The Knight of the Sacred Lake

by Rosalind Miles

  He is her lover! The knowledge came to Agravain like the slice of a dagger. He felt something tearing and splitting inside his head, but he forced himself to speak. “So you think a queen is above the law, Sir Lamorak, always beyond reproach?”

  Lamorak looked at Morgause again. “She is,” he said simply.

  “Whatever she does?”

  Lamorak turned his gaze to stare at Agravain uncomprehendingly. “She is the queen.”

  “And a queen can do no wrong?”

  “I do not follow you.”

  Agravain bared his teeth in a dreadful smile. “What of murder, say, like Queen Guenevere? Or cruelty or lechery, or any foul conduct not fitting for a queen?”

  “Sir Agravain.” Lamorak drew a breath. “You are my lady’s son, and a prince of these isles. I am bound to honor you, as I do her. But while I defend her, no other man would sit at the queen’s left hand and question her royal right as you have done.”

  “Well said, Sir Lamorak!” Gawain burst out laughing. “That’s one in the eye for you, Agravain.”

  There was a general outbreak of mirth at Agravain’s expense.

  Agravain flushed with rage. “Let me tell you, Gawain—”

  Morgause raised a hand. “Enough.” She turned to Lamorak. “I thank you, sir.”

  The smile she gave Lamorak scorched Agravain’s sight. He saw his mother naked on a bed, her soft white flesh spilling into Lamorak’s hands. He saw the young knight’s body entering hers, rising and plunging in the act of love. He saw the languid longing in her eyes, the look that she wore now. And it came to him again, the smell of sex.

  “What, sulking, Agravain?” cried Gareth boisterously.

  Agravain’s head was bursting. He surged to his feet and caught up the wooden goblet at his place, sending it smashing into the opposite wall. The red wine trickled down the pale stone like blood. Then the torches on the walls flared up with the wind of his passage as he broke away.

  Morgause rose to her feet. “Agravain!”

  Agravain raced on down the room without a pause.

  “Agravain!” Morgause howled in fury. “Return to your seat! No man may leave the royal presence without consent.”

  Agravain stormed through the door without a backward glance. In an instant Sir Lamorak was at the queen’s side, the knight companions rallying around him to a man.

  “Your son defied you, madam,” he said urgently. “Shall I pursue him, and force him to return?”

  He finished speaking and looked deep into Morgause’s eyes. Charge me with this, he besought her silently, and I will bring the young whelp to heel. Give me the power to do what must be done, or he will hurt us all.

  There was an aching silence. Lamorak felt his fate hanging suspended above his head. He heard a great crying from the astral plane, where stars and tears are one. Then a blanket of dark foreboding covered his sight and he knew without knowing the answer that Morgause would make.

  Morgause’s anger had drained away like an ebb tide. She shook her head. Lamorak bowed, and returned to his seat. Reluctantly the knight companions sheathed their swords, and silently hushed their weapons’ blood-hungry hiss.

  Morgause composed herself. “So, my sons, more wine?”

  Around the table, the party made valiant efforts to restore the vanished cheer. After a while, some warmth and comfort returned to gladden them all, as the love they shared revived and did its work.

  But outside the hall, all was dark and cold. And ranging murderously through the chill of a winter night, maddened and alone, Agravain counted his injuries and dreamed of a great revenge, something faster and bloodier than even his precious poison could give him now.

  CHAPTER 44

  “Understand this, all of you.” Arthur’s voice echoed around the low paneled room. “There will be no blood shed.”

  Sir Mador drew in his breath in a hiss of dismay. A ectic flush rose to his pallid face. “Sire—”

  Arthur leaned forward, his finger jabbing the air.

  “Agree to this, Sir Mador, or these proceedings are at an end.”

  Mador’s eyes were unnaturally bright. “You are the King. I must agree.”

  “Very well, then.” Arthur directed a troubled gaze around the Council board. Already he was beginning to fear that Guenevere was right, and the meeting could prove him wrong. “We are all here, I think. Let us begin.”

  Mador stepped toward the long table, trembling in every limb. His black mourning clothes lent an unnatural pallor to his wasted face. But when he spoke, his voice was clear and cold.

  “Your Majesty, lords of the Council, and knights of the King, I come before you to seek justice and my right—”

  Arthur held his head. Would nothing stop the boy? In the weeks that had passed since the death of Patrise, nothing had taken the edge off Mador’s grief. Time had only hardened his resolve to seek revenge. Mador, Mador, Arthur almost groaned aloud, let it be.

  Outside the window, a leaden winter day was slipping into a frozen, windswept night. Icicles clung to the mullions, and flurries of snowflakes lightened the brooding sky. A dull fire sputtered on the hearth and gave little warmth. Arthur drew his furred gown more tightly around him, and tried to pay attention to Mador’s speech.

  All around the timeworn green baize, the members of the King’s Privy Council were doing the same. To Arthur’s right sat his most trusted knights, and to his left were Caerleon’s wisest and most ancient lords. Farther down the table, the Father Abbot formed a single column of black surrounded by black-clad monks. The faint smell of incense seeping from their robes mingled with the stale air of old furs and velvet.

  “My lord!” Mador’s rising stridency assailed Arthur’s ears. “Twenty knights saw what happened at the feast. The Queen killed my brother. I ask for justice, justice, justice!”

  “Sir Mador, you do not know what you ask.” It was old Sir Niamh, a knight who remembered the days of the Mother-right. “A queen cannot be brought to trial.”

  Mador swept the councilors with his glittering gaze. “Tell me then, how may I have redress? Or must my brother’s death go unpunished here?”

  “No evil goes unpunished where Pendragon reigns,” came the quiet voice of old Sir Baudwin, one of King Uther’s former councilors, seated at Arthur’s side. “I was your age, young sir, when King Uther restored the rule of law in a kingdom ravaged by lawless men.”

  He turned earnestly to Arthur. “As you did yourself, sire, when you reclaimed your right. Pendragon means justice and truth for all.” He paused, stroking the forks of his iron gray beard. “It is true that a great evil has been done. And in the Middle Kingdom, no man must be beyond the reach of the law.”

  The Father Abbot leaned forward. “Or woman, sire.”

  “Gods above, man!” Sir Niamh’s beetle brows swiveled down the table in alarm. “What d’you mean?”

  The Abbot fixed his pale gaze on Arthur and composed his long face. God speed my words, he prayed. “With your permission, sire,” he began smoothly, “there is another issue for us here, not merely the death of Sir Patrise, but the way he died. No human hand brought him to his grave. The apple he ate, the unseen poison inside, the blackening of his flesh, all show the hand of a witch at work.”

  Arthur started in horror. “A witch?” he cried. “Not Guenevere!”

  The Abbot paused. Lord, Lord, give me the concubine. With Your aid now, her life lies in my hands. He reached for his softest, most reasonable voice. “Sire, all women are daughters of Eve. It is their birthright from the Mother of our sin.”

  Sir Niamh felt his old blood boil in his veins. “In your faith, Christian, not in ours!”

  The Abbott shrugged his shoulders. “Eve was the first betrayer of mankind. She was doomed to be the destroyer of men. Likewise her daughters are born to turn men from their destiny, and draw them down to dust. For that reason, Our Lord Himself shunned women, and held aloof from their carnal embrace.” He turned to Arthur and spread his thin white hands. “Sire,
no man on earth would accuse your Queen. But we cannot escape the fact that a knight lies dead.”

  “Yes!” cried Mador.

  “So evil is at work. And we must root it out.”

  “Your Majesty.” Mador clenched his fists and sent his voice ringing around the room. “I beg no more than the law of this land allows. Let the Queen be brought to the field of trial, to face the challenge I make. Let her champion appear, and meet me, man to man. I will make good my claim against any who comes. Whoever wins, the truth will then be known.”

  Arthur closed his eyes. How had it come to this? He shifted his great bulk on his throne. “I am the Queen’s champion, Mador, do you know that?” he growled. “And I shall meet your challenge, as you demand.”

  “You?” Mador’s mouth gaped. “Oh, sire—”

  Sir Baudwin shook his head. “My lord, you may not fight against our laws. The King must be impartial.”

  “And the Queen’s knight is Lancelot,” Sir Niamh put in.

  “But Lancelot is away,” Arthur ground out. “And no man knows where he is.”

  The Abbot smiled. “The Queen will not go undefended,” he said confidently. “And innocence is its own best defense.”

  “Give me my right!” Mador cried. “A trial by combat, à l’outrance, to the death!”

  “Sir Mador—” Arthur sat torn in an agony of doubt.

  Sir Baudwin leaned in to speak into Arthur’s ear. “My lord, you may not refuse Sir Mador’s request. Trial by combat is a knight’s ancient right. Moreover, your father gave it the force of law when he was ordaining justice in this land. Will you overthrow all this to protect your Queen?”

  Arthur groaned and gripped the arms of his throne. “It seems I must grant you your right, Sir Mador,” he cried at last. “But the Queen will be defended, if I have to break the law to fight for her myself.” He bunched his fist and pounded on the board, wagging a warning finger at Mador and the Abbot alike. “And however the verdict goes, remember one thing. You have sworn to shed no blood!”

  He rose to his feet, and the Council followed him. The voice of the Abbot fell softly amid the bustle of departure, and none could have said who heard and who did not. But those nearest to Arthur saw what passed over his face.

  “Shed no blood?” the Abbot mused conversationally as he gathered up his robes to leave. “No, indeed. Yet witches may be burned. And if we have such a witch among us, who would spare her from the fire?”

  CHAPTER 45

  She could hear Arthur’s voice, booming and overconfident, outside her chamber door. “Tell the Queen I am still her champion. I will not let her die.”

  Hopelessness seized her in an iron grip. When Ina eturned with the message, she waved her away. Mador would have his revenge, and Arthur could not overthrow the course of the law. Lancelot was gone; she might as well be dead. What did it matter now?

  THE NIGHT WORE ON. High overhead a storm howled in from the Welshlands, and the owls in the bell tower hid their heads in fear. Great blasts of wind beat at the windows, and sleet as sharp as elf-arrows pelted the glass. Again and again she built up the fire on the hearth, but still her blood ran cold. And again and again it came to her like a knife blow: the Christians are setting the fire to burn me now, and Mador wants me dead.

  “In Camelot, no man would dare to think such things.”

  On a low table by the wall, a gray mouse sat up on her hind legs, looking at Guenevere. Her age-old eyes were smiling yet sorrowful too, and her plump sleek body was composed in an attitude of watchful love.

  Guenevere groaned. “Tell me, Lady, why does Mador want me to die?”

  “He wants you to pay for the life that he thinks is lost. He does not know that his brother has sweetly sailed the sea of unknowing, and reached the isles of joy. That Patrise will be restored to bodily perfection, and come again as a great hero to win love and renown.”

  Guenevere gave a bitter laugh. “But he’s turned to the Christians, and they want to kill me too.”

  The little creature inclined her shining head. “Mador takes comfort from the Christians because they flatter his ignorance with their foolish certainties, one way, one truth, one life. Like him, when our spirit leaves us, they see only our body’s death.”

  “And they hate the Mother,” Guenevere said somberly, “and want to destroy Her laws.”

  The small messenger nodded again. “In the country of the Great One, all men know that women are the givers of life, and must never be put to death. But here . . .”

  She twitched her nose, and spread her tiny hands. “You are in danger, daughter,” she said sadly. “I have come to warn you to beware.”

  Guenevere shuddered. “Of the Christians?”

  “Of the Christians, certainly. Their leader will not rest till he has rooted out the Mother from this land.” Her eyes filled with tears. “One day soon the Great One will need your help. Soon you will be summoned back to Avalon. But for now, Guenevere, my word to you is, prepare for your fate.”

  Guenevere pressed her hands together and brought them to her lips. “I am ready. Speak.”

  A great sigh filled the room, and the voice of the Lady echoed from Avalon. “The dance of life is the rhythm of rise and fall. When we fall, we must rise to live our dance again.”

  She leaned forward, her luminous eyes searching Guenevere’s face. “Remember, Guenevere, you are not like other women. Fate spins as it will, and even the Mother cannot turn back the wheel.”

  Guenevere felt hopelessness drowning her like a wave. “What can I do?”

  The tiny body was changing, dissolving as she spoke. “Embrace your fate. Farewell.”

  “Mother,” cried Guenevere, weeping, “don’t leave me—don’t go! They are all against me now, and I can’t fight alone. If you don’t help me, I’m lost, and I shall die!”

  “Remember, Guenevere,” came the low, musical tones, “all women are blessed with the strength of the Great One herself. Those who follow the Goddess can always enter the dream. Break free of this night of darkness, and you will become all that you have dreamed.”

  The voice died away, and Guenevere was alone. But now the winter-bound midnight chamber was fragrant with apple blossom, and pulsing with the sound of Lake water lapping over stones. A surge of power passed through Guenevere and brought her leaping to her feet, clapping her hands. “Ina! Send for Sir Bors and Sir Lionel. Tell them I need them now!”

  BORS SHOOK OFF the snow from his mantle, and handed it to Ina without a word. Beside him, his brother Lionel looked frozen and hopeless too.

  “So, my lady,” Bors said, in a voice as cold as the winter night outside. “You sent for us?”

  Guenevere steadied her voice. “You know that Sir Mador has won the right of trial by combat to challenge me for causing his brother’s death?”

  “We know,” said Bors shortly.

  “So I stand within his danger, the law says. Yet if my knight will fight for me, I may be cleared.”

  “Your knight?” Bors burst out. “Madam, if you mean Lancelot—?” He broke off, scarcely able to contain himself. Ye Gods, was there no end to this woman’s demands? “He’s not here, madam! You sent him away. Is it your wish to unbanish him now?”

  Guenevere nodded. “It is,” she said simply. “I want you to find him, and beg him to return.”

  Bors laughed in fury, gesturing to Lionel at his side. “The trial will take place as soon as the hard weather breaks. Can the two of us scour these islands before then?”

  “If he’s still here.” Lionel shook his head. “We’ve had no word from him since he went away.”

  “We think he went back to France,” said Bors, with savage relish. “And he’d never get back from there in time for the trial.”

  Guenevere held him in a level stare. I know you hate me, Bors. But you love Lancelot, and he loves me. She forced a smile. “Nevertheless, Sir Bors, I beg you to try.” She passed him a leather bag, whose heavy contents clinked as it changed hands. “Twenty thousa
nd crowns,” she said evenly. “You may hire many messengers with that.”

  Bors recoiled in hot disgust. “We do not need your coin! The sons of Benoic do not serve for hire.”

  Guenevere waved a hand. “Then keep it as a gift for Lancelot when he returns.” She stepped toward Bors, and looked him in the eye. “Understand this, sir. I must have a knight to fight for me at my trial. You are the nearest I have to my lord and love. If Lancelot fails, I call on you, Sir Bors, to champion me.”

  Lionel gasped in horror. “My lady, Sir Mador is one of the foremost fighters of the court! And you must know that my brother is not Sir Lancelot.” And poor Bors is short and not gifted at arms, he wanted to shout. He’s no horseman, and not strong. Mador will hack him to pieces; Bors will die—Goddess, Mother, no! Gabbling, Lionel rushed on. “I will defend Your Majesty. Take me as your champion. I’m Lancelot’s cousin too—”

  “No, Lionel.”

  Bors was trembling, and his face had taken on an ashen sheen.

  Lionel gripped his arm in a frenzy. “Bors, listen to me—”

  “Brother, this fight is mine.” Bors gently pushed him away, and gave a crooked smile. “And this death is mine too, if it has to be.”

  He turned back to Guenevere with a wooden bow. “At the trial then, lady, I will fight for you.” He paused, and added, almost like a prayer, “And for Lancelot.”

  “GOOD NIGHT, my sons.”

  The great bronze moon of the Orkneys looked down and smiled. The palace compound was loud with fond greetings as the night’s festivities drew to a close.

  “Sweet sleep to Your Majesty.”

  “And to you all.”

  One by one Morgause embraced her sons.

  Gareth bent his head for another kiss. “Good night, Mother,” he said happily.

  “And don’t give Agravain another thought,” added Gawain with a laugh. “Tomorrow I’ll take him down to the tilting yard, and give him the lesson that’s been long overdue. Our brother has disgraced us all tonight. Now we’re all at home, we’ll teach him how to behave.”