“Lancelot—”
“No, lady, no more tears.” He moved toward Guenevere with a look of mingled love and death, gripping his sword and hefting it in his hand. “One kiss, my Queen, for I hear them. They are here.”
CHAPTER 26
Even at dead of night, some creatures never slept, and the strangest things were at large between dusk and dawn. The Captain of the Guard had never seen the Fair Ones walk. But keeping up with human prowlers was more than enough for him.
Especially when the night wanderer was the King. Gods above, who’d have expected that? the Captain asked himself, as he moved down the Queen’s corridor at a rapid pace. Well, time to worry about that later. The King would be here any minute now.
Striding up to the door of the Queen’s apartments, he frowned at the guards’ rough clothing and tousled hair.
“Smarten yourself up, lads,” he growled. “No time to lose!” They stumbled to obey.
At the entrance to the Queen’s apartments, a lone torch burned above the door. Ahead, the long, low passage was smoky with its guttering flame. An uneasy silence settled on the little group. Then, in the darkness at the end of the corridor, the shadows stirred.
The Captain drew his sword. “Who’s there?”
Slowly the blackness formed itself into shapes, two shuffling figures darker than the night outside. Monks, the Captain noted with a silent curse. What were they doing here? Well, their black habits were everywhere now, thanks to the King.
Grimly he watched the two hooded figures approach, their heads bent, their faces hidden in the all-concealing cloth, their arms and even their hands tucked up in their sleeves.
“Your business, sirs?” he challenged the newcomers.
The two monks came to a halt in front of him, refusing to lift their heads. A low voice issued from beneath the first of the thick woolen hoods.
“We have come to see the Queen.”
“The Queen?”The Captain paused. The smell of sweat and incense choked his throat. Great Gods, they were vile, these Christ followers with their claptrap from the East. Why would the Queen want them? She followed the Goddess; everyone knew that. She only bore with these stinking monks for Arthur’s sake. Nothing on earth would make a Christian of her.
He frowned suspiciously. “You want to see the Queen?” he temporized.
“She sent for us,” hissed the short black-hooded form.
The Captain stared. “Now why would she do that?”
“Ask her yourself!”
The Captain shook his head. “The King’s expected any minute now,” he said commandingly. “On your way, sirs, you won’t be admitted today.”
There was a frozen silence. Then the shorter of the two came forward menacingly. Despite himself, the Captain felt a qualm. Why couldn’t he hold his head up and threaten like a man?
“We are monks of the King,” the monk muttered in violent tones, “and you defy His Majesty if you keep us out today. He’ll have you stripped and whipped before all your men. Let us through, numb-skull, if you value your hide!”
He stepped forward aggressively, with the second monk close behind.
“Sir!” The younger of the guards plucked at the Captain’s sleeve.
He shook the youth off, intent on the monks. “Now, you two, look here—”
“Stand aside!” They shouldered past him and stood before the door.
“Sir?” the young guard tried again.
“Hold your tongue, soldier!” said the Captain dangerously.
The taller of the monks pounded on the door. There was only the echo of silence from within.
The Captain collected himself and returned to the attack. “Woe betide you, sirs!” he threatened the black-clad backs.
“Hush!” The shorter monk raised his hand. From within the antechamber came the sound of bolts being drawn back.
A moment later the Queen’s maid looked out. “What?” Ina cried.
The Captain gestured to the monks with an angry laugh. “These two are saying that the Queen’s expecting them. Just say the word, lady, and they’ll be out of here before their feet can touch the ground!”
“One moment, lady.” The shorter of the monks stepped forward and lifted his hood.
Ina’s eyes grew wide as she saw his face. A small, hysterical sound, quickly suppressed, fell from her mouth. She nodded to the guard.
“Why, yes,” she said, in a strained, unnatural tone. “Her Majesty will be glad to see these monks.” She stepped back and opened the door. “Welcome, good brothers. I beg you, come in.”
“By all the Gods!”
The Captain turned in fury from the door. “Monks in the Queen’s apartments now, is it? Well, she’s welcome to the whole lousy pack of them!”
“Sir,” the young guard tried for the third time. “Something odd, sir—”
“Odd, soldier?” the Captain burst out. “There’s nothing odder than Christians in Camelot, believe you me! Gods above, what’s the world coming to?” He gave the guard a nasty look. “Don’t answer, or I’ll have you on a charge.”
He stalked away with a ferocious frown. The young guard was relieved to see him go. What he’d seen couldn’t have been important, not with the Captain in a mood like this. After all, did it matter that instead of the usual sandals on their raw, bare feet, both the monks tonight had been wearing boots?
THE DANK VAPORS of night still clung around the walls, but by the faint lightening in the east, dawn was on its way. Striding through the courtyard among his knights, Arthur grinned with boyish delight. He knew he was moving more easily, despite the biting air. He looked around.
“You know, there’s nothing like an adventure to make me feel young again!”
Kay, struggling not to jar his bad leg on the cobblestones, was not impressed. “That’s not a feeling, sire, it’s a fact. We’re not old. We’re still in our thirties, for a while at least.”
“Young?” Gawain let out a guffaw, punching Kay on the arm. “The King, maybe. But you were born old, Kay!”
Kay’s eyes flared. “Well, I was certainly born wiser than you, Gawain.” He paused. “Which was not hard!”
Behind him, Gaheris and Gareth suppressed snorts of schoolboy glee. Bringing up the rear, Agravain took a fleeting comfort in the jibe at Gawain’s expense. Well used to Kay’s badinage, Bedivere and Lucan shared a smile with the rest of the knights.
They passed through the courtyard to see the chapel doors opening for the end of matins, and the monks come flooding out. They pressed past the hooded shapes, gained the wide cloistered walkway, and made their way into the inner court. At the entrance to the Queen’s corridor, Arthur called a sudden halt.
“Wasn’t Lancelot going to meet us here?” He turned to Kay. “What did Bors say?”
Kay’s sallow face changed imperceptibly. “He said that Lancelot had gone out hunting, and that he and Lionel would find him and bring him here as soon as they could.”
“Don’t worry, my lord,” Gawain urged. “He’ll be here.”
Bedivere nodded. “Lancelot will never let you down.”
In the far distance, a cock began to crow. On the other side of the courtyard, two monks hastened by.
“Cockcrow,” Arthur smiled. “It’s dawn.” He nodded amiably. “Well, we won’t wait any longer. Let’s go on.”
Outside the Queen’s apartments, the guards stood to attention to greet the King.
“Knock on the door, Gawain,” Arthur cried.
The old oak almost split under Gawain’s fist. The door opened to reveal Ina’s flushed face. “My lord!” she cried with a curtsy, her eyes wide. “What a surprise to see Your Majesty!”
She did not look so surprised, Kay thought, as they all trooped in. And her cream silk chamber gown did not look as if she had been disturbed from sleep. But perhaps it was all his suspicious mind. For nothing looked as if it had disturbed the peace of the inner chamber where the Queen lay.
All the windows were muffled against the lig
ht. The heavy hangings and thick carpets made the low whitewashed space unnaturally quiet and calm. Against the wall, the Queen’s bed loomed like a ship of state, its heavy billowing draperies tightly closed. One tall candle burned on a stand beside the bed.
The musky scent of patchouli teased the air. The knights lingered on the threshold as Arthur bounded into the room.
“Guenevere!” he called.
A sleepy voice came from the depths of the bed.
“My lord?”
SHE KNEW SHE had done well. As she sat up slowly in the bed, she could see herself as Arthur would see her now, heavy-eyed and dazed, looking full of sleep. As she waited for his hand on the hangings, she rehearsed her surprise. Oh, Arthur, this is lovely. What is it? A dawn ride?
To show a natural delight was not too hard. What a wonderful idea to go Maying as we always did. Yes, of course it’s wonderful, I said so, to see you here with your knights.
And then she had arrayed herself in her best chamber gown and sallied out to the antechamber, where Ina had summoned refreshments for the knights. Sir Gawain had led the demand for something hot and strong, and now the room was filled with the rich, spiced odor of mulled wine, despite the early hour. Moving around the group, she had greeted each knight and taken him by the hand, and they were all jovial, even the dark Agravain. And Arthur himself had watched her every move, laughing and smiling, full of joy. In body and spirit he seemed his old self again.
Yes, she had done well.
But the cost—Gods above, the cost.
Lies and deceit, a picture of false innocence.
A show of wifely devotion from a woman who had Just spirited her lover from her bed.
Goddess, Mother, forgive the woman I have become.
“FAREWELL, SIRS!”
“Our thanks to Your Majesty.”
One by one the knights trooped out through the oak door. Ahead of them Arthur was swinging down the corridor to the courtyard like a man reborn. He turned to Gawain.
“We must do this again!”
“Sire!” Gawain let out a bellow, pointing ahead. “There they are!”
In the distance three figures had turned into the courtyard and were hurrying their way.
“Lancelot!” Arthur cried in delight.
“Apologies, sire,” muttered Lancelot. He was very pale.
“And Bors and Lionel,” Arthur went on. “So you found him then?”
“Yes, sire,” Bors returned stiffly, “and brought him back as quickly as we could.”
“Where were you, Lancelot? What took you from your bed at that raw hour?” Arthur demanded, throwing a companionable arm round Lancelot’s shoulders.
“I was—out hunting, sire. For the exercise.”
“Hunting?” hooted Gawain, rolling his eyes. “On a foul day like this? Ye Gods, Lancelot, you’re an example to us all!”
Hunting, eh? Agravain moved up to hold the three newcomers in his gaze. Thoughtfully he assessed Lancelot’s heavy eyes, his pallid sheen. “Catch anything?” he asked easily.
Only shame and dishonor, Lancelot mourned in his soul. He turned away in misery. “No.”
CHAPTER 27
“So you’re leaving the Orkneys, sir?”
Merlin ground his teeth. The cry of the seabirds filled the echoing air. A fat pink sun bloomed on the horizon, promising a cloudless day. Warm breezes whisered, and the white road wandered away over the hill-tops, calling him into the blue. His heart revived to be on the road again, after so many bitter, barren moons wasted here. And only this foul hairy creature darkening the day.
“Leaving?” Merlin favored the Orkneyan with a yellow glare. “I thank the great Gods, yes.”
“Well, we’ll look forward to your speedy return,” the man continued with a gap-toothed grin, giving the mule’s girth a heavy-handed tug. He moved around to the far side of Merlin’s mount, checking the saddlebags, bridle, and bit. “Those who come here always return one day. Even our princes, they’ll be coming back.”
Merlin gave a mirthless smile. Princes, indeed, those great Orkney louts? Still, they were Arthur’s kin. A spark of interest stirred. “When are they coming back?”
“Soon,” said the man confidently. “The queen wants to see them, that’s for sure. As any woman would, who’d mothered four such fine sons.” He gave the mule a final slap, and raised his hand. “Farewell.”
Maybe, maybe not, Merlin thought, as he pulled the mule’s head around and made for the open road. He chuckled lecherously. If he knew women, Queen Morgause would not be in a hurry to have Gawain, Agravain, Gaheris, and Gareth back with her at court. Would any woman want four grown-up sons breathing down her neck as she took her handsome lover to her bed? Would any son want to see his mother mounted by a man of his own age, a lusty young knight?
Let alone a man guilty of spilling their blood. They would not forgive Morgause that her lover and his father were the killers of King Lot.
Merlin’s sight darkened, and a thin lamentation rattled in his throat. Suddenly he smelled death, raw blood, and bursting flesh. It was true that Lamorak had been only a boy when he fought with his father at the Battle of Kings. And like Lamorak, King Pellinore had had no choice but to fight against Lot: he was bound to support Arthur by his loyal oath. But fate had made them the instruments of Lot’s death.
Merlin dropped the white mule’s reins, trusting the patient beast to find the way. Wrapping both arms around his thin body, he rocked to and fro in the saddle, pregnant with a burden of foreboding, struggling with a seeing he could not yet see. Arthur had meant to heal that blood feud when he sent Sir Lamorak to serve the queen. But he had not known that Morgause would take Lamorak to her bed.
And there was a price to be paid for careless rapture, always a price. For all her fleshly wisdom, this was a truth that Morgause did not seem to know. She had loved him, yes, this was no random tale of an older woman’s lust for a fine young man. She loved him still; rarely were two people so in love, and to Morgause, that canceled out her husband’s death. But to her sons, their father’s corpse must still be walking the earth, crying for vengeance.
And so?
Merlin groaned. And so there would be blood. Above the queen’s slow smiles of satisfaction and the smell of sex that hung in the palace walls, Merlin could not free himself of the rich ripe stink of blood.
So be it, then.
On, you old fool, he told himself, get on.
The white mule settled into a slow, swaying walk. In the coarse grass by the roadside, dragonflies buzzed to and fro. The rising sun warmed Merlin’s hawklike head, massaged his old shoulders, and played on down his back.
The golden fire warmed his withered body to the root, and a fleshly relish crept into his soul, mingled with a rancorous anger too. A fine woman, Morgause, with her fair acres of fat white flesh. But she had played with him for weeks and months, disclaiming all knowledge of Morgan, then sending for him at strange times of the night, to feed him scraps of information that were nothing in the light of day. Whole seasons had rolled by while he played her game. He grinned savagely. And still he had no more knowledge of Mordred than when he came.
So the amorous queen had amused herself by tweaking his nose. And one day he would have vengeance on Morgause, if her sons did not punish her first.
He grinned again, and felt the familiar stirring in his loins. For Arthur he had wanted a submissive wife, bud-breasted and undeveloped in her mind. But all his life, all his many lives, Merlin had sought a woman of power, a woman worth taming, and a woman who would tame him. She rode him hard, the dark spirit, and she changed shape every time. Yet it was always the same woman, at least he knew that now.
He had a sudden vision of Queen Morgause tied naked to a post, her hands above her head, her full white body flinching from his attentions as she awaited the unhurried unfolding of his revenge. His sight dimmed, and his old flanks strained as his flesh rose with each imagined hurt. The pink and gold Orkney noon faded into night. Then a voice ca
me to him, singing down the wind.
“You called me, Merlin. See, I am here.”
He was not surprised. She always came to him out of the darkness of his lust and despair. Indeed she brought the darkness, she was the despair, and it was always worse when she had gone.
He greeted her with a groan. Already he could feel the hot stink of her breath. No use to cry for mercy, he knew. She gloried in goading him to the bursting point, then condemning him to bear the painful standing of his juddering flesh for hours, days, weeks.
“Morgan!”
He groaned and fought, his thighs and belly covered in blood. Her white talons tore his flesh, and the glare of her red nipples was scorching to his eyes. But she tired of the game before it was half begun, and he felt himself tossed aside. Was she gone?
Yet she wanted something from him, he knew. He could feel her will reaching out to envelop him, coaxing, cajoling, Look here, see—
He closed his eyes to see better through the dark. “See what?”
Just out of his view, Morgan nerved herself for what she had to do. Must I help my enemy? her spirit moaned. But her will overrode her resistance with its one all-encompassing urge: Mordred, Mordred, see, Merlin, see—
Merlin strained his inner vision to the point of pain. A moment later the air around him thinned, and there he was.
A sturdy boy, walking in the world between the worlds. A boy with Morgan’s thick cap of blue-black hair, and Arthur’s frame. He was with a group of other boys, all dressed as pages of a noble house. Behind them Merlin could see a homely castle, low and welcoming. Two round fat towers stood athwart an open gate, and the boy stood framed in the archway like a little king.
“Mordred!”
Merlin cried out for joy to see again the well-shaped, strongsinewed body he had loved in Arthur as a child. As the boy turned his head, he had Arthur’s frank, open gaze. But as he looked, he had Morgan in his eyes. In their age-old depths, Merlin saw hyacinths bruised and bleeding underfoot. Then his sight ruptured, pain split his heart, and he feared for his mind.
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