The Knight of the Sacred Lake

by Rosalind Miles

  He raised his voice, and spoke to the open court. “Do any other of my knights wish to go out adventuring?” He chuckled. “The rewards are rich, when the ladies are so fair.”

  “Sire?”

  Lancelot had moved unnoticed to the foot of the throne. Bors and Lionel were standing quietly at his side. He bowed, and threw back the cloak of his traveling dress. Already she could see the woodland greens and browns melting into the landscape, and felt she was losing him, watching him fade away.

  He moved toward Arthur, avoiding her eye. “I would have told you this, sire, if you had picked me for the quest. My cousins and I have been called back to Little Britain, where an attack threatens from our overlord of France. We must go at once, and cannot say when we will be free to return. May we have your permission to leave, my lord?”

  CHAPTER 30

  The dying garden was dotted with scattered groups enjoying the last fleeting rays of the winter sun. Agravain stuck out his chin, and lengthened his stride to widen the gap between himself and his two brothers following behind. How slowly those idiots walked! Didn’t hey know who they answered to now?

  Their leader, yes. Agravain grimaced with satisfaction to find himself at the head of the clan. Of course Gawain would be away only for as long as it took to find a damsel in distress, take advantage of her, and then return. Still, even for a short while, this was his true place. He turned to glower triumphantly at Gaheris and Gareth bringing up the rear.

  Yet his twisted soul was still far from peace. Every moldering leaf, every withered rose, and the all-pervasive smell of death and decay seemed to echo his black mood. Why should the sons of Orkney attend on the Queen? They were knights of the King, and nothing but the King’s orders would have brought them here today.

  But there it was, a command they could not ignore. “With Gawain away, and Lancelot too,” Arthur had told him solemnly, “make sure that the Queen is attended, Agravain.” Agravain laughed darkly to himself. He had not been surprised. Both the King and Guenevere, he knew, still clung to the belief that a queen must always have her knights. He had had no choice but to obey.

  So every day at dawn, Agravain sent his page to see how the Queen had slept, as Sir Lancelot used to do. And at night, in another mocking echo of Lancelot’s chivalry, the same boy was sent to ask if the Queen had taken peacefully to her bed, and could her servant now retire?

  What nonsense it all was! Agravain’s patience shriveled in the fire of his contempt. What woman would believe such hollow protestations, such a false parade of love? And what man who called himself a man would even play at such pretense?

  But there it was, he told himself again. Willy-nilly he had taken on the mantle of Lancelot’s make-believe love. Yet perhaps he, too, could win Arthur’s favor by courting the Queen. And it was no bad thing, Agravain brooded as he walked, to keep an eye on Guenevere.

  For there was much here that he did not understand. That night of the King’s Maytime jaunt, when Lancelot finally appeared, he could have sworn there was something in the knight’s demeanor, some self-consciousness, some guilt. Yet leaving court like that, with no plan to return, was not the action of the lover of a woman like Guenevere. And when Mador had pushed forward to claim the quest of the young woman’s sister, it was clear that his love for the Queen was very much alive.

  Agravain’s brow cleared. So that was it, he concluded. If the Queen had a lover, Mador was the man. All he had to do was to watch her closely to turn the “if” into knowledge he could use.

  And there she was now, a sudden pale wisp of color up ahead, drifting through the garden in her eternal white and gold, though summer had long gone. Agravain’s frown deepened, and he drew to a halt. Gaheris and Gareth drew up to his side.

  “The Queen is sad.”

  It was Gareth, the baby giant of the brothers and youngest of the four, his freckled face contorted in sympathy.

  Agravain gave an unkind laugh. “She has lost her knight. There is no one left to adore her now.”

  Gaheris looked at him thoughtfully. “But Lancelot has always come and gone.”

  “Not Lancelot, you idiot!” Agravain scoffed. His desire to crow over his brothers overcame his innate secrecy. “I say her lover has gone.”

  “Gods above, Agravain, don’t say that!” Gareth gaped at Agravain, moon-eyed. “Not about the Queen.”

  “The King was ill for a long while,” Agravain said unpleasantly, “and would a woman like Guenevere live without love?”

  The question hung in the air. Each of the brothers struggled to answer it.

  “But even if it’s true, you said not Lancelot,” Gareth mumbled, his mouth trembling. “You can’t mean Gawain?”

  “Gawain?” Agravain was enjoying this. Making mischief, he thought with glee, is something I do well. “Gods above, the pair of you are even bigger fools than I thought! Gawain? Lancelot? Am I the only one with eyes in my head?”

  Gaheris’s milky skin flushed, but he did not rise to the bait. “Tell us what you mean,” he said evenly.

  “I mean a certain young knight of the shires,” said Agravain, lingering on each word. “One who loves the Queen so much that he tries to win her favor by undertaking this young petitioner’s impossible quest. One knight on his own will never free a lady held in a castle, under lock and key. But a love-struck boy would be fool enough to try.”

  Gareth gasped. “Mador?”

  “Well done, little brother!”

  “You think he’s the Queen’s lover?” scowled Gaheris.

  “It can’t be true!” Gareth had turned an angry shade of red.

  Gaheris nodded. “I don’t believe it either,” he said flatly, shaking his head. “Gods above, not after being married to the King—the Queen wouldn’t betray Arthur for a beardless boy!”

  Agravain stroked his nose with a knowing air. “I have it out of the side of his own mouth.”

  “Meaning his brother?” Gaheris frowned. “Well, Patrise could be wrong. And if Mador’s in love with the Queen, why should he volunteer for this quest, going off with a woman who has ‘whore’ written all over her for any man to see? I can’t see the Queen being very pleased with that.”

  “Easy, brother, easy,” Agravain sneered. “He did it to throw the gossips off the scent.”

  Gareth’s eyes had settled into a permanent stare. “How?”

  “That girl is ripe for love. Against the promise of tumbling her into bed, why would any man look twice at Guenevere?”

  Agravain paused. Some called the Queen a beauty, he well knew. But the eyes that they called cornflowers were nothing to him. And Gods, she was old, well into her thirties now! To her, Mador could be little more than a boy.

  Yet not such a boy—

  The raw memory of his defeat at Mador’s hands flooded Agravain. Again he felt the anguish of that day, the pains in his body, and the insult to his soul. Once again he renewed his vow to be revenged. The boy would live to regret his chivalry. Whose honor would be at stake when he caught Mador in the arms of the Queen, exposed their adultery, and had them killed?

  Agravain paused as another thought slipped gently into his mind. He could always deal with Mador in a quieter way. There were many silent means to end a life. Not all plants were wholesome and good to eat. Purple nightshade, wolfsbane, all-sleep—every town had its shadowy vendor of such things.

  Or hemlock. He bared his teeth in an animal grin. That cup of forgetfulness was old when the world was young. It must have claimed a thousand Madors in its time. What difference would another young life make?

  Or two?

  A muscle jumped for joy in Agravain’s neck. If Gawain sickened, how fine that would be. The thought of poison fed his poisoned soul. Yes, he would search it out. Brother Gawain, is your soul prepared?

  “What’s wrong with Agravain?” he heard Gareth demand. “Why is he looking like that?”

  Gaheris gave a harsh laugh. “All this talk of adultery must have gone to his head.”

  Gare
th giggled like the boy he was. “Perhaps he thinks he should be the lover of the Queen.”

  Gaheris nodded grimly. “Well, I’d say he’s got as much chance with her as Mador has. But the whole thing’s nonsense; he must have made it up.”

  “Well, any woman would have to be desperate to take Agravain to bed,” Gareth chortled disrespectfully. “Just wait till Gawain gets back and we tell him this!”

  Agravain turned back toward them, rage boiling in his soul. “Take care, brothers,” he said calmly, and turned away. Unless you want to meet me tomorrow in the ring, said his menacing back. Where you know I will beat you both bloody, because I can beat you, and only Gawain can beat me.

  A wild laugh swelled inside him, and he fought it down. Yes, Gaheris and Gareth had better learn to show respect. Once he had the poison, who could tell? They would all have to reckon with him then. A cold glint lit his eye. Even his mother, even Queen Morgause.

  For why did she love a man young enough to be her son? Surely it should have been enough that she had four fine sons as her pride and joy, her reason to live? Yet still she had had Lamorak as her secret lover for years. Thinking that no one knew made it all worse.

  The wayward spasm in Agravain’s neck had reached his face. He felt the muscle flickering underneath his eye. Morgause and Guenevere, loose, lustful women, unworthy to be queens. Monsters of self, hardly fit to live.

  Black bile pulsed through his soul.

  Vengeance on all who crossed Agravain!

  Let them die, along with Mador his mortal enemy, and Gawain, the oaf of an older brother who stood in his way.

  Faithless wives, wicked women, evil men deserved all they got.

  He fixed his eye on Guenevere’s back and lurked after her down the path, stalking like a wolf.

  ALL ALONG THE garden walls, the last roses hung down their heads. The path was strewn with tumbled petals, red and white, their edges crinkled like the fallen leaves. Guenevere wandered among them and let her thoughts drift with the petals, one by one. Where had the summer gone?

  With Lancelot.

  Far, far away.

  Behind her she could hear the soft rustle of Ina’s gown, and farther off, the light talk of knights and ladies sounding through the air. She had always taken pleasure in the life of the court. Any one of the courtiers would be honored to speak to her now. But the best of them could not cheer her wintry thoughts.

  The air was growing cold. Guenevere reached out and picked a rose. It glowed in her hands like the dark red heart of love, mocking her hollow, pale, and passionless life. The damask petals were silky to her touch, and her fingers remembered the sweetness of Lancelot’s skin. When would she feel such happiness again?

  Lancelot, Lancelot—

  Her yearning for him was a constant ache. Chill longings came by day, and pangs of hot desire gripped her at night.

  Morgause can have her handsome lover by her throne all day, and take him to her bed when the sun goes down.

  Why am I alone, when he will not be?

  For Lancelot would not, could not, be faithful to her, she knew. Some innocent young maiden in distress would need to be consoled, leaving him in all chivalry unable to refuse. Or a lady of a castle would offer him shelter for the night, and he would find out too late which bed she had in mind. Such things happened constantly to a knight on the road. Sooner or later the weakness of the flesh, his or another’s, would catch him out.

  And how could she complain? Viciously she crushed the red rose in her hand. Could she protest if Lancelot went to another woman’s bed, when Arthur came to hers as of right?

  Arthur.

  Every thought of Arthur was a burning pain. She longed to purge her heart of its hidden load. But Arthur must never know.

  Especially now he was himself again, and restored to full health. Often now she felt his pressure on her hand at dinner, and saw the invitation in his eyes as they left the hall.

  The Queen has Joined the King in his apartments for the night— when it happened, the whole court shared the joyful news. The word ran like wildfire through the whole palace, from the guards on the battlements down to the ancient custodian of the treasury, drowsing deep in the heart of the living rock.

  How then could she reproach Lancelot? Yet how could she not? I love Arthur, but I do not choose to have his love, her soul complained. If you betray me, Lancelot, it is your choice.

  And he would betray. She could see it with open eyes. Another body would soon tremble beneath his hands, other arms would enfold him, other legs open to admit him to their bliss.

  No.

  Yes.

  A spasm gripped her, and the garden around her darkened and faded from sight. She saw the outline of a young woman half-turning away, the curve of a rounded flank, the bloom of a pink and white cheek. Like her, the girl held a drooping rose in her hand. As Guenevere watched, the rose died, and one by one the petals dropped to the ground.

  Is this my rival, Lancelot?

  She came to herself with a sick shuddering start. How many women will waylay him now? How many will he yield to, and break my heart?

  She wanted to howl, to weep, to tear her hair. But a cold and dry-eyed certainty seized her heart. I have been given a sight of what will be. I must betray him with Arthur, and he must betray me.

  CHAPTER 31

  From the path below, they were part of the forest itself. Even seen close-up, on the top of the ridge where they lay, the six or eight leafy mounds gave nothing way. All creatures of the woodland know how to make hemselves invisible when they choose. Those lying in mbush were a part of the greenwood now.

  But they were men too, and all men have to live. At the sound of hooves, the foremost mound stirred and raised a watchful head. Travelers on the remote woodland track so late on a winter’s day spelled plunder for the outlaw band and nothing but ill fortune for themselves.

  The leader swiveled his one good eye through the pile of leaf mold and grinned at what he saw. Two young knights, richly clad, brothers by the look of them, always easy pickings, these soft sons of old lords. Brought up with every indulgence, equipped with the finest weapons, they never knew what real fighting was. But this pair of milksops would soon find out what their swords were for.

  The leader prepared to give the signal for the attack. At his side his second-in-command lay poised to strike, and the men were all eager for the coming kill, snuffling for the taste of blood like winter wolves. It would be hard, he knew, to make them act cleanly, take the plunder, and get away. They were starting to show a dangerous preference for dragging out unlucky wayfarers’ deaths.

  The leader bared a mouthful of blackened stumps. No one but a madman enjoyed the work of death. And only one who truly wanted to die would linger in the place where he had killed.

  His deputy stirred and lightly touched his arm. The two young knights were almost below them now. Both were riding unguardedly on a loose rein, swinging their mailed feet to ease their tired legs. They had ridden long and hard, that was plain. All the easier to make short work of them.

  He signaled, and the attackers slid down the slope as swift as snow in March. The knights were given no time to cry out before each was dragged from his horse, beaten, and disarmed. Then they were brought before the leader with their hands bound, one bleeding freely from a cut above his eye, the other dazed and trembling from a cudgeling to the head.

  “So, lads,” the leader sneered, “and who are you?”

  The two knights shared a glance before the taller replied. “Sons of Sir Bernard of Astolat, lord of the manor by the marsh.”

  “Names?”

  “My brother is called Tirre, and my name is Lavain.”

  “Knights, both of you.”

  “Of course.”

  “ ‘Of course,’ ” mimicked the outlaw with an ugly emphasis. He jerked his head at Tirre. “And what’s the matter with him? Can’t he speak?”

  The younger of the two answered with a trembling start. “Believe me, you villa
in, I can and I will—”

  “Hold on, brother.” Lavain kept his eye firmly on the leader as he spoke. “We are in your hands, it seems. Let us discuss what can be done.”

  “So!”

  The leader advanced toward the horses that stood snorting and shying in the outlaws’ hands. “Good nags you’ve got here.” He grinned. “Or did have, I should say. They’re ours now.”

  “Take them,” said Lavain, with an unconscious toss of the head. He looked at the outlaws’ loamy rags, their wild eyes, pinched faces, and starved mouths. “Take the saddlebags too. There’s clothes and blankets, and some food in there. It’s yours.”

  He had spoken more out of charity than fear. But he had not calculated the effect of his careless chivalry on the desperate and deprived creatures all around.

  “Who do you think you are?”

  The deputy gripped his sword in his hands, moved forward, and with great deliberation, spat in Lavain’s face. A hoarse cheer broke from a handful of the men, and excitement sparked between them, one by one.

  The leader felt a tightening around his heart. He had to exert his authority, and soon. Or else he, too, could face the fate that awaited the two young captives, a knife in the guts or the long, slow dance in the air.

  Around them the night was gathering through the trees.

  “What are we waiting for?” hissed the deputy. “Let’s kill them now!”

  Tirre’s eyes flared. “Kill us? Why?”

  Lavain lifted his head. “Kill me, if you must,” he said quietly, “but let my brother live. It will kill my father to lose his youngest son.”

  “Then you’ll all be together pretty soon.” The leader gave a coarse guffaw. “Because you’re dead men, you and your brother both. We’re condemned already, so it’s nothing to us how many more we kill. But we never leave a soul to tell the tale.” He nodded to his deputy. “Get on with it, then. Hang them.”

  “Hang yourself!”

  With a wild scream, Tirre burst the rope that secured his hands, and twisted from his attackers’ grasp. In an instant Lavain followed his brother’s lead, though the ropes around his wrists held fast. Yet still he plunged and reared and kicked and fought, ducking out of the grasp of his captors like an eel.