The Knight of the Sacred Lake

by Rosalind Miles

  “It’s Mador, isn’t it?” Arthur grunted into Bedivere’s ear. “And his brother Patrise?”

  “The pair from the Welsh borders, sire, yes,” Bedivere replied.

  Mador stepped forward and fell to his knees. “The Gods recover you, sire,” he cried passionately, “and bless you and keep you, you and your beloved Queen!”

  At which Arthur wept, Agravain noted dispassionately, and gave the young upstart his own hand to kiss. While any other man would have seen the real meaning behind Mador’s words. “Beloved Queen,” eh? Agravain’s dark eye lit up, and the hair on the back of his neck began to rise. So Mador did love the Queen, just as little brother Patrise had said.

  The sleeping evil in Agravain stirred like a snake, and his eyes raked Mador up and down. Yes, young Mador was a handsome youth, pale and passionate. How far had he got with the Queen? How much had he dared? No man in love with a married woman could have hoped for a better time. With her husband as good as gelded, would Guenevere live without love? Agravain sighed with satisfaction. No, not the Queen. Not a woman of the Summer Country. The Queen would take a lover, and Mador it would be. Keep a close eye on Mador then, Mador and the Queen.

  Ahead of them the path reached an old moss oak with a rustic bench built around its base. Woodland honeysuckle and ivy formed a fragrant canopy overhead. Struggling with Arthur’s heavy, weakened frame, Bedivere helped him into the wooded arbor to rest.

  Breathing heavily, Arthur sat and composed himself, giving humble thanks. Surrounding him were the men he loved most in the world. May God be blessed, he prayed silently. There’s Kay, dear Bedivere, and all my nearest kin, Gawain and his three brothers, Agravain, Gaheris, Gareth, and of course—

  Arthur lifted his head and looked around. “Where’s Lancelot?” he asked.

  GODDESS, MOTHER, bring him safe to me.

  Guenevere stood in her window, her eyes on the ground below. Past sunset, and the moon still hid its head. The overcast night would help Lancelot make his way unseen. But a man who had to scale a tower might be grateful for more light.

  Lancelot—

  She clenched her fists, grinding her nails into the palms of her hands.

  Why had she told him, “Come to me tonight?”

  And why had he agreed?

  When she said it, in her mind a full white moon would be sailing over the seas of heaven to bring him to her arms. He would climb the old ivy that mantled the walls to the window, where she would be waiting to let him in.

  But now the gloomy night, the darkness, the danger—What if he falls?—

  Goddess, Mother, forgive me, save Lancelot—

  Seated at her embroidery frame beside the hearth, Ina suspended her busy needle and watched the Queen’s rigid back. Always punishing herself, she thought sadly, never pleased, not even when her lover is almost here.

  Guenevere whirled around. “Ina, I was wrong to ask him. Say he won’t come tonight?”

  Ina nodded to herself as she raised her head. “He’ll be on his way now, my lady.”

  “Surely not! Why would he come here?”

  Ina damped down her mischievous Otherworldly thoughts, and dropped her eyes. “I don’t know, lady.”

  “He’ll have to climb in the dark.” Guenevere turned away and roamed off, clasping her hands.

  “He won’t fall.”

  “It’s so dangerous!” moaned Guenevere.

  “Well, he can hardly walk in here past the guards to spend the night with the Queen!” Ina cried.

  For a moment she thought she had gone too far. But Guenevere had not heard. A new fear had risen to torment her.

  “I think the King knows,” she said slowly at last.

  “Gods above, knows what?” Ina’s mouth was agape.

  “Tonight, when I was putting Arthur to bed, he was asking me if I knew where Lancelot was. He said they’d all been walking in the garden, and Lancelot wasn’t there.”

  “Well, he wasn’t here!”

  “Of course he wasn’t!” Guenevere burst out. “He was out riding with his cousins, as he so often is. But Arthur missed him, and noticed he was gone.”

  Slowly, deliberately, Ina laid aside her work. “Lady, all it means is that the King wanted him. After all, he’s his knight; the King loves him too.”

  “I know!” Guenevere bit her lip and turned away. O h, Goddess, Mother, tell me what to do—

  Ina saw the torment, and turned back to her work. “In the country of the Goddess, lady, this is no sin,” she said firmly, as she plied her needle and thread. “In the olden days, you know the queens changed their consorts every year. Your mother’s knights did battle once a year, for the right to call themselves her champion.”

  “But she kept her chosen ones for seven years,” Guenevere protested.

  “She did,” agreed Ina stolidly. “And you have been with the King for ten years now. And now he can’t be a husband to you, as things are.”

  “That won’t be forever,” Guenevere cried. But the thought took shape between them, Perhaps it might.

  A silence fell that Ina dared not break. When Guenevere spoke, her voice was pale with pain. “Arthur—I must think of Arthur. Oh, Ina, let’s pray that Lancelot doesn’t come.”

  A soft noise sounded outside. Guenevere ran to the window and looked out. At the foot of the wall, a muffled figure was gripping the ivy and beginning the ascent.

  Ina was on her feet before Guenevere turned around. “Good night, my lady.” She beamed, dropped an excited curtsy, and was gone.

  Guenevere paced madly back into the room. He was here, Lancelot was here! Her heart was thundering in the cavern of her ribs. Goddess, Mother, what have I done?

  She raced around the chamber, dousing all the lights. One surviving candle flickered on its stand as she surveyed the richly colored hangings, the thick rugs, the great bed. Then she ran back into the window to look out.

  The muffled figure had almost reached the top. Moving steadily, he found the last few footholds and, grasping the frame of the window, heaved himself in. Impatiently he threw off the woolen wrap.

  “Lancelot!”

  In the dimly lit chamber, he burned like a flame. The candlelight glowed on the copper-red glints in his hair and lit a thousand tiny flames in his brown eyes. His eyes held an age-old look that she could not read. But there was no mistaking the troubled face and unsmiling mouth.

  She reached out her arms to him, then fell back, afraid. Tears rushed to her eyes. “Oh, my love—”

  “What are we doing?” he said hoarsely.

  She moved toward him and took him in her arms, drawing down his head to meet her lips. “Hush now,” she said, and kissed him. “Hush, my love.”

  CHAPTER 21

  Guenevere my lady, Guenevere the Queen—

  Mador dropped his visor and settled himself in the saddle as he drew up his horse to stand at the head of the lists. Absently, he acknowledged the cheering crowds. Walking beside his brother, Patrise waved away Mador’s quire and page, and methodically ran through all the last checks himself.

  “Girth, stirrups, breastplate, martingale, crupper—all well, Mador.” He raised his head to look up, shading his eyes with his hand as he squinted into the sun. “God go with you, brother,” he said quietly.

  “Thanks, brother,” Mador returned with feeling, as Patrise backed away. He turned his eyes to the field. Before him lay the long corridor of the lists, with their stout wooden palings down the middle to keep the combatants apart. At the far end, on his own side of the fence, Mador’s opponent was likewise preparing for the charge.

  “Lord God, merciful God, that takest away the sins of the world, have mercy on me, a miserable sinner,” Mador breathed lightly, and gave his soul to God. After his father’s mortal fall at a tournament, Mador had sworn never to die unprepared.

  He raised his eyes to the viewing gallery. There, enthroned in the wide wooden tower at the side of the field, the Queen sat among her ladies, glowing in white and gold. Seen thro
ugh the black slits of his visor, her radiance made Mador catch his breath. From the first, he had worshiped her without reserve. But now she looked even lovelier, he thought, softer, happier and more luminous, like a woman in love. It must be the King, Mador thought. Any wife, any queen, would rejoice to bring her husband back from the edge of death, and have him beside her, smiling and full of health, as the King was now.

  A King like Arthur, and a Queen like Guenevere, the sun in the sky and the green field ahead—what more could a man want? Today he would do well, Mador felt it in his bones. He would win for the Queen, and cast his victory in triumph at her feet. Then one day he would be the best knight in the world, chosen to wear the Queen’s favor and to fight for her. His spirit soared. To fight? To die for her! His blood thrummed in his veins, and the familiar chant sang in his ears: Guenevere my lady, Guenevere the Queen—

  Even seen from far away, Mador’s rapt pose facing the gallery left no doubt as to the focus of his thoughts. Sir Gaheris struggled with Agravain’s girth strap, and jerked his head with grim amusement down the lists.

  “Let’s hope Mador’s mind’s not on jousting today,” he grunted to his brother as he tightened the stubborn leather and thrust the tongue of the buckle firmly into place. “He’d be hard enough to beat, even if you didn’t have the sun in your eyes.” He adjusted the flap and watched as Agravain settled himself in the saddle, making sure it was firm. Well, Agravain looked fine enough in a new suit of black armor, gleaming from head to foot. “May the Gods be with you today.”

  Agravain gathered up his reins, and wheeled away from Gaheris without a word. At the head of the lists, he closed his visor with a snap and let out a contemptuous breath. Sheer weight and bulk always won the day at the joust. It would take more than young Mador’s incessant practice in the yard to unseat him.

  “Sir Agravain!” bayed the crowd all around. Agravain ignored them all. Through the slits of his helmet he watched the herald’s flag fall, and heard the cry, “Set on!” At this distance, his opponent looked a mere stripling, too young to fight. No reason to spare him for that, Agravain told himself, as he teased his horse’s sides with his spurs and broke into a trot.

  And Gaheris thought that he might take a fall? Agravain grinned, and pushed his horse into a steady canter down the lists. Lads like Mador were too weak to unseat an Orkneyan, a son of Lot. Only Lancelot was good enough to make skill take the place of weight, was the thought that came to him with the final charge. It was still drifting aimlessly through his head as he took Mador’s lance low and hard on his chest, and felt himself tossed backward out of the saddle to crash heavily to the ground.

  The fall knocked the breath from his body, and his head sang. As he staggered to his feet, he could hear the thud of Mador’s hooves coming back down the lists even above the ringing in his ears. His heart was pounding violently, though with fury or with shock, he could not tell. He groped for the shield strapped on his back, and fumbled for his sword in an ecstasy of haste. And all the time his mind was blackly forming the vow, Not me, Mador—no man does this to me—

  “Sir Mador! Sir Mador!” screamed the crowd in delight.

  Rot you, Mador, cursed Agravain, may you perish from your center, wounded in your core like the King—

  Then Mador was on him again, and Agravain found himself flailing the air. The sun overhead blinded him, and all he could see was the huge shape of horse and rider darkening the sky. The fear of defeat ran like a fever through his veins. Mounted, Mador had an advantage no man could lose. He had only to play with his grounded opponent by the old tactics of strike and retreat, till Agravain was beaten by pain and loss of blood.

  A cry from Mador cut through the air. “Here, sir!” Mador raised his arm, and brandished his sword in the air.

  Agravain gripped his sword and shield, and braced himself for the blow. Already he could feel the pain, hear the clash of metal as Mador’s heavy weapon caught him unprepared. Then he saw Mador vaulting from his horse to throw the reins to a waiting page. The boy heaved around the head of the great charger, and led it away at a run.

  The crowd released its breath in one approving roar.

  “Mador! Sir Mador! He’s given the vantage away!”

  Vomit rose in Agravain’s throat and filled his mouth. Mador despised him so much that he meant to beat him on the ground? Unhorsing him was not enough; he had to humiliate him too?

  A red mist filled Agravain’s eyes, and he threw away his shield.

  Prepare to die, Mador.

  Gripping his broadsword with both hands, he made for Mador with murder in his heart.

  “Have at you, Mador!” he screamed.

  “Come on, then!”

  Mador stood his ground as Agravain charged, then neatly dodged the weight of the Orkneyan’s bulk. Through the thin black slits before his eyes, Agravain hardly saw Mador’s sword swinging around behind. But the stinging blow across his shoulders pitched him forward onto the ground.

  The crowd was in ecstasy. “Sir Mador!” they sang. “Mador of the Meads!”

  Mador—

  Raging out of his mind, Agravain pushed himself up to his knees. As he scrambled for his sword, all he could see was one ironclad boot. Mador was standing with his foot on the blade, his own sword pointing straight at his kneeling opponent’s throat.

  “D’you yield?” cried the crowd, in delirious anticipation of the ritual demand. But Mador stepped back from the sword, bowed to his opponent where he knelt like a dog on all fours, and opened both his arms in the gesture that said, “Begin again.”

  May every pain, every pox wither your vitals, Mador, and blast your dearest hope—

  “You are gracious, sir!” Agravain bellowed falsely as he picked up his sword and slowly regained his feet. He took a moment to settle his seething soul. “Well, then—set on!”

  Mador came at him with a speed Agravain could not have believed. A blinding pain shot through his head as a swinging blow caught his helmet on the side. As he reeled from that, Mador slipped to the side and struck him hard across the shoulders, sending him once again sprawling onto his knees.

  Agravain stumbled and sweated, wrong-footed at every turn. May the Gods deform your progeny, blight your life—

  He could not prevail. Mador darted and danced around his taller, more ungainly opponent, beating him down.

  Watching from the side, Gaheris shared a furious glance with his brother Gareth.

  “The sun was in Agravain’s eyes—he never had a chance!” he cried angrily. “If he’d drawn the other end of the lists, that country clod would never have had him down!”

  In the viewing gallery, Sir Gawain was not so partisan.

  “Agravain asked for that,” he remarked to Arthur, leaning over the King’s throne. He laughed cheerfully, relishing his brother’s drubbing at Mador’s hands. “They’ll be good knights to you, sire, Mador and his brother, Patrise.”

  “True.” A shadow crossed Arthur’s face. “But I’d rather be down there on the field myself.”

  “Oh, Arthur, you will.” Seated at his side, Guenevere reached out a protective hand. “Don’t think about it—you’re doing so well.”

  “True again, dearest.” Arthur gave a crooked smile. “I’m even sitting a horse, though I can’t yet manage a charger in the field. But that’ll come.”

  A roar from the crowd rose above the clash of arms.

  “Look at that!” Gawain guffawed, his eyes on the scene down below. Mador was beating Agravain to his knees. With a final stroke, he swept his opponent’s sword from his hand. The tall Orkneyan knelt, defeated and unarmed.

  “Yield, knight!” cried Mador, in a voice that carried around the field.

  Yield to you, coxcomb? A prince of the Orkneys yield to a yokel from the Meads? Never in the world. The armored head shook slowly from side to side.

  “Yield!” called Mador again. “You are at my mercy, beaten in a fair fight. You have no choice. Yield!”

  Again the great black shape
shook its head.

  “Yield!” shrilled Mador, a note of panic in his voice. Nothing in the tilting yard had prepared him for this. “Yield, knight, or die!”

  In answer, Agravain threw off his gauntlets, then fumbled with the laces at his neck. A moment later he tore his helmet from his head, and cast it spinning through the air. Stunned into silence, the crowd watched its flight till it crashed to the ground. Then all attention switched back to the glaring Agravain, grinning in mad defiance as he swept his hair off his face and taunted Mador to deliver the fatal blow.

  “Strike, knight!” he howled. “I do not yield!”

  A terrible silence gripped all the field. Mador stood rooted to the ground, riven with fear. Standing on the side, Patrise groaned for Mador. His brother had never killed a man in his life, still less a beaten man kneeling at his feet—still less the King’s nephew, a fellow knight of the Round Table, and the son of a king. Oh, Mador, Mador, God help you now.

  In the lists, Mador braced himself and gripped his sword. Then he seized the blade, turned the hilt toward the gallery, and fell to one knee. He bowed his head as he offered up his sword. I give this knight to the King, the gesture said. Shall he live or die?

  “Sire!” Gawain gripped the arm of King Arthur’s throne, and knelt at his side. His great beefy face dissolved, and he wept like a boy. “Sire!” he cried. “I beg you, spare my brother’s life!”

  Arthur, hear me.

  At Arthur’s side, Guenevere sat unmoving in her chair. The laws of chivalry demand Agravain’s death. Three times he has refused quarter at Mador’s hands. He has chosen to die.

  In the deep silence, a mist rose before her eyes. And you should let him, if the truth be told. Agravain is nothing but blackness to us all. Blackness and fire, darkness and burning death—

  She came to herself with a sick taste in her mouth. What is this? Gods above, no man should die for war games like these. She pulled herself together. “Arthur—”

  But Arthur was already on his feet. He raised his right arm, and his voice swept the field. “Arise, Sir Agravain, we spare your life,” he cried. “And approach the dais, Sir Mador, for your chivalry today.”