The Knight of the Sacred Lake

by Rosalind Miles

  “Well said, brother!” Boniface glowed approvingly.

  There was an endless pause. It stretched out to the edge of endurance and beyond. In the silence, Giorgio suddenly came to know that the Lady had heard his thoughts, and seen into his mind. Shame flooded him. He felt naked, humiliated, cruelly exposed, like the whores in Rome stripped to receive the lash.

  “Is it so, Brother Giorgio?” came the soft query.

  Giorgio felt his soul slipping out of his grasp. God in heaven, could the witch suck the life out of him too?

  Nonplussed, Boniface was looking at him, anxiety on his face. A new dread burst upon Giorgio’s disordered mind. The Lady might forbid them to continue here. If they were ordered to leave the Sacred Isle because of him, what punishments would be waiting for him in Rome?

  “We beg you, allow us to continue our worship here,” he burst out, made frantic by the silence and his fear. “For the love of God!”

  The still figure on the throne inclined her head. As she moved, the crystals in her moon-shaped diadem flashed with pale fire. “Love, yes,” came a slow voice like music. “Religion should be kindness. Faith should be love.”

  “Lady—”

  Alarmed, Boniface threw himself into restoring the goodwill he had felt when they began. After a while, a chastened Giorgio seconded his attempts. In the whispering dark, the great muffled shape listened patiently to their stumbling pleas.

  At last she held up her hand. “Enough,” she said heavily. “What will be, will be. Even the Mother cannot turn back the tide.”

  Her sigh held all the sadness of the world. “Very well, then. You and your brothers may continue here.”

  CHAPTER 23

  The Audience Chamber was full, and stifling. At the far end, the twin thrones and their heavy canopies glowed red in the August heat. Her hand clasped in Arthur’s, Guenevere processed beside him down the long oom. The lofty space was crowded with knights and adies, courtiers, lords, all rubbing shoulders with countless petitioners who had traveled to Camelot to seek justice from the King and Queen. A sea of faces met Guenevere on all sides. She smiled back warmly, schooling herself not to look for Lancelot.

  From the dais, she could see the petitioners already in place. On the left, a block of armed warriors stood glowering protectively around their king. On the right, a fierce huddle of monks offered their leader the same mute support. And between them, Guenevere saw bleakly as she took her seat, lay nothing but hatred and the lust for blood.

  “Silence for the King of Gore!” cried the chamberlain.

  But the young knight who stepped forward shook his head. “Call me Sir Yvain, as I was before,” he cried bitterly. “I never wanted to inherit my father’s crown. But now I must, I want vengeance for his blood!”

  Arthur leaned forward, resting his hands on his knees. “King Ursien died in the forest, by means unknown. Who can you call to account for this wicked deed?”

  A flurry of tension ran through the monks standing across from Sir Yvain on the other side of the aisle. Their leader drew a breath. Jesu grant me patience, who indeed? thought the Father Abbot furiously. The spirit of darkness does not stand and fight.

  Sir Yvain’s clear young voice rang around the room. “Who but Queen Morgan of Gore? My cursed stepmother. Your sister, sire.”

  Guenevere closed her eyes. Morgan, Morgan—will we never be free of her?

  No—not while she can invade our marriage bed.

  Her mind twisted and turned with last night’s pain.

  “Come here, Guenevere,” Arthur had said. And “Kiss me,” and “Help me!” and a hundred other things. So she had kissed him and stroked him and caressed his poor body, and tried to help him in any way she could. But every one of his wounds was still tender to her touch. And the dread of his greatest wound hung over them both.

  So she had unlaced her gown for his eager hands, slipping off her shift to let him adore her body by candlelight as he used to do. She could feel the blood coursing through him, see the veins pulsing at his temples, hear his breath coming short and fast. But again and again as she reached out for him, he held back and pulled away.

  At last he rolled away with a desperate laugh.

  “It’s no good, Guenevere. I can’t make love to you.” His face was gleaming with a sickly light, and his body convulsed with a sudden shuddering fear. “Dear God, you don’t think she’s used her power to destroy me for life?” His teeth were chattering. “It can’t be, can it, Guenevere? Say it isn’t her!”

  Then he wept, and she had held him, and kissed him, and promised him it was nothing, it would pass. At last he had slept, and she lay in his arms all night, thinking of Lancelot.

  And of Morgan. For surely she was with us in bed last night.

  “Queen Morgan, yes!” Sir Yvain was insisting furiously. “She should pay for this!”

  Only Guenevere saw Arthur’s hands tighten on the arms of his throne. “Queen Morgan?” he asked calmly. “Why do you blame her?”

  “Why?” Sir Yvain’s fair skin took on a livid flush. “Because she hated my father, ever since you forced him to marry her. And I demand vengeance, vengeance for his blood!”

  Arthur’s voice hardened. “And I ask again, what vengeance can you seek?”

  Sir Yvain took a step forward and gestured toward his knights, twenty or so solid, ferocious men clustered at his back. Each glared out balefully through a tangle of coarse, thick hair, and gripped his short stabbing sword, hungry for blood.

  “They will not rest till they have blood for blood. They have taken an oath to hunt down this treacherous queen. Let them take the nunnery she lived in, and root out the witch’s coven with fire and the sword!” He gave a tormented laugh. “Let all who helped her feel the rule of war!”

  There was a harsh rumble of agreement from the knights. In the stifling heat of the packed chamber, Guenevere felt herself grow cold. In every one of their dull, stonelike eyes she could see nuns hacked and bleeding, the white of their collars and headdresses drenched with red. She saw the convent in flames, bodies heaped up for the fire, and women stripped and screaming as blood-soaked blades pried their thighs apart.

  No. Whatever happened there, no!

  She touched Arthur’s arm. “Arthur—” she began softly in his ear. But a shout from the body of the hall cut her off.

  “Arthur Pendragon, you are a Christian king!”

  The Father Abbot was surging forward with fire in his eyes. “In the name of God, will you permit torture, murder, rape? Will you allow blood vengeance against His will? Armed knights against old women, and brute soldiers against pure virgins who never saw a man?”

  Sir Yvain threw both arms into the air. “Your innocent virgins took my father’s life!”

  The Abbot turned to Arthur, folding his hands inside his black sleeves. “Sire, hear the truth. One spirit of evil dwelt there for a while. But since she left, the convent has been purged. The nuns are already paying for what she has done.” His forefinger stabbed the wilting air. “We have set a new regime of spiritual discipline. Their hours of prayer have been increased, as have the penitential services they offer to the Lord. And on four days of the week, they live on bread alone.”

  His austere features eased into a smile. “No female will ever hold sway there again. I have installed a Father Confessor in the Mother Abbess’s place. He has orders to confine all unruly spirits, and bring them to the knowledge of their faults. He has the power to wall them up for life in solitary contemplation, if need be.” He spread his hands, and essayed a confident laugh. “We shall bring down these women so completely, sire, that there will be no call to take their lives.”

  Spiritual discipline, sin and punishment—Guenevere’s stomach turned. A violent death, or a death in life? What hope for these women, caught between men like this?

  “Arthur—”

  Arthur’s upraised hand was brushing her aside. “Sir Yvain,” he said harshly, “whatever killed King Ursien, there is no proof that Quee
n Morgan took your father’s life. Your vengeance must lie elsewhere. I forbid the destruction of the nunnery.”

  The Abbot closed his eyes. A thousand praises on Your name, O God.

  Yvain smashed the hilt of his sword against his forehead, and screamed as the bright blood flowed. “My father’s spirit wanders in the Otherworld. He can have no peace till his murder is avenged. Do not deny my right!”

  Arthur shook his head. “No slaughter, sir. No blood. That is my word. But your father must be honored with his due.” He raised his hand. “If you please!” he called out.

  Four servants struggled down the hall with a massive chest, and threw back the lid. In its dark wooden depths lay heavy plates and goblets of gold, and a king’s ransom in gold coins, rings, and chains burned in the afternoon sun.

  Arthur extended his hand. “Yours, sir,” he said.

  Sir Yvain drew back, turning white. “Blood-gelt!”

  “No.” Arthur’s face was calm. “There is no gold to buy your father’s life. Take this in his memory, and do good with it. Then King Ursien will not have died in vain.”

  Sir Yvain turned in silent question to his knights. The eldest of them gave a long, appraising stare before his hairy head dropped down in a grudging nod. Sir Yvain bowed to Arthur, and sheathed his sword.

  “So!” Arthur raised a smile. “We are all reconciled, it seems.”

  The Abbot bowed. Resolutely he kept his eyes on the ground, to hold back the seething triumph in his soul.

  “And let me hear no more.” Arthur went on, “No more of—” His color turned, and he closed his eyes. A line of tears began to form between the lids.

  Arthur, Arthur, not here—

  Guenevere rose to her feet and addressed the silent court. “The King is still recovering from his wounds. Forgive him, this great heat has been too much. I beg your indulgence to excuse us now.”

  She raised her hand to bring the audience to an end. Knights, lords, and ladies took a hurried leave.

  The chamberlain bustled forward with concern in his eyes. “Your Majesty, there are other petitioners, some in urgent need.”

  “Tell them I shall see them all later on.”

  The group at the rear of the hall brightened at her words, and bowed themselves out. Standing rigid on the dais, Guenevere bade a slow and careful farewell to each one.

  She could not bring herself to look at Arthur, still huddled on the throne at her side. I want to hear no more of Morgan, had he said? She could have laughed out loud.

  Impossible, Arthur.

  For she has not left us, and she never will.

  THREE SISTERS NOW on water only, bread withdrawn. Two ordered to stand all night, and chant the hours. And one, God forgive us, walled up in her cell, to receive only bread and water and confession till the day she died.

  Lord, Lord, is this Your will?

  The Father Confessor of the House of the Little Sisters of Mercy finished his report to the Father Abbot, and sealed it with his tears. Then he turned away from his desk, and fell to his knees. The Abbot had told him he had been called to a fine, a noble, task, to return a convent of women to the love of God. He had not told him how hard it would be.

  He clasped his hands in prayer and grief combined. Lord God, shine Your light upon me, show me the way. So much pain to bring these women down. You have taught us that women were ordained to be subject to men, O Lord, why then do they resist? Help their stubborn souls to the light of understanding, and soon, Lord, let it be soon.

  Yet there were some here who were purely good. Young Sister Ganmor, now, the tall thin nun who tried so hard to please. The Father Confessor gave a watery smile. Sister Ganmor, yes. At first he had been unnerved by her long pale face and watchful sloe-black eyes. But now her devotion delighted him, her true humility, her simple faith in God.

  There was a knock at the door. “Who’s there?” he called.

  “It’s Sister Ganmor, sir,” came a soft voice as, head bent and eyes fixed devoutly on the ground, Morgan Le Fay stepped quietly into the room.

  CHAPTER 24

  The plaintive toll of the bidding bell cut through the evening air. Moving at the same mournful pace, Arthur and his train entered the chapel at the head of a line of monks. Behind them, the latecomers to evensong quickned their steps across the cobbled square. The three ousins came into the courtyard in time to see the last of the stragglers follow the King through the low oak door.

  So! Sir Bors rolled his eyes. Lancelot shrugged. He still found it strange to see Christians in Camelot. But if the Queen could endure for the King’s sake, who was he to complain?

  The Queen.

  A rush of joy seized Lancelot, and he felt the tears rising to his eyes. That she should love him—choose him—out of all the world—

  And love him truly, all this length of time. Summer had mellowed into autumn, followed by winter, and now it was spring, and still she loved him, Guenevere loved him!

  He gulped down deep breaths of the sharp April air, and stifled a sigh as they hastened across the court. Loved him too much at times. Always he had to watch out for both of them: he left the court when the other knights rode out, accepting every adventure for fear of giving the gossips reason to say, “See, the Queen’s knight cannot leave the Queen.”

  So he was often on the wrong side of her temper, when he left and she wanted him to stay. Other times he would fall foul of her anger too, if he would not come every time she called. Then she would reproach him in storms of tears, and threaten to send him away. He did not love her, she would never see him again!

  But soon she would relent, and send for him. And always she loved him enough to take him to her bed. Gods above, her bed! His breath caught in his throat, and his hard young body stirred at the memory.

  Guenevere—

  And soon he would see her, any moment now.

  He entered the palace with a bounding step. Now that glorious body would be his again, as he had dreamed. Soon he would stand in an agony of impatience as her white fingers struggled to unbuckle his sword, then he would sweep her into his arms and carry her to bed.

  He sighed hungrily.

  Guenevere.

  WALKING AT LANCELOT’S side, Bors glanced at him in bitter exasperation, and had to look away. Would they ever be free of this Queen who had stolen Lancelot’s soul?

  Behind them the call of the bidding bell faded into the dusk. Bors nodded. Christian worship was not famous for its brevity. Arthur was out of the way till sunset and beyond.

  But why did they have to think like this at all? Why this deceit, this evasion, this sneaking around? The Queen was wonderful, Lancelot said. Yes indeed, Bors had no doubt of that. Wonderfully bad for Lancelot, for all of them.

  “Sir!”

  As they entered the palace, the guards on the door leaped to attention and their eyes followed Lancelot with rapt regard. Bors ground his teeth. Did Lancelot know, did he care, how much he meant to these men? And not only to the men, to every woman and child? Only babes in arms and hopeless imbeciles did not know Lancelot. He was a byword for honor far and near. And to risk all this for a handful of nights with the Queen?

  Walking behind Bors and Lancelot, Sir Lionel switched his gaze from one to the other with anxious love. Bors, Bors, he mourned, don’t torment yourself. A love like this is beyond us to understand. And Lancelot is our kin. We have no choice but to honor and follow him.

  Inside the palace, the long white passageways were quiet and chill. Above their heads the high vaulted arches vanished in the blue-gray dusk. Farther in, the walls grew lower and thicker, the stones more rough. The Queen’s tower rose above the battlements, and looked out over the countryside for miles around. But her private apartments lay at the heart of ancient Camelot, carved out of the fortified hill before the rest of the palace rose above the ground.

  As they went deeper, the air grew warmer, and a faint scent beckoned them, musky and obscure. Patchouli had been the chosen fragrance of the Queens of the Summer
Country since the first trader had sailed from the East up the Severn Water and into the inland sea. Lancelot’s senses quickened as he picked up the familiar scent. The deepest part of him beat with one yearning, Guenevere.

  The outer doors to the Queen’s apartments were under double guard. At the inner door, more guards bowed them through. In the dusk of the antechamber, Ina waited alone. At the sight of Sir Lancelot, her small face lit with its catlike gleam.

  “My lords!” she said loudly. “The Queen will be glad to see you all.” Then as the guards bowed out and the double doors closed, she turned to Sir Lancelot. “This way, sir,” she breathed.

  Silently she led him forward through the silvery gloom. At the door to the Queen’s chamber she stood aside.

  Lancelot’s heart almost failed with the weight of his love. He stood on the threshold, powerless to move. Then a voice from within filled every region of his heart.

  “Lancelot?”

  Lovers never parted never know love’s highest bliss. In tears and soft tremblings, mute caresses and simple murmurings, they consoled themselves for their hours of loneliness, and renewed their faith. Gripping her furiously to his chest, feeling again the sweet roundness of her head beneath his chin, Lancelot stroked her shining hair and held her until her tears of joy subsided, and she was his again. Holding him as tightly as she could, Guenevere stood fast until his body stopped shaking, and he was hers again.

  “Oh, my love!”

  “My love!”

  He kissed her deeply, weeping as he had when they parted, turning it into a kiss of farewell, not reunion.

  She laughed in her throat. “No, no.” She reached up and threw her arms lightly around his neck. “Come here.”

  He started at her touch, and pulled away. “Here, love,” she said softly, and drew his head down again. This time they kissed like lovers, as they were.