Mador swallowed. His voice was a dry husk. “I swear.” He reached for Arthur’s hand, and brought it to his lips. Excalibur flashed through the air to touch Mador’s left shoulder, then his right, then his left again. Arthur’s voice was clear and strong. “Arise, Sir Mador, and glory be your name!”
The Novice Master stepped forward to pass a fine sword belt to Guenevere, with a slim gold and silver sword dangling from its side. “Draw near, Sir Mador,” she said.
For the rest of his life Mador never forgot the touch of the Queen’s hands, fluttering like butterflies as she buckled on his sword. He was trembling so violently that he could hardly stand, and his head was filled with her as with a bewitching scent. Dazzled, he saw the sunlight slanting on her still burning-bright hair, casting fragments of light into her slate-blue eyes. He heard her speak, but did not know the words. Yet his soul sang to the music of her voice like the harmony of the stars.
Guenevere stood on the dais and watched him cross to the Round Table to take his place. Mador, yes, I know who you are. The son of a poor lady from Marches, who has spent all her widow’s mite on sending her sons to be knights, to honor their own wishes and the will of her dead lord. You have a brother Patrise. . . . Yes, there he is, a younger, paler shadow of you, Mador, and the Gods know that you are pale enough—
Yet you are brave, you wear it in your eyes. You will do well. All my knights will do well.
The ceremony wore on. One by one the knights were dubbed.
“Arise, Sir—”
“Arise, Sir—”
At last only three large forms remained in the body of the hall. Guenevere saw Morgause sit up eagerly, murmuring to her knight, the rich blue velvet rippling over her heavy mother’s breasts as she watched her youngest, Gareth, moving down the hall. When he stepped up on the dais to receive his sword, Guenevere had to struggle to get the leather harness over his head, even though Gareth was shamefacedly trying to make himself as small as he could. She smiled to herself, and sadly acknowledged Morgause’s glowing pride in her four fine sons. The Orkney princes, Arthur’s nearest kin, were the only men at court who could stand shoulder to shoulder with him, and like him, block out the light.
Gaheris, too, had to stoop to receive his sword. Now only Agravain remained, standing alone. Guenevere glanced down and hardly knew what she saw. The eyes raised to hers were pools of black despair.
No, not despair, her racing heart rushed on, but a sucking, seething hollowness, empty of all but hate. Then Agravain’s face changed, and the hate was gone. With a downcast face and reverent air, he knelt before Arthur and bent his head. Arthur stretched out his arm, and Excalibur murmured faintly in his hand.
Suddenly Guenevere caught a sharp tapping sound from behind. Above her head, perched outside the high window, was a raven, peering in. Its hooked beak ended in a cruel tip, and its round eyes glistened with a blue-black sheen. As Arthur’s sword fell for the third time on Agravain’s shoulder, the hideous creature opened its mouth to crow.
Guenevere’s mind spun. A dark messenger from the Otherworld—Arthur must not see—
“Bow your head, Sir Agravain,” she instructed hastily. Somehow she fastened the sword around his long frame.
“May your Gods go with you, sir,” she wished him through cold lips, “and bring all your purposes to fulfillment, whatever they are.”
He raised his head, and his mouth formed a cynical smile. “They will, madam, they will.”
“You are one of the Fellowship of the Round Table now. See that you serve it well.”
As she spoke, a loud crack came from the center of the hall, followed by a groan, like life itself escaping from some mighty thing. To Sir Niamh it was as if the Round Table had let out a cry of woe. Gawain leaped to his feet, and supported the great wooden disk with both hands as he peered down to inspect the trestles below. “It’s only shifted on its base, there’s no danger here,” he cried out reassuringly. “You may carry on, sire, let the ceremony finish as planned.”
But another sharp rap from above distracted Arthur from his task. He turned to look up at the window, where the raven on the ledge had launched itself into a dance. Puffing up its chest and flapping its wings, it strutted to and fro, clacking with glee. At last it lifted the blunt wedge of its tail and triumphantly voided the contents of its body before launching itself into the air. Once, twice, three times it circled, darkening the sky, before winging straight into the sun, where it was lost from sight.
Arthur turned to Guenevere with an odd, strained laugh. “So, Guenevere, she has returned, it seems?”
CHAPTER 7
The Sweet mist off the water reached them on the highest crag. From there the narrow track wound down the sheer face of the mountain to the lake. Bors loosened the reins to give his horse its head, and noticed his two ompanions doing the same. Trusting to the sure footng of a creature born in these parts was their best hope now. He looked over at the dizzy drop at the side of the path, and composed himself for the descent. May the Great One in all Her kindness see us safely down!
“And may this torturous journey soon have an end,” he added under his breath. He gritted his teeth. He had not expected the going to be so hard. As if the crossing of the Narrow Sea had not been bad enough! Brave as he was, Bors was no sailor in his soul.
It had not helped him to remember the time when they first left Little Britain and saw the sea. They had been only boys then, on fire with the thrill of accompanying their fathers to war. Sailing over to the island of the Britons to fight for the fledgling king had been the greatest adventure of their young lives. Well, Arthur’s war had been won for a good decade and more, and never once had they sailed back to their native land.
Until now. Now Lancelot’s stars had led him back to Little Britain, and wherever their cousin went, Bors and Lionel would go too. And in truth, rough as the terrain was, the beloved country was opening its arms to welcome them home.
Bors glanced at the rider ahead of him as the native ponies plodded stolidly downhill, nose to tail, and his heart eased. Here, if anywhere, Lancelot would find peace. Here, all would be well.
He looked around him with a stranger’s eyes, and marveled at what he saw. He had forgotten how wild, how wonderful this land could be. Massed eglantine ran riot down the mountain, its tender pink laced with pale honeysuckle, their mingled scents filling the hot air. Underfoot lay clusters of white thrift and scrubby blue-green thyme. The sharp fragrance released by the horses’ hooves reminded Bors of boyhood days out hunting, when they knew no greater joy than to roast what they had caught with a fistful of wild herbs, sage, or rosemary. He sighed with deep content. Here in the southwest of the ragged, seagirt promontory lay a secret world, a place made by the Old Ones, then forgotten by time. And this was the end of their journey, where Lancelot might find what he sought.
The going was harder now, and the rough ponies were placing each stubby hoof with care. The mountain path had narrowed till there was hardly a foot of land between the riders and the craggy void. Bors schooled himself to sit deep in the saddle, centering his weight in the hollow of his short-legged mount’s strong back. He fixed his eyes on Lancelot, and raised a fervent prayer. Lady, spirit of this place, wherever you may be, give peace to our cousin, heal his wound, console him for his loss.
“Bors! Lionel! See there!”
Bors followed Lancelot’s pointing hand. Far below lay a hidden valley, a verdant green amid the rugged mountain crags. As they descended they could see a waterfall cascading from the peak, and above it a fragment of rainbow playing in and out of the silvery mist in the midday sun. The plume of water danced its way down the cliff until it plunged into a dark, still lake below, spreading from the base of the rock to form a perfect mirror of the world above.
Lancelot stretched his long legs in the saddle, taking care not to disturb his horse’s foothold on the vertiginous path, and gave weary thanks. “Descend from the crag by the narrowest way” was the memory he had carried with h
im for ten years. “Though the road shrinks to nothing beneath your feet, press on. Do not let your gaze drop into the void. Raise your eyes to the heavens, and you will see the sign you seek.”
The rainbow. That was the sign.
“If you return,” she had said when he left. And he had smiled with all the assurance of his sixteen years, and told her, “Say not if, Lady, only when.”
He could hardly believe now in the confidence he had had then. How long had he known that the Old Ones had marked him out? All his life, it seemed. Other boys, like Bors and Lionel, had been the sons of kings, and others too had been reared with the same care, brought up with boys of lesser birth, as the three of them had been, to give them respect for true worth, wherever it was found. But only he had been taken by the Lady of the Sacred Lake to foster as her own. When the summons came, the Lady’s runic script read:
Tears as big as diamonds had stood in his mother’s eyes when she read the words. But she knew in her heart that she had to let him go.
So he had grown up a prince in this hidden valley, and the lake palace of the Lady had been his home. She had tutored him in knighthood and deeds of arms, and also schooled him in the book of love. Never did he forget his parents, King Ban and Queen Elaine, nor the two cousins who were like brothers to him now. But his place was here, and she, more than they, had made him what he was.
Whatever he was.
A bitter smile creased the handsome young brown face. Of course he was not the finest knight in the world: that honor belonged to Arthur, everyone knew that. But from six to sixteen he had studied with the Lady to become the best he could. And he was still failing, he reflected savagely, to approach his ideal.
His heart stirred, and he felt again the stabbing shafts of pain that came to him every moment, every day. A hundred separate sorrows made one endless ache, the grief that answered to the name of Guenevere.
Yet he could not blame her for what he suffered now. He knew she had been right to send him away. Not even that, he thought with a special pain. She had not dismissed him. They both had known that the time had come to part.
If only it did not have to be so. Each thought now came with a separate groan of pain. If only they were free to enjoy their love. If only she were not the Queen—not married—and above all, not to Arthur, his own dear lord and King—
Enough! he castigated himself. They had both agreed that the fragile love growing between them must be no more. Together they had pledged themselves to murder the new growth, root it out and trample it underfoot. He must find another lady, she had told him through dry lips. She must love and honor her lord, he had told her, pale with the effort and fighting for control. And so it was agreed. They would be better strangers than lovers now, nothing to each other after one last kiss.
Yet love so butchered cannot die cleanly, but lingers on, a weeping, wounded, mutilated thing. What then had brought him here after ten years? What could the Lady do, what could she say? Yet still an inner voice told him that it had been time to return. Here, if anywhere, he would find his way.
The air had been getting warmer all the way down. Now at the foot of the track, the midsummer heat reached up to fold them in its shimmering embrace. Deep in the valley, not a breath stirred. Ahead of them lay the Lake, a perfect circle, no longer dark but silvery in the sun. Breaking the surface as they approached were the heads and shoulders of half a dozen laughing girls. Their bodies were clothed in filmy draperies, and their long hair floated out around them like waterweeds.
“Welcome, Sir Lancelot!” called the leader, striking out boldly toward them in a shower of glistening spray. “We have been expecting you!”
“And Sir Bors!”
“And Sir Lionel!” chorused her sisters merrily.
The maidens trod water and held out their slender white arms. “Come!”
The three knights dismounted, slipped their reins, and allowed their horses to graze. Together they approached the water’s edge. Golden kingcups and forget-me-nots as blue as the sky overhung the placid surface, smiling at their own faces below. The sun lay like molten bronze over all the scene.
The chief maiden leaned up and placed an arm on the grassy verge. “Sir Lancelot!” she called, in a voice like water over stones. “My sisters will take care of Sir Bors and Sir Lionel. You are to come with me.” She reached up, and took his hand in a powerful grip. One pull, and Lancelot found himself falling forward through the melting air. The waters parted and he entered the silent world beneath the Lake.
The cool water soothed his tired skin like balm. He felt the dust and grime of the roads leave his travel-worn limbs, and the weight on his soul lighten with his newfound buoyancy. Ahead of him he could see his guide carving her way through the water, a fine trail of sparkling bubbles in her wake. He swam after her like an eel, and could have laughed aloud in delight. With every fluid move, his body was remembering the natural element of his boyhood days. And more than that, the secret way back home.
Down they went, and down. Shafts of yellow sunlight poured through the greenish deep, and Lancelot laughed to himself again as he chased the slight form ahead as it went fluttering through the depths. Now the Lake was growing darker as they drew closer to the crag looming above. The waters began to boil as they took the full force of the waterfall tumbling from the peak. Lancelot plunged into the maelstrom without fear. Once through the bubbling cauldron below the falls, he knew what he would find.
He swam until he felt the weight of the falling water, then floated free, allowing it to drive him down and down. Now his head and chest began to pain him, and his lungs felt squeezed by a giant hand. He fought the mad urge to inhale, and cursed himself for his earlier recklessness. He had been too careless with his breath in the excitement of coming back. Another misjudgment, and he would spend eternity at the bottom of the whirlpool, never to rise again.
His lungs were bursting, and his senses were beginning to fail. And still he was going down, pounded remorselessly by the waterfall.
Hold on—
Still farther down—
Hold on!
Gods, let me breathe!
With the last breath in his body he flipped sideways out of the furious turmoil into the clear green water on the other side of the fall. And there it was, a great arch of underwater rock. He swam for it with the speed of desperation, then struck upwards with all his force, his lungs on fire.
He broke the surface scrabbling like a dog, tossing his head to get the hair out of his eyes. One stroke brought him to the rocky edge of the pool, and he heaved himself out. The blood thundered in his veins as he gulped down great drafts of air. Above it sounded the roar of the waterfall. Then a laugh like an otter’s bark reached his ears. “So, Lancelot, you have forgotten how to swim? Time, indeed, for my pupil to return.”
Lancelot raised his head as his eyes accustomed themselves to the light. “Lady—” He stumbled over the word, confused by the strange yet familiar sight.
Before him yawned a great cavern, reaching into the heart of the rock. Wide but low, it held all the warmth of the sun-baked land above. Only where the rock pool lay behind the shining curtain of the waterfall was the air cool and moist with dancing droplets of the breaking cascade. The cave rolled out before him, inviting him in.
In the distance, a female figure reclined on a long couch. Her silken gown of brown and gold clung to her lithe flanks like an animal’s skin. A strange cap of crystals hugged her head, flashing with every broken ray of sunlight that made its way in through the dancing waterfall. Beneath the cap her shining hair fell like rain. She was young and yet ageless, knowing, and yet quite unmarked by time. She extended an arm to beckon him to her side, her body rippling with slumbering power. “Come, Lancelot of the Lake. Welcome to Broceliande.”
The chief of her maidens stood at the head of her couch. A dozen or so other gossamer-clad girls stood or sat around their mistress’s throne. Their eyes were bright with mischief, and their laughter tinkled like fountain
s in the wind as Lancelot approached.
“Hush, girls,” said the Lady indulgently, raising a hand. “Be off with you now.”
Giggling, they all scattered back to play in the rock pool. The Lady waved Lancelot to a stool at her side. “So?”
Lancelot fixed his gaze on her shining form with all the hunger of ten years away. The brown eyes that looked back held the wisdom of a beaver, and the blithe sweetness of a water vole. Her small muscular mouth moved with a mirthful twitch, and her teeth when she smiled were white and sharp. To Lancelot, she had not aged at all since he left. And boy though he was then, it came to him with the shock of new awareness that she had not changed in the decade before that, when he had lived with her and seen her every day. He had known her then as a great teacher, and a woman gifted with the Sight. Now he knew that he had not known her at all.
He was dumbfounded, and suddenly at a loss. The Lady smiled. He knew she could hear his thoughts. “You came here once to learn to be a knight,” she prompted. “Do you come now to have your poor heart healed, so you may be your own man once again?”
He nodded, still tongue-tied. The thought of Guenevere pierced him so acutely that he could not speak. Gods above, he cursed, where to begin?
The Lady returned his nod. “Then let me try to tell you your own tale. I am not as old in the ways of seeing as my sister on Avalon. But all this time I have watched you in the mirror of falling water, and seen many things. When you became a knight, you wanted to serve the best lady in the world. You did not know that you would come to love her too.”
Lancelot bent his head. The tears rushed to his eyes.
The strange rough-toned voice went on. “And she did not know that you would offer her a love closer than her skin. A love a world away from the love she had for her lord.”
The Knight of the Sacred Lake Page 5