud. As tall as Gawain but much leaner, he was as dark as the rest of his brothers were fair. Of all the four sons of Lot, the world observed, only Agravain had inherited his father’s coloring—a pity he had King Lot’s black temperament too. Even clad in the white robe of a novice knight and blanched by the rising sun, Agravain carried with him a darkness of his own. Now, with a sullen glare and an angry shake of the head, he stalked off across the courtyard toward his waiting page.

  Gawain turned to his brothers. “What’s troubling Agravain?” he asked in a low voice.

  Gaheris threw a glance at Kay and Bedivere. Family matters, his embarrassed silence said.

  Gawain nodded grimly, needing no further words. To be born the second son was a heavy curse of fate. Since childhood Agravain had raged against this spite of the Gods. It was as bad as being born male in a land like the Summer Country, where women were ordained to rule. Only the sudden good fortune of finding himself the head of the family would appease the hunger of Agravain’s haunted soul. And Gawain had no intention of dying in order to set his sibling free from the torment of his rage.

  Kay took in the situation at a glance. “Come, Bedivere,” he said briskly, “let’s get some rest.” Clapping Gawain on the back, he led Bedivere away. “We’ll see you at noon for the ceremony,” he called.

  The three brothers stood in silence and watched them go.

  “So?” Gawain demanded ominously.

  Gareth looked in anguish at Gaheris, then back to Gawain again. But Gaheris only said quietly, “Tell him.”

  Gareth drew a breath. “Our brother is unhappy to see our mother here.” He paused uneasily. “With only one special escort, when she could have been surrounded by her chosen knights.”

  “Hah!” Gawain’s face showed that he was not surprised. He took a heavy breath. “She is a queen,” he said doggedly, “and a great one too. She is sole ruler of our whole kingdom, from Lothian to the farthest Orkneys. And a mother has a right to be at her sons’ knight-making, yes?” He paused, then spoke with a fierce emphasis. “With whatever company she chooses to keep.”

  “Sole ruler, brother?” Gaheris frowned. “If we were sure of that— But Agravain thinks her knight has too much influence. Sir Lamorak never leaves her side—”

  “Gods above!” Gawain exploded. “This is Agravain’s poison speaking, not your own thoughts! I’ll hear no more of it!”

  Gaheris flushed. “It’s true that Agravain’s concerned. He thinks our mother is under—”

  “He can tell me himself what he thinks.” Gawain glowered. “But for you, and you too, Gareth,” he repeated, fixing his two younger brothers with a fiery glare, “let this be an end of it, d’you hear? She’s the sister of King Arthur, she’s the daughter of a queen, she’s a great queen herself, and she’s our sovereign lady and our mother too.” He paused. “A queen must have her knights.”

  “Knights maybe, brother.” Gareth looked distressed. “But one alone?”

  “Every queen has her champion and chosen one.” Gawain stuck out his chin. His face was dark. “Enough, Gareth, or we’ll come to blows. And tell Agravain the same goes for him if I hear another word!”

  CHAPTER 5

  Pendragon.

  Arthur, then before him was Uther
, then Gawther, then old Mauther, High King for a hundred years. Before him there had been Pendragons as far back as nyone could remember, and no one knew if they had been men or Gods.

  Merlin sighed, and cracked his bony knuckles one by one. Men, or Gods, or both?

  Not that it mattered to the eye of time. One blink, and they were gone. Merlin’s eyes grew dim. How many bold, laughing, red-gold men had he seen go down to the world between the worlds?

  And only old Merlin left to maintain the line. Well, so be it. The enchanter settled his scrawny frame in the saddle, and drew a deep breath of the sweet summer air. Above his head the trees met in a perfect arch, casting a greenish light on the path below. The narrow bridle way ran deep between high banks, and all around him the world was fresh with the green shoots of June. His patient mule trod at an easy pace, its every step in tune with Merlin’s thoughts.

  Pendragon.

  The search was on for the next in the line.

  The quest would be long, he knew. But to a Lord of Light as he was, time rolled in channels not known to other men.

  Slowly he mused on.

  Gore.

  That was the place to start.

  Merlin laughed. Strange to think how much had begun in Gore, the kingdom where he had himself hidden Arthur so long ago. The King of Gore had been a most faithful friend. No man had served Pendragon as Ursien did, and his knight Sir Ector loved Arthur as his own.

  Yes, all that was well done. But now—?

  Merlin bared his yellow teeth. When Arthur was born, he and these others had labored to save his life. But for Arthur’s issue in turn—Gods above, who had taken account of that? And what to do now, when the line seemed likely to fail? The familiar pain began gnawing again in his breast. The old man reached out and tore a handful of heart’s-ease from the steep wayside to chew as he passed, and lapsed into deep thought.