The Knight of the Sacred Lake

by Rosalind Miles

  With an effort she addressed herself to Sir Gawain at her side. “So you ride for the Orkneys at dawn?”

  Gawain laughed. “Or sooner, madam, if I can get my brothers out of bed! Many miles lie between us and our mother’s isles.”

  “Then let me wish you and your brothers good speed,” said Guenevere. “May the Great One watch over you, and cheer every step of your way.”

  She reached out her hand for the golden apple on the centerpiece.

  It’s coming, Agravain triumphed, it’s here.

  Guenevere favored Gawain with her most gracious smile. Then she turned to Mador on her other side. “Sir Gawain has many triumphs to his name. I know he will forgive me if I present the fruit of the feast to you.”

  Mador’s eyes were moons of rapt delight. Exaltation overwhelmed him. He opened his mouth, and found he could not speak.

  Gawain was the first to break the spell. He gave a raucous laugh. “What’s the matter, man? Has the Queen got your tongue?”

  Patrise felt an impulse of furious rage. He surged protectively to his feet, and bowed to Guenevere.

  “Sir Mador accepts your gift, gracious Majesty,” he said, “with deepest gratitude.”

  Guenevere passed him the apple. “Thank you, Sir Patrise.”

  Patrise cradled the golden apple in his hands. “No, Majesty, our thanks are due to you,” he said reverently, “and the thanks of all our house.” With his eyes fixed on the Queen, he bowed again and brought the glittering fruit to his lips in a ceremonial kiss.

  Mador watched Patrise speaking for him, and his heart almost burst. Feeling returned to him in a sudden flood, and he stumbled to his feet.

  “By the Great One Herself, my lady,” he began chokingly, “you have honored me more than I deserve—” AND THAT at least was true, a disgruntled Sir Gawain complained to his brothers as they left the Queen’s apartments at the end of the feast and strode into the night. Of course the golden apple should rightly have been his. Nothing but a woman’s perversity could have made the Queen give it to a young upstart like Mador.

  So he had little patience with Agravain’s seething rage, the baffled fury the dark knight was showing now.

  “And what’s the matter with you, Agravain?” he demanded aggressively, threatening his brother with a good drubbing in the tilting yard if his humor did not improve.

  But try as he might, Gawain could not get to the bottom of Agravain’s black mood. Brooding over it kept him awake till almost dawn. Then, bad-tempered and short of sleep, he chivied his complaining brothers out of their beds and down to the courtyard to be gone.

  “To horse, Orkneys! We ride forty miles today.”

  SIR MADOR LAY on his bed in the lodgings he shared with Patrise, heedless of the distant sounds of the four Orkney brothers departing with their horses, their dogs, and their men. He had not slept at all since the feast last night, and now his aroused soul floated out into the breaking dawn, soaring into unknown realms of bliss. She gave me the golden apple, the words sang inside his head. She has chosen me for her knight. Guenevere my lady, Guenevere the Queen.

  Across the narrow cell, Patrise lay unmoving on his bed. In his hand lay the golden apple, which Mador had refused to take from him, unable to touch the evidence of his good fortune in case it disappeared.

  “Humor me, brother,” he had breathed to Patrise. “Tomorrow we shall share and enjoy this great gift.”

  Patrise had smiled. “As you wish, Mador.”

  The younger knight had lain down then and there, rejoicing in the knowledge that Mador had been favored by the Queen. As sleep descended he saw the family home restored to all its grandeur once again, and their widowed mother living in comfort for the rest of her days. He saw a fine lady marrying Mador, once his love for Guenevere had burned down to a soft glow. Then a loving wife of his own was coming toward him with open arms, surrounded by rosy babes. There would be love for them all in time to come.

  Dreaming, Patrise drifted off. In shades of blue and black, night deepened over Caerleon’s high white towers. Still cradling the golden apple, Patrise fell asleep feeling he was the happiest man in the court. And Mador, too, floated in measureless joy as, inch by inch, his brother’s life ebbed away.

  CHAPTER 41

  The pattern of moonlight was fitful under the trees. A sharp wind tore the ragged clouds to and fro, and the silent watcher on the hilltop was lost in their flickering light. Across the valley, the great castle stared proudly down from its rocky mount over the woodland below. Newly built, commanding the countryside for miles around, it was a place to inspire confidence in its allies, and terror in its foes.

  Not that the lord of this fortress could have many enemies, Merlin reflected as he peered through the falling night. Since Arthur had united all the petty kingdoms under his rule as High King, the whole country lived in peace, where beforehand there had been nothing but war. The only real threat these days came from the Saxons, who might one day grow bold enough to leave their toeholds on the Saxon shore, and strike down the coast and through into the Narrow Sea. But here in the south below London, this castle was assured of strong neighbors near at hand. And it was well placed, too, for Morgan to spirit Mordred away to France or even farther off, to Gaul, if Merlin’s pursuit seemed likely to locate her son.

  “Iffffff—” an owl hooted mournfully overhead.

  “Hold your tongue, fool!” Merlin snapped back, but without ire. He hardly cared now, in any case.

  For in truth, by now his hope was almost gone. How many years had he followed the trail in vain? From Camelot to Gore, and back down to the Welshlands, all the way up to the Orkneys, and back again, he had swept the island from north to south, then worked from east to west like an old mole, burrowing all the way. No castle, no grange, no estate had escaped his notice as he went along. Terre Foraine, the domain of the fanatical Christian King Pelles, was the only kingdom he had passed by. In Listinoise he had come closest, but his quarry had fled. And for all he had heard or seen of him since then, the boy called Mordred might as well be dead.

  No, not that! Merlin beat at his head and furiously drove out the ever-present fear. But Morgan had been too clever for him all along. Andif she were still against him all the way, Mordred was as good as dead to him.

  Yet the boy had to be somewhere, and he might as well be here. And boy no longer, but a grown youth now. Without enthusiasm, Merlin surveyed the castle on its moonlit rock, gleaming in the glory of its pale golden stone. What did they call it? Castle Bon Espoir? Perhaps it might yet be a place of good hope for him.

  Stiffly he peered out from between the trees. He had done all he could to ensure that if Mordred were there he would not escape this time. Arriving before dark, he had taken up his station in the wood to watch as the denizens of the castle returned home. Only when they were all safely locked up for the night did he plan to show himself.

  The moon had risen early, and it was not yet fully dark. In the oak tree above, the owl hooted a warning, but Merlin’s ears had already caught the sound. From a distance came the drumming of many hooves, as a troop of riders raced home through the night. Merlin waited in perfect patience for them to appear.

  And there they were, sweeping into the narrow valley between the wood where he lay and the castle on its mount. Young riders all, from their breakneck speed and from the exuberant calling and hallooing to one another as they galloped along. Merlin parted the branches, craned forward, and strained to see.

  They were twenty or so young squires, dressed for a boar hunt, all equipped with short swords and hunting spears. In the lead, a tall young man stood up in his stirrups to wave the stragglers on. Merlin’s heart leaped wildly inside his breast. Surely he had Arthur’s strong body and horseman’s legs, even the upward sweep of his arm, to the life?

  But he could not see his face. Like all his companions, the young rider was helmeted and lightly armored too. They passed by in an instant, leaving Merlin groaning aloud. What could he make of a glimpse
in the dark?

  By the time the young hunters had thundered up to the castle, and clattered inside to the welcoming shouts of the guard, the old man was almost sure that he was deceiving himself. But of one thing at least, he was certain now. The daredevil rider and all the other young men were inside the castle, and the castle had made fast for the night. The drawbridge was up, the heavy portcullis was down, and the postern gate was manned by men-at-arms. Only a bat or a rat would leave there that night.

  The evening moon rode higher in the sky, the wind dropped, and a light rain came drifting down from the clouds. Grumbling softly, Merlin eased his old limbs down the hill, reclaimed his mule from the thicket where he had left it hours before, and slowly climbed the castle mound to the top.

  At the postern gate, he made short work of the guard.

  “Take me to your lord!” he ordered imperiously.

  Despite his wild-eyed glare and long gray tangled locks, few would argue, he knew, with a hawk-faced stranger clad in furs and gold. Moments later he was traversing a series of inner courts in the company of a small detachment of the guard, passing a range of fine stables and a well-equipped tilting yard as he went. Another sliver of hope came to warm his heart. Yes, Morgan wanted all this for her son. A young squire would get the best of knighthood training here.

  They came to a halt before a pair of wooden doors. A short exchange took place with the guards on the door, and a moment later Merlin was ushered in.

  He entered a long, high chamber warmed by roaring fires. Candles around the walls shone on bright new paneling and lit up the well-fitted private apartment of a lord, with fat, sheepskin-covered couches, tables, and chairs. At one end, an array of steaming dishes announced the dinner hour. The sweet tang of tender lamb roasted with sage gave Merlin a sharp reminder that he had not eaten since yesterday. Ruthlessly he thrust the thought aside. Time afterward to eat and drink his fill.

  The knight seated at the long table pushed aside his plate and rose to his feet as Merlin came in. He was a well-muscled man of middle height, with a body hardened by exercise, and accustomed to command. Close-faced and wary-eyed, he looked older than he was, and the life of arms seemed second nature to him. Even taking his ease over dinner, Merlin saw, he wore his sword and his knife at his belt, and had not donned a loose chamber gown. This warrior would be ready at all times.

  The knight’s sharp eyes narrowed, and he gave a satisfied nod. “Lord Merlin,” he said with a thin-lipped smile, “I heard you had been sighted hereabouts. I’m glad to know you have not disdained my house.”

  He gestured to the food on the long board. “You find me dining alone, not with my knights in the hall. I know they would gladly entertain you in their midst. But I beg you’ll join me here.”

  He beckoned Merlin to the seat next to his, and clapped his hands. “Ho, there!” he called. “More viands and fresh plates.”

  Merlin moved toward him in a fever of haste. “Forgive this intrusion, Sir—?”

  “Hervis de Rivel is my name. How may I serve you?”

  Where to begin? Merlin was gripped by a sudden furious fear he could not explain. Gabbling, he plunged into what he had to say. “Sir Hervis, a matter of urgency brings me here. You take in squires, and train them as young knights?”

  Sir Hervis nodded warily. “That’s no secret—I’ve been doing it for years. It keeps me in condition for tournaments, and the lads keep me young. And in return”—a look of simple appraisal passed over his eyes— “they get one of the best knighthood trainings to be had.” He cast a look at Merlin from the corner of his eye. “Do you have a lad to be placed? Riding, fencing, ground fighting, we do it all.” A smile of faint derision hovered around his lips. “Oh, and dancing, and singing, and all that folderol. But I make sure that the life of arms comes first.”

  “No, no, I have no boy,” Merlin said faintly. Now the moment had come, he could hardly speak.

  “Well, then?”

  Merlin forced himself to open his mouth. “Do you have a youth here called Mordred?” he blurted out.

  The knight gave Merlin a suspicious stare. “Why?”

  He does! A mist of joy flooded Merlin’s brain. He thrust his skinny wrists under Sir Hervis’s nose. The blue tattooed dragons writhed and leaped with glee. “He is my kinsman,” he cried. “He’s Pendragon born! So he’s also kin to the King. He’s wanted at court.”

  Sir Hervis’s eyes widened with new respect. “To court, eh? Well, I always knew he was destined for great things. He’s a rare lad, Mordred, and no mistake.”

  Merlin’s heart swelled till he thought it would burst. “He is here?”

  “Here right enough, and sound asleep by now. The squires go to bed after sundown, that’s the rule. They were hunting today, so they’ll sleep well tonight.” With a shrewd glance, he read Merlin’s face. “You want to see him?” he demanded abruptly. “Come with me.”

  Taking up a branched candlestick from the table, he led Merlin out into the corridor again. Together they threaded endless stone passageways, making for the center of the house. With every step, Merlin felt he was on knives of fire. His heart was hammering agonizingly in his chest. Can it be, can it be?

  Sir Hervis threw a shrewd glance at the old man’s tortured face.

  “He’ll be there, never fear,” he said sharply as they strode along.

  “With twenty of them on the brink of manhood, we keep them under lock and key at night. There’s no end to what they’d get up to otherwise. We don’t want any nonsense with the girls of local houses, or the kitchen maids. We’re trying to teach them chivalry, after all.”

  They rounded a corner to see another long corridor ahead. At the end loomed a pair of stout oak doors, guarded by an old custodian nodding over a book. He came to trembling attention as they approached. A large key lay on the table at his side, and Sir Hervis picked it up.

  “Don’t disturb yourself, Caedric,” he said briskly to the old man, moving to the door. “We’ve just come for a quick look at one of our young men. Mordred’s in his bed where he should be, is he?”

  The old man’s rheumy eyes goggled at his lord. “Yes, sir, I saw him come in,” he said in bewilderment. “Where else would he be?”

  Sir Hervis nodded and unlocked the door. Merlin almost trod on his host’s heels as Sir Hervis stepped in, craning his neck till it ached.Can it be?

  In the darkened room, not a mouse stirred. The only sound was of twenty healthy young sleepers breathing as one. In the faint light of the candles, a long narrow dormitory stretched to the right and the left of the door. Ahead was the chamber’s one window, shuttered and barred.

  Sir Hervis stood by the door and shone the candlelight around. At last he saw what he had been seeking, and moved a pace or two. In one of the beds a huddled shape lay submerged in its bedclothes, all but the crown of a head. Against the white sheets and pillowcase, the hair was as dark as the night sky outside.

  Sir Hervis pointed. He did not need to speak.

  Mordred.

  Merlin felt tears like elf-arrows stabbing at his eyes. The longing to touch the boy was almost too much. He wanted to hug him, to crush him to his chest, to shower kisses on the top of his head. He wanted to laugh, to weep, to cry out his name.

  Mordred.

  Sir Hervis raised his hand. Silently he led the way out of the room. He locked the door, handed the key to old Caedric, and led the speechless Merlin back the way they had come.

  By the time they reached the apartment, Merlin found that he was more than ready to dine. The servants had kept the food hot, and the old man proceeded to do justice to all that Sir Hervis could provide.

  With every mouthful, Merlin’s spirits soared. Roast lamb with woody sage, jugged hare, and pigeons in a pot followed hot broth and salads down his hungry throat. In between, he plied Sir Hervis with questions about Mordred, and rewarded the knight’s high praise with tales old and new about the Pendragon line. Both men drank deep, draining bottle after bottle of strong wine l
ike water from the well.

  Afterward Sir Hervis was to swear that he never spent a better night in all his life. Merlin, too, retired to bed in highest content. Despite the night’s indulgence, both men were up before dawn the next day, when Caedric opened the locked doors of the squires’ dormitory to allow Merlin his first sight of the boy. And neither Merlin nor Sir Hervis and least of all the loyal old man on the door could explain why, in the locked room, all the squires were still slumbering peacefully, except one. Where Mordred had lain sound asleep in his bed, there was no one to be seen—only a faint indentation, and a blue-black hair or two on a pillow long grown cold.

  CHAPTER 42

  Every night now was fitful and full of fears. By day, Guenevere could often keep her miseries at bay. But as soon as the twilight trailed across the sky, she fell prey to thoughts she could hardly bear. By midnight she was torn by wild regrets, pangs of sorrows hunting in packs ike wolves. And always in the small hours, grief was most alive.

  Even the grayest dawn came as a relief. When she woke on the morning after the feast, she even felt pleasure and a little joy. Was it the heartwarming adoration of young Mador? Was it the warmth, the comfort, the fine meal, was it the wine?

  Whatever it was, it was not to last. It vanished as soon as she heard Ina fly up to the bed and tear the bed curtains back.

  “You must come, lady,” the little maid wept. “It’s Sir Patrise.”

  THE CROWD THRONGING the knights’ lodging spilled out into the courtyard and beyond.

  “Way there, make way for the Queen,” the guards shouted as they approached. Courtiers, monks, and servants drew aside to let them pass.

  A strange and fearsome smell came out to meet them as they stepped through the door. Inside the cell, Arthur was standing with his back to her, by the look of his heavy gauntlets and leather attire, summoned here on his way to the hunt. Beside him she saw, with a spurt of furious disgust, the long black form of the Father Abbot, craning like Arthur over the bed against the wall.