The old man’s laugh reminded the Abbot of a fountain playing in a Roman square. “I am not here for my comfort, brother in Christ. Like our Lord himself, I am a fisher of souls.” He fixed the Abbot with his innocent blue eyes. “And in Rome they are asking of you, what bait, what hook?”
The Father Abbot closed his eyes. Dear Lord, he prayed steadily, You who made the supreme sacrifice, show me the way. He opened his eyes to see Domenico still regarding him closely.
“I have done much here,” he said abruptly, staring back.
“You have, you have,” Domenico agreed amiably, spreading his hands. “Above all in bringing Arthur Pendragon to Christ. The Holy Father himself took note of that.” He cocked his head to one side, and looked around. “Here in this very churchyard, was it not?”
“Even here.” The Father Abbot’s heart swelled with what he knew was the sin of pride. But he pointed firmly straight ahead. To the side of the path just inside the churchyard gates squatted a huge block of stone covered in moss. A trail of green lichen sprouted from an aperture in the top.
The Abbot nodded. “The old Druid Merlin came to ask if he could use our churchyard to proclaim Arthur King. Not only as the heir to the Middle Kingdom, but High King of all the Britons, no less.” He gave an embarrassed laugh. “I did not know the old fraud was planning to fake a miracle. I only thought that if we helped Arthur, he’d be bound to support us in return.”
“And you were right,” Domenico chirped. “Arthur was proclaimed, he won back the Middle Kingdom, and he has favored our faith ever since.” He nodded approvingly. “You did well, brother.” Then his impish twinkle broke out again. “Tell me, how did they do it? The sword in the stone, I mean?”
The Abbot shook his head. “The young men here do it all the time. It’s their way of testing their swords for battle, to try them on stones, trees, anything. The strongest can find the vein of weakness in a stone, to drive the sword in. Then because they alone know how they put it in, only they can pull it out. Merlin had Arthur practice the trick in Gore before he brought him here. The lad did it for his prowess many times.”
The little man lit up with mirth. “No miracle, then?” he chortled almost to himself.
“Not unless you think a broad body and a powerful right arm are a miracle, rather than a simple gift of God. And Arthur has those in abundance, as well as a true heart and a trusting soul.”
There was a pause. “So, brother?” Domenico resumed gently after a while. “I think we all know that you have done well here.”
“But there is more, much more!” The Abbot was startled to hear the passion in his own tone. “I have been nurturing a house of holy women, but its future is far from secure. The Mother Abbess . . . ”
He paused. How to do justice to the Abbess Placida’s puffed-up pride, her joy in cruelty, her meager soul? “Sadly, she is not one of the gifted of God. A great evil grew up there in her time, when one of the sisters proved to be in league with the powers of darkness, and the Mother Abbess was blind to it till too late. I am considering how to relieve her of her post. And I have to oversee the progress of her successor, whenever that may be.”
From the understanding silence, he knew that the legate must have read the reports that he had sent to Rome. Emboldened, he pressed on. “There are many such projects I have in hand. But the greatest has hardly begun. And for that I am ready to lay down my life here.”
“Avalon.”
The word dropped between them like a stone. The old bile rose again in the Father Abbot’s throat.
“Avalon, yes,” he forced out with unconstrained disgust. “The so-called Sacred Isle, source and site of Goddess worship in this land. And the home of that great whore who calls herself the Lady of the Lake, and encourages other women to spurn the control of men.”
All the light had left Domenico’s eyes, and the blue gaze now held nothing but ice.
“The Great Mother,” he said, nodding slowly, weighing every word. “Yes, the great enemy. We have hunted her down from the fringes of the frozen wastes to the Holy Land itself. Country by country, shrine by shrine, we have destroyed her worship to bring these pagans to the love of the one true God. Yet still they hold out.”
“Yes!” cried the Abbot furiously. “And if we can root out their so-called Lady of the Lake from the haunt of the Great Mother, we can set Christian worship in its place!” His eyes misted, and his voice took on a sacral tone. “I see a church rising on Avalon. I see the Cross of Christ surmounting the very Tor. I pray for the time when our rituals have so supplanted theirs throughout the world, when no man remembers that the great Goddess-Whore ever reigned there, ever existed at all!”
Domenico could see the Abbot’s purpose flaming in his eyes. “You reported that the assault had begun. You sent two monks, I think, to treat with the whore of Avalon. How are your soldiers faring against the foe?”
“Boniface and Giorgio, yes.” The Abbot drew a deep breath. “As well as two untried young monks can do. For our first overture, it was vital to send the gentlest souls we had.” And the best-looking too, he could have added, to play upon the old whore’s weakness for male flesh. But he did not have to say this to a man from Rome. “We sent them to ask if they could stay on the isle, and add to the worship there with their own prayers.”
Domenico raised his eyebrows admiringly. “Such a simple thing. How could she refuse?”
“She could not. They were accepted. And living there on the island, along with the Goddess followers and worshipers, they have learned much.” He paused. “Much that will be vital in our struggle to wrest their rituals and relics to Christian use.”
“Their relics, yes.” The eyes of the visitor darkened with desire. “The objects of their worship are fine, I hear.”
The Abbot gave a bitter smile. “Finer than anything we could dream of. They have a great loving cup, a massive plate, a sword of power, and a spear of defense. And all are made of solid gold, studded with jewels and gemstones too. I have made a vow to turn them to the service of our Lord.”
“Yes,” murmured Domenico thoughtfully. “We need gold, to dazzle and win the pagan soul. And we need regalia too, to celebrate the high moments of our faith.”
The Abbot fixed him in his gaze. “From the cup, the pagans claim, their Goddess succors all who come to her. At the Last Supper, our Lord also succored the disciples from His own cup.”
Domenico looked at him inquiringly. “The blessed Holy Grail?”
“The very same. How if—”
He broke off, and steadied his soul for the great leap.
“How if God in His mystery has sent us the Grail here, in this pagan form? How would it be for our faith, if we could get these vessels from the pagans, and make them our own?”
The setting sun flushed all the sky with red. The silence lengthened between the two men. “It would be very good,” Domenico said softly at last. “It would break the power of the Goddess, and draw countless new believers to our side.” A look of naked calculation filled his eyes. “Can you do it?”
“I can if I stay here. Translated to York or Canterbury, I am in another country, another world.”
“Yes, I see that. The fight against the Great Whore is here.”
“And Avalon is not the only battle I have to fight.” The Abbot sighed. “For all our efforts, I still have not won Arthur’s soul. And our dearest enemy lies nearest to his heart.”
“His Druid Merlin?”
The Abbot shook his head. “No, the old madman is no real threat. He comes and goes with the seasons, he wanders with the wind. Our foe is one who whispers in Arthur’s ear, and sways his mind. One who cares for his body, and sleeps in his bed.” A spasm of raw anger knotted his veins. “Guenevere the Queen.”
“Ah, yes.”
“Queen, Arthur calls her! She’s no more than his concubine, the pagan daughter of a line of pagan queens. Sent to Avalon by her mother as a child, to sit at the feet of the Lady and learn her whorish ways. The mot
her herself was a warrior and a whore. She led her own troops in battle, then pleasured herself with the finest of her knights.” He gave a sardonic laugh. “Their Goddess teaches them that women have the right of thigh-freedom with any man.”
“So the Goddess worship supports the rule of queens,” mused Domenico. His eyes narrowed. “Root out the one, then, and the other must go.”
“And then we know we are doing the will of God,” the Abbot burst out triumphantly, “who does not permit women to rule over men!” He paused, breathing heavily, and his voice took on a deep, imploring tone. “In the name of Christ, let me renew the assault on Avalon.”
“So be it, Father.” The little envoy hitched up his robe. “You have persuaded me. And I shall persuade Rome. You shall stay here.” He smiled, but there was a warning in his stare. “For the time being, at least. There are great changes afoot. If Arthur dies—”
“What?”
Domenico broke off, watching the Abbot’s shocked face. “You did not know?” he went on. “No, I suppose news travels slowly in these watery isles. It happened deep in the forest, near that convent of yours. They say that Arthur was attacked by one of his own knights. He killed the rogue, but he’s hovering between life and death himself.”
“A knight of the Round Table?” the Abbot interrupted furiously. “That cannot be! They are all sworn to defend the King to the death. I myself drew up their order of knighthood, when I persuaded Arthur to regulate his old band of war companions in the Christian way.”
The little man shrugged. “Whoever he was, the rogue knight almost cost Arthur his life. And for sure he’s deprived him of the enjoyment of life, if he survives.” His smile grew even thinner. “Our Lord is with you in your fight against the pagan Queen, it seems.”
“Queen Guenevere? What has she to do with this?”
“They are giving it out that he was wounded in the thigh.” Domenico’s grin was frankly cruel now. “But rumor and gossip tell another tale, one to make all men wince. If the Queen does delight in a man’s flesh as you say, she may be left with half a man, or less. They were nursing him at the convent, but he demanded to die in Caerleon, his kingdom and his home. They’ll be moving him now, if he’s not already gone.”
The Abbot could have wept. Curse that fool Abbess Placida— King Arthur dying under her roof and she had not sent him word? His anger against her hardened like stone. This was the end. Her rule was over; he would send to the convent tonight. No, he would wait till Domenico had departed, and go there himself. Then he would press on to Caerleon, if the King was still alive. That way he would see Arthur, offer him spiritual comfort, renew the bond—
Domenico was still speaking. “Of course, a man so badly injured should never have been moved. But they had to leave the convent after the evil there.”
The Abbot caught his breath. “What?”
“A horror beyond words. Another topic you and I must discuss. And one we shall not solve as easily, I fear, as we have agreed that you will stay on here.”
CHAPTER 15
The group of riders galloped into the courtyard at a urious speed. The leader vaulted impetuously from his horse, and tossed the reins to a startled groom. Behind him the second knight dragged his mount to a halt, and eaped off to confront the first.
“Gods above, what possessed you, Agravain?” he burst out. “Setting a pace like that, with night coming down? If I hadn’t given orders that our band should stick together, I’d have let you go on alone, and break your damned neck!”
“Don’t preach to me, Gawain!” Agravain glowered. “You accepted this damn-fool assignment from the Queen. ‘Ride out and search around, make sure no evil is lurking to harm the King.’ ” He laughed scornfully. “As if he’s not already on the point of death. The Queen’s insane!”
Gawain gasped. “Agravain, guard your tongue!” He threw a hasty glance over his shoulder in the gathering dusk. To his right his younger brother Gaheris was clambering stiffly down from his exhausted horse, while Gareth, the youngest of the four, was already checking his mount’s legs for any hurts sustained in the furious ride.
Beyond them were two others the Queen had singled out for her special care, the brothers Mador and Patrise. Gawain sighed to himself. He had been only too happy to obey the Queen’s request to take an interest in the two young fatherless knights, thinking that Agravain would find it harder to challenge him with other knights around. Well, he was wrong about that!
He took Agravain by the arm and dragged him roughly aside. Taller than his brother, Gawain also had the advantage of bulk. “Watch your tongue, Agravain,” he growled. “Insulting the Queen like that, a man could lose his head, even if you’re a nephew of the King.”
He jerked his head at Mador and Patrise. The two brothers were standing side by side, taking care of their sweating horses and talking softly between themselves. But there was no mistaking the concern in Mador’s watchful gaze.
Not much gets past that one, Gawain thought grimly. He’d never understand why the four of us can’t get on as devotedly as he and young Patrise do. He turned back to Agravain with renewed rage. “Where’s your family pride? D’you want young knights like these to say that the Orkney brothers fight among themselves, and can’t obey a command?”
“Command?” scoffed Agravain. “What command? All the world knows that the King’s a dying man. And if Queen Morgan wanted to come back, a hundred knights would not keep her away. Yet you took Guenevere’s command without a word. You led us all on this fool’s errand until I called a halt!”
“Listen, Agravain,” Gawain muttered, struggling to keep his fist out of his brother’s face, “we’re the King’s knights, and the least we can do is to keep watch for him. We’re knights of the Round Table, damn you, it’s our faith, our oath! Who knows what wickedness we keep at bay when we’re out and about?”
Agravain shook his head disbelievingly. “Not this time, Gawain. What d’you think put the force behind Accolon’s sword?” He gave a scornful laugh. “And who do you think believes this tale of ‘a wound in the thigh’?” He thrust his face into Gawain’s with a savage leer. “If the King lives, he’ll be worse than dead, he’ll be a eunuch, man! And where’s our knighthood then? Who in the world will want to follow that?”
“GUENEVERE?”
Guenevere rose from her seat beside the great bed, and pushed aside the hangings to look in. “I’m here, Arthur.”
“What time is it?”
Guenevere glanced through the window at the fading sky. Below her, Caerleon lay spread out on all sides. On the far horizon, the love-star was beginning to bloom. Time to light— She put the thought away. “It’s getting toward evening. Another warm, clear night.”
Arthur gave a pale smile. “How long have I been asleep?”
She forced a warm glance in return. “Only an hour this time. I wish you could sleep more.”
Arthur gave a weak laugh. “Oh, my love, you say that, when you hardly sleep at all!”
Guenevere straightened up and passed the back of her hand over her forehead, wishing it were not true. She felt gray and worn and ugly and sick with fatigue. Thank the Gods that Lancelot cannot see me now floated through her mind. Yet if he were here, I might not look so bad.
She forced her mind back to the man lying in the bed. Since the fight in the wood, she had not left Arthur’s side. From time to time she had snatched an hour of sleep, but the dreams she suffered made her fear to sleep again. Time after time she saw Arthur under the sword, and felt in her own body Accolon’s last cruel blow.
Yet wounded as he was, Arthur had lived. Though horrified by the kind of injuries she had never seen before, the Sister Almoner had doggedly searched and cleaned and sewn up the mouthlike wounds, one by one. She had supervised the long days and nights of care, when Arthur had refused any remedy to take away the pain and chosen to bear the worst. She balked only at the great slash between his legs, having no knowledge, she said, of the hurts of men.
Mean
while a flurry of knights from Camelot had descended on the convent at a gallop, a brilliant troop of glittering lances and flying banners, with Ina at their head. They had scoured the forest, and discovered no trace of what had killed King Ursien, human or animal. But they brought in his body for the last dignities. All night they had honored him with a vigil, then at dawn a party had set off with the hearse to Gore. The rest had formed a royal guard to bring Arthur back to Caerleon, and home.
The journey had been long and terrible. Yet despite his suffering, Arthur had hung on. Rage with Accolon and hatred for Morgan had put fire in his veins, even as his blood ebbed out. But then the fire had turned to a fever, which ran like quicksilver through his frame. Now Guenevere had the bitter task of starving his fever by withholding food, yet forcing red wine down his throat to replace his blood. She had had to watch him raging with grief and remorse, till every one of his wounds burst open, and wept with him too. “Only get me to Caerleon,” he kept chattering out in his fever again and again, “and let me die.”
“Arthur, you are in your kingdom,” she repeated to him time after time. “You’re in Caerleon, and you will not die.”
She could see he did not believe her. As the fever waxed and waned, he lay helpless in the great bed, brooding on his loss.
“Why did she take the scabbard, Guenevere?” he ground out, through rattling teeth. “To hurt me, or you?”
Oh, Arthur, Arthur, to hurt both of us.
She forced herself to respond. “Arthur, that wasn’t it, don’t you see?” she said dully. “She wants it for her son.”
Her son and yours, Arthur.
She wants her young prince to have the scabbard of a King.
Or truly, the scabbard of a Queen.
My mother’s scabbard that she took from you.
Guenevere pressed her fingers to the sides of her throbbing head. In time, all this would fade. But one memory, she knew, would not yield so easily to the passage of time.
It was the image of the Abbess Placida as Guenevere had last seen her, her ample body filling her ebony chair. But now her head was tilted back at a vicious angle, and her wimple lay behind her on the floor. Her plump cheeks were scored with deep downward scratches, and her bulging eyes stared at the ceiling, glazed forever in a last desperate glare. From her gaping mouth protruded her beloved whip, thrust down her throat to choke her to death.
The Knight of the Sacred Lake Page 11