The Knight of the Sacred Lake

by Rosalind Miles

  Arthur paused. “How can you be sure?” he demanded uneasily.

  The Abbot treated him to a confident smile. “I found a spiritual father whose loving care has redeemed his tainted flock. And he has been favored, he tells me, in the help of a new young nun, a true child of God.”

  The Abbot paused. Now what was the nun’s name? He laid a bony finger on the side of his sunken cheek. Gaynor, Gannor, what was she called?

  A faint chill seized him. Suddenly he knew that he had to tell Arthur the name. Help me, God! He berated his lagging brain. His mind threw up a pair of dark eyes in a long, pale face, a long, thin body, and a long, mulberry-colored mouth. What was her name?

  A growing urgency seized him, for a reason he could not tell. But it came to him with a force he could not deny that Arthur should know, must know of Sister—who?

  But Arthur was not disposed for any further discussion on the theme.

  “So, then,” he said brusquely, “the convent prospers? Good! Our brothers and sisters in Christ do well, it seems. I am glad to hear it.”

  The Abbot smiled again. “Thank you, sire. Now I must beg your attention to another matter too. On Avalon—”

  “My lord, my lord!”

  It was the chamberlain, hurrying in with a face of sorrow and dread. “Oh, sire,” he gasped, “there’s a terrible thing come floating down the river. It’s at the water’s edge. They’re calling for you there, sir, will you come?”

  HURRY, HURRY. Show that you don’t care.

  Guenevere lengthened her stride as she hastened across the courtyard through the dusk. She could see her own breath making plume after plume in the frozen, starlit air. With every breath, she could feel knives of ice in her lungs. But the cold outside was nothing to the chill within. She shuddered, and feared she might vomit with distress.

  “We must get to the Great Hall, Ina. The stewards will be ordering the dining by now.”

  “My lady?” Ina struggled to throw a woolen wrap over Guenevere’s shoulders as she hurried along.

  “Thank you, Ina.” Guenevere shivered, and burrowed into the cloak. “We’re late,” she said forlornly. “And it’s so cold.”

  “Once we’re inside the Great Hall, madam, you’ll be as warm as your heart could desire.”

  But the Great Hall loomed cold and silent as they drew near. The great bronze doors were standing back on their hinges, and not a soul was within. The fires had all died down, and the lofty space was empty of its welcoming throng.

  A noise in the corner made Guenevere freeze with fear.

  “Lady?” came a thick, distorted voice.

  “Ina!” The hairs stood up on her neck, but she could not scream.

  “It’s all right, lady,” said Ina’s voice, low and calm. Guenevere forced herself to turn around.

  It was the son of one of the servants, a boy she had always known. He was a natural, one of the simple souls the Fair Ones called their own. His overlarge head, coarsely thatched with corn-colored hair, lolled on his shoulders, and his tongue hung from his mouth as he peered out excitedly from behind his hands.

  Ina approached him and took his hands down from his face. He gave her a peg-toothed grin and crowed like a cock.

  “Where are all the people, boy?” Ina asked briskly, patting his hands. “Where’s the King and the court?”

  “Haroo!” he chortled in his strange thick tongue. “Down at the river, where the lady is.”

  “What lady?” Guenevere did not know the sound of her own voice. But she could feel the onset of a sick fear.

  He wriggled, and scratched himself front and back. “The lady in the river.” His round eyes swelled. “Go see! Go see!”

  Ina laughed uncertainly. “He’s a simpleton, lady, poor thing. What does he know?”

  Guenevere could hardly speak. “He knows something.”

  “The river!” he hooted. “The river. See! Go see.”

  WHY WERE THEY all at the river? Leaning on Ina’s arm, Guenevere hurried down Camelot’s winding streets and out through the water meadows toward the crowd clustered at the river’s edge. The dense throng of courtiers and townsfolk parted as she drew near. What are they looking at? Her nerves were on fire.

  A long black barge lay at the water’s edge, draped in mourning silks of the same funereal shade. Arthur stood beside it in tears, his hand covering his eyes.

  In the barge lay the body of a young woman, in a long gown of black. Her arms were crossed on her breast, and her hands held a parchment in a bold black script. Beneath her black headdress her hair tumbled down, golden like the end of summer sun. Traces of beauty still lingered in her face. But she was far beyond her earthly beauty now.

  “May I, sire?”

  Sir Kay gestured toward the letter on the lady’s breast. As Arthur nodded, he reached forward and drew it out.

  “Read,” Arthur said.

  Kay unfolded the black-lettered script. His sharp tones filled the hollow evening air. “ ‘I loved Sir Lancelot, but he would not return my love. I begged his favor, but what I wanted he could not give. Queen Guenevere is the lodestar of his life. My days are done, for I have no wish to live in a world where he is not. While I lived, I was called the Fair Maid of Astolat. But I die as poor Elaine, forlorn for Lancelot’s love.’ ”

  Kay finished reading and handed the letter to the King. Guenevere ran forward and took it from his hand, although the sight of it scorched her eyes. Madly she read the words again and again, though already they were branded on her heart.

  “Guenevere is the lodestar of his life.”

  As you were of mine, my love, yet I sent you away.

  The stink of her own betrayal rose to overwhelm her every sense. She gave one agonized scream and fell to the ground.

  CHAPTER 40

  “This way, sirs.”

  The chamberlain swept through the door with his attendants on his heels, and paused to take pleasure in what he saw. The paneled space ahead of him was glowng with the warmth of a log fire and bright with countless candles along the walls. The flagstones were covered in rich rugs from the East. Not rushes for the floor of a lady’s chamber, thought the chamberlain with a fastidious shudder, bringing all the flea-ridden dogs of the court to nose through the greasy refuse that lay beneath. Perhaps in time he might even manage to introduce rugs, not rushes, into the knights’ hall? But for tonight, this was a feast for a queen, and all was clean and sweet.

  “It looks well,” came a voice from behind.

  It was the older of the two chamber attendants, a wrinkled ancient who had served under the King’s father, Uther Pendragon, in his time. His shrewd old eyes wandered over the table in the middle of the room, a smooth disk of white damask glowing like the moon, bright with silver plates and golden goblets, autumn leaves and berries, and flagons of wine.

  He nodded to his assistant. “And that will please the Queen.” He pointed to the table, where a centerpiece of sugared lady-apples rose from a silver platter in a perfect, glistening cone.

  The chamberlain smiled. “She’s ordered the best of everything, feasting her knights. Sir Mador must be rewarded for the success of his quest, she says, and she wants to give a good send-off, too, to the King’s kin.”

  “The Orkney clan,” said the old attendant, responding without enthusiasm to their name. “They’re going back north, I heard.”

  “Tomorrow,” confirmed the chamberlain, “at dawn.”

  There was a pause. “The King’ll miss them,” said the younger man, “what with Sir Lancelot gone too.”

  “That’s why the Queen is bringing on knights like Sir Mador and Sir Patrise,” said the chamberlain, moving around the table as he spoke. “She wants Sir Mador seated here in the place of honor, to the right of her throne, and Sir Gawain to her left.”

  The two attendants exchanged a surreptitious glance. And Sir Agravain as far from her as possible, they all knew without the need for words.

  The chamberlain moved on, absently checking the candles,
the place settings, the fuel for the fire.

  “How is the Queen?” queried the old man with a frown.

  “After she fainted at the riverside, you mean? When they found the lady in the barge?” The young servant’s eyes misted with memory. The sight of Guenevere being borne back into the castle, unconscious and as pale as a lily, would live with him till he died.

  “Yes, well, it must have been a nasty shock, seeing the body and all,” the old man said with relish. “Perfumed, of course, with all those flower essences and oils. But under all that black silk, dead as a door-nail for days—”

  “The Queen is well enough,” said the chamberlain loftily. Servants’ gossip should always be nipped in the bud. “She had a moment of weakness, nothing more. And now the maid’s been buried, the Queen means to put all that behind her with this feast. So it’s up to you, good sirs, to see that she does.”

  He came back to the threshold again, and paused to cast a last glance around the room. At the back, two doors to the right and left led off to the serving pantries behind, and the chamberlain made a mental note to send to the kitchens and check that all the dishes the Queen had ordered were in hand.

  He raised his head and delicately scented the air. “Just a touch of chamber fragrance to finish off, I think,” he told the attendants. “Lavender or juniper, the Queen favors them both. Then all you need to do is await the knights.”

  “We’d better hurry, then,” said the older man. “They’ll soon be here.”

  “And don’t forget the mulled wine when they arrive. The nights are getting cold.”

  Talking among themselves, the three men withdrew. Their voices echoed down the stone corridor and died away. Inside the chamber the only sounds were the crackling of the fire on the hearth, and the whispering of the candles along the wall.

  Nothing stirred. Then the door of one of the serving pantries opened by degrees. Silently a dark figure slipped into the room. It stalked toward the table with a pace as slow as death, and stood for a moment, staring at the centerpiece, the highlight of the meal, from which the Queen would present the best of the fruit to the one she chose to make her knight of the feast.

  The best of the fruit.

  There came a hissing laugh. A hand snaked out and removed the topmost apple from the shining cone. In its place was set another, small, round, and perfect, bright with sugared gold.

  The intruder took a step back and considered his handiwork. The golden apple glowed on the top of the pile. A secret smile passed over the haunted face. Yes, it was well. The Queen could not help but offer it to her knight of the feast. And for him, for all of them, it would be a memorable meal.

  THE FACE IN the mirror was luminous with despair. Ina watched Guenevere struggling to compose her expression in the glass, and had to swallow her own feelings before she spoke.

  “Almost done, my lady, then you’ll be as fine as you ever were.”

  Her small fingers worked deftly on Guenevere’s hair as she spoke. Now there was something for the Queen to take comfort from. Most women in their thirties were already turning gray, but the Queen had never lost the brightness from her hair. Only her eyes showed what her heart endured, Ina mused grimly as she plaited and looped and pinned. Come, lady, she wanted to say, when will you forgive yourself for mistrusting Lancelot?

  Guenevere read the reproof in Ina’s gaze, and heard the answer deep inside her soul.

  Never, Ina.

  Never while I live.

  I doubted him, and thought he was untrue. But all along, it was my faith that failed. And for that the Mother has punished me to the death. I have lost my true love, and all that is left is to die.

  The face in the mirror stared back at her unblinking, the eyes dilated, the brow and cheekbones carved out of stone. No, not all, came slowly back to her. I have my duty, and I have my knights. And tonight I must feast my knights.

  The thought of Sir Mador made its way briefly into her heart. There was a fleeting comfort to be had from his pure love. He had done well; he deserved his reward. And to be feasted by the Queen in her private chamber would be a reward for him, she knew, above his dearest dreams.

  “There you are, my lady.” Ina stepped back with a sigh of quiet pride. Never had the Queen looked so fine.

  “Thank you, Ina.” Guenevere rose to her feet. The crushed velvet of her gown shimmered in the candlelight, its varying shades of old rose calling back the high days of summer in its prime. Her sleeves were shaped like lilies and lined with cloth of gold, and a train of fine gold lawn fell from her coronet. In the center of her forehead she wore the great moonstone of the Queens of the Summer Country, and the blue-water stone on her hand gleamed with the same light. Ina looked, and her heart dissolved with sorrow at the sadness of it all. Sir Lancelot gave her that ring. It’s all she has of him now.

  “So, Ina, to the feast.” Guenevere’s face was set in a smile, but her eyes were dark.

  “Yes, lady,” Ina said loyally as she attended Guenevere to the door. “And it will be a great feast, I can tell you now. A night to remember, the chamberlain said. Your knights will be talking of this for years to come.”

  IN THE QUEEN’S private dining chamber, the air was warm with laughter and the heady tang of wine. Clustered around Sir Gawain on the hearth, her chosen knights were waiting for Guenevere. Standing to Gawain’s right and left, Gaheris and Gareth were resplendent in tunics of green wool edged with fine blue silk. Even Agravain looked cheerful tonight in his russet silk, Gawain told himself as he looked around. Yes, it would be a night to recall.

  Opposite Gawain, Sir Lucan was cheerful in a tunic of red and gold. Next to him, Sir Bors and Sir Lionel waited quietly, drinking little but following the merriment as it flowed to and fro. Only Sir Mador stood aloof with Sir Patrise, his face unnaturally pale in the firelight’s glow.

  Oh, Mador—

  Patrise threw his brother a quick glance, and a chill of foreboding crept around his heart. This was the finest night of Mador’s life. To be dining in private with the Queen was a joy beyond joy. But the thought came to Patrise without warning: Brother, my dear brother, is the price too high?

  Sir Lucan gave a mischievous laugh, and lightly punched Gawain’s arm. “So, Lancelot’s not to be married after all?”

  Gawain groaned. Since his story of Lancelot’s love had been proved false, he had suffered unmercifully at the other knights’ hands. “I told you what I’d heard in the Humberlands. How was I to know that he’d change his mind?”

  Agravain smiled contemptuously. “He probably took his pleasure of the girl, then thought again. He knows he can’t be married if he wants to keep the favor of the Queen. And if he’s looking for advancement, we all know that the Queen is the way to the King’s heart.” His eyes were glittering as he grinned around.

  Trust Agravain to put a foul complexion on everything, thought Gaheris, listening quietly at Gawain’s side. The Gods alone knew why he looked so pleased with himself tonight. Aloud he said, “Lancelot’s not the man to dishonor a woman like that. He can’t have promised to marry her at all.” He nodded at Bors and Lionel standing by. “These two would know if Lancelot was in love. And you heard nothing about it from him, did you?”

  “No.”

  Bors gripped the stem of his goblet and stared tensely ahead. He could not think of anything else to say.

  Lionel came swiftly to Bors’ aid. “Lancelot has always said that he’ll never marry because he serves the Queen.”

  Mador stirred out of his trancelike state. “As we all do,” he said fervently.

  “The Queen!”

  A flurry of distant shouts came down the corridor and rolled through the open door. “The Queen! Make way for the Queen!”

  THE CANDLES ON the walls were burning down, and the great fire was slumbering on the hearth. The wine had been passed around again and again, and trenchers of roast boar and pheasant, partridge, pigeon, and hare, had come and gone with bowls of salad and herbs and fine white bread. Guenev
ere settled back on her throne and composed her face into a smile. The feast had gone well, better than she had hoped.

  True, it had not been pleasant to sit opposite Agravain for hours on end, watching him in that state of odd excitement, his dark face twitching for the whole of the meal. But the burning devotion of young Mador had more than made up for it. He had sat by her side all night, eating nothing, scarcely able to breathe. He loves me, she thought with a sad inward smile. And even a boy’s love, a pale echo of Lancelot’s, is welcome now.

  A rattle of activity from the serving pantry announced the final course. Bowls of damsons and hazelnuts, plums, quinces, and ripe medlars were making their way onto the white damask cloth between the guests. Agravain watched, and his evil spirit leaped in his breast. Not long now, his inner demon rejoiced, not long—

  Soon, Agravain, soon.

  The golden apple called sweetly to him in a high, thin whine. Agravain caught the sound and held his breath. It was the choicest fruit of the feast, without doubt. The Queen had to present it either to Mador, to reward his triumph on his quest, or else to Gawain, to bless his journey home. He raised a frantic prayer: Gods of all darkness, let my brother die.

  Or Mador.

  He laughed. His eyes were black hollows in his head. In truth, it mattered little now which one, for in time it would be both.

  Yet Gawain should be first.

  He fixed his eyes on Guenevere. Choose Gawain, he willed her, now. GUENEVERE FELT THE force of Agravain’s glare and flinched. His eyes were pools of blackness, and mirrored in each she could see the golden apple of the centerpiece. Yet when she looked again, the reflection was gone, and Agravain was smiling at her pleasantly enough.