But at least he knew for sure that Mordred would not be there. Morgan would never allow a Christian to rear her son. On to Listinoise, then, and the Castle Fils de Dame.
Fils de Dame, yes—
A little wintry cheer crept around Merlin’s heart. It was foolish to place any meaning on the name, he knew. Many places were called after ladies, and Morgan was far from being the only lady with a son. But one thing did kindle a fragile flame of hope. The knight of the castle, Sir Dorward, he was told, had been born in these parts. But his mother, who cared for the boys, was from far away. Once, long ago, she came from Tintagel on the kingdom of Cornwall’s wild north-western shore. As did Arthur’s mother, Queen Igraine, and Igraine’s daughter, Dame Morgan herself.
The mule plodded on. The sun sank through the trees, and the forest prepared for night. Those caught within its shelter would have warm leaf mold for their bed and countless bright-eyed companions if they chose. Merlin had no fear as he unpacked his bedroll and lay down to sleep. On the road like this, he slept outdoors more often than in, when he ran out of time in the unforgiving day.
But the lady on horseback emerging from the skirts of the forest miles ahead had no trouble reaching the castle before darkness fell. Veiled all in black, and riding a surefooted black horse, she pressed on steadily through the failing light. At last she came down to the clearing where the castle stood, and was spotted at once by the guard. The gates opened for her in the glimmering dusk, and she vanished within.
THE NEXT MORNING Merlin arose in high content. A night in the woodland raised his spirits like nothing else. With slow deliberation he donned his gold rings and earrings, his crown of power, and his finest gown. He must be Merlin the royal bard to meet Mordred, not the mad old man of the road who traveled unnoticed elsewhere. His careful grooming took a little time. Then, refreshed with a handful of acorns and a few drafts from a nearby spring, he was on his way as dawn suffused the sky.
Above the trees, blue-black and gray gave way to red and pink in bursts of color washing across the sky. Admiring the Goddess’s flaming artistry brought Merlin many miles along his path. The day wore on. At last he could see the castle through the trees. Low and welcoming, with two short round towers on either side of the gate, the Castle Fils de Dame stood in its clearing exactly as Morgan had shown it to him so many moons ago.
And now, as then, a clutch of small boys stood in the gateway under the central arch. Was he there? Merlin craned forward frantically in the hopes of catching sight of a blue-black head, an Otherworldly glance. But as he watched, the boys were herded away under the care of a maid. A tall knight stood and fondly watched them go.
“Sir! Good sir!” Merlin spurred his mule into a furious trot.
The knight turned to greet him across the clearing in the wood. “Good day to you, stranger,” he called.
“And to you,” Merlin called back, hurrying on. As he drew near, he saw the knight take note of his coronet, his rich garb, and the wand in his hand, and watched recognition dawn on the stranger’s face.
“You are Merlin, sir,” he said respectfully. He bowed. “Our house is honored to have your presence here.”
“Many thanks, many thanks,” cried Merlin, struggling to keep his impatience within bounds. “I am glad to be here, sir.” He jumped down from his mule. “And you are—?”
The knight gave a rueful smile. He was a rumpled soul of thirty-odd years, with a manner boyish and schoolmasterly by turns. Tall and thin, he had an engaging unawareness of the hair sticking up at the back of his head and the ink stains on his hands. His blue tunic had seen better days, and his sword and dagger were well made but archaic, the fine weapons of a former time. But he came forward with great courtesy, and his smile had a rare sweetness and honesty combined. Yes, Merlin thought with rising excitement, this is just the man Morgan would choose to rear her son.
“I am Dorward, sir,” the knight said gently. “My mother and I keep a small college here.”
“To train boys as pages?”
Sir Dorward smiled. “If their parents wish. We try to balance the skills of sword and pen, in the hope that some will go on to be poets and scholars too. Then they learn horsemanship, and all the skills of the ring. And my mother is a harpist, as many Cornishwomen are. So the boys learn music and singing at her knee.”
He broke off with a laugh. “But you must meet her yourself,” he said eagerly. “Come in, Lord Merlin, and take some refreshment here. You’ll dine with us, of course. How long can we persuade you to stay?”
He was ushering Merlin in through the gates as he spoke, and through the nearest archway within the court. A short flight of steps led up to a low wooden door, and Sir Dorward knocked, calling a greeting, and plunged in.
As the door opened, Merlin caught the plangent strains of a harp dying away. They entered a sunny apartment bright with fires and flowers. In the low but well-sized room, a lady sat at a great golden harp, with a number of small boys clustering close around. She wore a rich but old-fashioned gown of silvery velvet with a train of gold, and a tall headdress graced her finely shaped head. But Merlin scarcely threw a glance her way. His eyes fastened hungrily on the boys with one silent cry: Are you here, Mordred, are you here?
Alarmed at the interruption, the boys stood wide-eyed and open-mouthed, like fledglings in a nest. They were all dressed alike in Sir Dorward’s royal blue, and all had the same round heads, chubby cheeks, and downy skin. Merlin’s eyes swiveled madly from face to face, then he turned away. Turnip-heads, dimwits, every one, not a prince to be seen—yet he must be here!
Dimly he was aware that Sir Dorward was performing introductions with all the chivalry of a royal court.
“So, madam, I trust you will forgive our interrupting now. Lord Merlin, this is my mother, the Lady Clariva.”
Merlin forced himself to bow and kiss the proffered hand. Its owner was Cornish through and through, he noted silently, taking in the blue-gray eyes, the dark hair and delicate skin, and the tall, poised body so like Queen Igraine’s. When she spoke, her voice had the same sea-washed sound as the surf around Tintagel Rock.
“So, Lord Merlin, what brings you here?”
He could not dissimulate before her clear-eyed stare. “A boy,” he said abruptly.
Lady Clariva laughed happily. “We have many here, around twenty at a time. Of course, they come and go.”
Dorward reached out to pat the nearest curly head. “We keep them till they’re seven or eight as a rule. Then they go from here to train to be young squires.”
Seven or eight. Merlin heaved a sigh of joy. Mordred would still be here.
“So which of our boys do you seek?” probed Lady Clariva in gentle puzzlement.
Merlin took his heart into his hands. “A child called Mordred.”
“Ah, Mordred!” Sir Dorward’s face was aglow. “If only all our boys were like Mordred! He’s a most unusual child.”
Hungrily Merlin pounced on Dorward’s praise. “Good, is he?”
“At everything.” Sir Dorward turned to Lady Clariva. “Remember when he knew all his letters as soon as we taught him to read? And how every pony he had would always go for him, mile after mile, even if it wasn’t the best of the bunch?” He gave a wistful smile. “He was the best boy we ever had.”
Lady Clariva returned her son’s smile. “He could sing any note I played when he’d heard it once. His ear for a melody was remarkable—”
“Madam, you say ‘was.’ ” Cold shafts of fear were piercing Merlin to the root. “Is he no more?”
A burst of laughter answered his demand. “Mordred lives and thrives!” Sir Dorward chuckled. “Why should he not?”
Merlin shook his head, wild with relief. “No reason. Only the fears of his kinsman, who’s an old fool!”
“Oh, so?” queried Lady Clariva with interest.
“He and I are both Pendragon born,” Merlin proclaimed with fierce pride. “He’s destined for great things.”
Sir Dorward b
eamed. “Then you’ll rejoice to know that his mother thinks so too. It’s a great shame you missed them both, good sir. He’s progressed so fast that she came to take him away. They only left a few hours ago—just before you arrived.”
CHAPTER 35
Patrise hurried down to the courtyard, his soul on fire. “Your brother’s back, sir,” the wide-eyed page had gasped, breathless with running from the outer gate. "Back safe, not a mark on him, and in triumph too!”
Mador back? Patrise leaped for joy, punching the air s he ran along. The sun was on his face, and the ripe tang of late summer scented the air. The lower court was thronged with horses, men, and wagons, as the servants labored to get the harvest in. Never had a day seemed more beautiful.
“Patrise!”
“Mador!”
And there he was, vaulting lightly from his horse, looking thinner and taller, Patrise thought with a pang, than when he went away. He was wearing a fine russet cloak Patrise had not seen before, and his gleaming gauntlets looked new and costly, like a lady’s gift. His face, his whole body had hardened, and there was a light of wary appraisal in his eyes. Still, some changes were only to be expected, Patrise told himself loyally, after so long.
“Welcome back, brother!” he cried, folding Mador in his arms. He closed his eyes and blinked away the rising tears. “Gods above! It’s good to see you again!”
“It’s been too long, brother,” Mador breathed joyfully, hugging Patrise hard. He stepped back and took a breath to compose himself. “But I have not wasted my time on this quest. The lady I rescued was lavish in her reward. This winter our mother will live like a lady again, without fear of cold and want.”
Patrise gasped with delight. “She gave you gold?”
Mador laughed with an assurance Patrise had not seen before. “And more.” He cocked his head to one side and gave a knowing smile. “You remember her sister, who came to the King for help? The girl who wanted Sir Lancelot for her knight?”
“Of course.” The memory of the girl’s open disappointment with Mador annoyed Patrise even now.
“Well, by the end, she had quite changed her mind,” said Mador with an unconscious lift of the head. “And when I dispatched the rogue knight and released her sister from her castle, she liked me even more. But the lady of the castle had first claim on me.” He grinned broadly and flourished the chestnut-colored leather gauntlets. “She loaded me with gifts. She even wanted to marry me. I could be lord of all her lands by now. A fertile estate, it was, and she’s a fine lady too.”
“Brother!” Patrise gazed at him, almost speechless with delight. “You didn’t—?”
“No, I didn’t.” Mador’s aplomb fell away from him like a cloud. He sighed. “She was lovely, truly she was. But...”
He bit his lip and turned his head away.
But she was not Guenevere, thought Patrise, with a shaft of burning love. There is only one Guenevere, and she is here.
“Come, brother,” he said fondly. “Let me bring you to the Queen.”
ALL THROUGH THE CASTLE, servants scurried to keep pace with their knights and lords.
“He’s back—Sir Mador’s back!”
“And Sir Gawain, he’s returned from his quest too. The King’s called the whole court into the Great Hall to hear their tales. Gods and Great Ones, what a fuss!”
“The Queen wants fires in there, I dunno why. It’s only September; it’s not cold at all.”
“Just you run and light those fires, my lad. The Queen doesn’t have to ask you what you think!”
In the knights’ quarters, Gaheris and Gareth tumbled through the door of the chamber they shared with Agravain, both talking at once.
“He’s back—Gawain’s back!”
Lying on his bed, where he had been deep in his own dark thoughts, Agravain froze. “What are you talking about?”
Gareth laughed. “Don’t look so black, Agravain. It’s the truth!”
“He’s right,” Gaheris put in eagerly. “We heard it at the stables, now, as we rode in. We’re going to his quarters to greet him. Do you want to come?”
Gareth’s baby blue eyes were beaming with delight. “And then the King and Queen have commanded us all to the Great Hall.”
Agravain’s mouth seemed to be stuffed with cloth. “I don’t— I won’t—”
Two brotherly voices laughed in unison. “No excuses, Agravain. Face it, you couldn’t lord it over us forever. Gawain had to come back one day. And now he’s here!”
HIGH ON HER THRONE, Guenevere watched the fire in the hall and counted the dancing flames. Red and gold, she thought, the colors of love. How long have I lived without love, since Lancelot went away?
No, not without love.
He still loves me, wherever he is, I know.
And she did not need to look at the man at her side to know that Arthur loved her too. She had found it in her heart to feel for him in return, and there had been times of gentle care and warmth. Arthur’s tears of joy when he found himself once more a man had made her weep as she never wept before. In these healing waters, something was restored.
Now Arthur had recovered, and the land and the kingdom were safe. Guenevere nodded with a distant sense of a hard task done. She had learned to survive without Lancelot, without sight or hope of him, or even the mention of his name. She had lived with dignity, and kept her sufferings in the silence of her soul.
As she must do now. With an effort she switched her mind back to Sir Mador as he stood before the dais, his brother Patrise glowing proudly by his side.
Mador had changed, that was plain. The young knight still bore the dust and grime of the road, but a new nobility hung on him like a cloak. To his left stood Sir Gawain with his three massive brothers, their great legs straddling the flagstones, forming a guard of honor as the King’s kin. Nearby Sir Kay, Sir Bedivere, and Sir Lucan waited beside Arthur’s throne. On all sides, smiling ladies nodded and whispered to their knights, while old lords, monks, and courtiers looked on. Guenevere nodded. Yes, it was well. A full court had turned out to welcome the heroes home.
“So you triumphed, Mador?” Arthur leaned forward eagerly, absorbed in Mador’s tale. “You set the lady free? And the rogue knight is dead?”
“He is, my lord.” Mador was very pale. “I would have spared his life, if he had agreed to trouble her no more. But he challenged me to the death. I had no choice.”
Arthur waved his hand. “Think no more of it,” he ordered. “Ravishing a lady carries pain of death. His life was already forfeit to the law. And this knight had many other crimes to answer for, it seems.”
He paused. “Sir Mador, you did well.”
The sun glinted on his coronet and turned his hair to gold. He turned to Guenevere and took her hand. “As I am sure my Queen will say.”
The Queen.
Mador fixed eyes of adoration on Guenevere, and reverently drank her in. That gown, the very color of a summer night—did she know how it deepened the twilight in her eyes, and brought out the starshine in her hair? And that wisp of gossamer around her head and neck, as soft as her skin, as fragile as her smile—
He shook his head and marveled to himself. Every night he was away he had prayed to her image before he slept, calling up every detail of her face with the eye of love. How could he have forgotten the quick toss of her head, the full-lidded, shadowy gaze, the thousand tiny movements of her mouth?
So full, so red her lips, so white her skin—why did she look so forlorn? His soul yearned for her, and his spirit almost left his body as she spoke.
“Sir Mador, you have upheld the honor of a knight, and of your fellowship too. The Round Table is proud to call you one of its own.”
WHAT ROT SHE spoke, what lying rot it was!
Festering with fury, Agravain kept his face expressionless and did his best to drown out Guenevere’s voice. How dared she stand there in that dismal gown, torturing men’s ears?
Slowly, furiously, he reviled his Gods. Why do you cast
me down, his soul wailed in torment, and glorify these great fools over me? Mador back in triumph, and Gawain too? His every muscle knotted in revolt. I must act! he howled in silence. Gods above, I must fight for myself, if you will not fight for me!
Agravain looks sick, Guenevere noticed with unease. How ugly that yellow flush is on his dark face. Was it the heat in the hall? Restlessly she loosened the veil at her neck. Perhaps she should not have ordered the fires to be lit when the afternoon was so warm. But Agravain always made her feel like this. She was burning now, if she let herself look at him.
And Mador, too, was not as he was before. There was a change in him, a harder edge. What was it the old warriors used to say? The man who has never killed remains a virgin all his life.
Sadness descended on Guenevere like a cloud. When he beat Agravain at the tournament, Mador could not kill, even though Agravain braved him out and well deserved the sword.
And now—
Guenevere looked into the gray eyes raised to hers, and read their depths. So, Mador, this quest has cost you your soul’s virginity.
And your body’s? Did you lie with a woman too?
She thought of the girl who had come to seek his help, with her wet eyes, her ample, pear-shaped breasts, her bedroom smile. Then she caught herself up in a spasm of disgust. Goddess, Mother, what is this to me?
“Sir Mador!” She gave him her hand with a luminous smile. “Bless you,” she breathed.
“My lady—”
Mador trembled from head to foot. From the core of his being, one name, one sensation pulsed out like the waves of the sea. Guenevere touched me, his soul chanted, the Queen touched me, Guenevere the Queen—
Fools, all sentimental fools! Agravain seethed. How could he bear it? It was more than blood and bone could endure. He watched in mounting despair as Arthur raised his hand and Gawain stepped forward with a preparatory cough. Gawain’s turn now, spare us! Watch him start boasting and delighting the King.
The Knight of the Sacred Lake Page 25