The Knight of the Sacred Lake

by Rosalind Miles

  “The blood of the Mother, which she gives to create us all.” Now her veiled arm floated to the right. “The milk of the Mother, which she gives to feed us all.”

  The long arms gave a serpentine flutter to embrace them both. “The red spring and the white. The blood and milk of the Mother. The love of the Goddess as it pours forth to the world.”

  Guenevere could feel the Lady’s spirit expanding to fill the vibrating space.

  “Draw near, Guenevere,” she called, “and do not fear.” She raised her hand to her head and unloosed her veil.

  A glow filled the chamber, like the dawning of the world. For an instant Guenevere saw her mother’s face. But then she saw a more-than -human radiance and the beauty of the Otherworld, a face alive with all the wisdom of the Old Ones and the sweetness of a child.

  Guenevere’s face was wet with tears. She could not speak.

  The Lady turned. “Come!”

  At the back of the cave stood an altar of primeval rock. Arranged on its black surface were four shapes of antique gold.

  Guenevere gasped. She knew these objects from the time before time. Her gaze roved over a massive gold plate, its edge embossed in gold, and a tall, two-handled drinking goblet patterned with strange symbols, big enough to send around a giant’s hall. In front of them lay a long gold sword jeweled on both hilt and blade, and a slender lance of polished gold with a gleaming point.

  “The Hallows of the Goddess!” she breathed.

  The Lady nodded. With loving hands she touched them one by one.

  “The great dish of plenty, from which the Mother feeds all who come to Her. The loving cup of forgiveness, with which She reconciles us all.” Her hands moved to the weapons and caressed them both. “The sword of power. And the spear of defense.”

  She turned on Guenevere, her eyes like pools of blood. “These are the treasures of our Goddess since time began. And now the Christians claim them for their own!”

  Guenevere gave a start of horror. “The Christians?”

  The Lady’s lovely face darkened. “King Arthur believes that they are men of faith, and that in their faith, we may all become one. And he is wrong. They preach of love, but they are full of hate. They seek the death of the Goddess, knowing that will bring loss and enslavement to women everywhere.” The Lady’s low musical voice throbbed with scorn. “Religion should be kindness. Faith should bring us love. Why would Arthur trust fine words on the lips of those who hate?”

  “When I brought him here, he swore to defend our faith,” Guenevere moaned. “He vowed to uphold the Goddess, on the honor of a king.”

  The Lady’s sigh came from far away. “We cannot turn to him for assistance now.”

  Guenevere’s soul was dissolving. Another betrayal, Arthur, another fall. Oh, Arthur, Arthur, why?

  “Do not judge him, Guenevere. He has pronounced his own doom if he breaks his word.”

  Guenevere’s hand flew to her mouth. “Lady, what are you saying? Will Arthur die?”

  There was a pause. “All men must flourish and vanish in their time. The only truth is the everlasting dark. But Arthur is not ready for the last crossing of the water, where he and I shall meet. No, another task faces us now.”

  The Lady drew a deep breath and resumed. “The Hallows must be taken from Avalon. Already the Christians are demanding their use. If we believe that all faith is love, they say, why will we not lend them our Hallows out of love? Soon, soon, I know, they will come and take them by force. Like all fanatics from the east, they believe in fire and the sword.”

  She brooded for a while. “You must take them, Guenevere. Once they are safely off the island, another must carry them to their final resting place.”

  She paused, and her deep musical tones filled the air. “And this is a task for a man who will travel alone, keeping faith to the death. One who loves you and the Goddess more than his own life. Who can you call upon?”

  A cry of anguish ripped through Guenevere. “I have no one! I have lost my knight, my true love and my life. I did not trust him, and I sent him away. And now I have lost my love and my life and all!”

  “Ah, Guenevere.” The Lady’s sigh was the breath that filled Avalon as the earth was born. “One love dies, and another takes its place. When we fall, we must rise to dance again.” She leaned forward. “It is the law of the Mother. One man alone cannot make all the music of the world. You must choose again. You have never needed a knight more than now.”

  Her large luminous eyes raked Guenevere’s face. “Ah, my dear! You have lost a great and mighty love. But ahead there lies another love for you, one you dare not hope for—cannot dream—”

  “Oh, Lady...”

  Guenevere felt herself shriveling with grief. “I do not want to take another love. I loved Arthur, and that love fled. I loved Lancelot, and threw his love away. It is over now, and I must turn to other things.” She squared her shoulders. “Give me the Hallows. I will not betray your trust.”

  The Lady eyed her shrewdly. “And for the rest? What of that?”

  Guenevere calmed herself, and spoke steadily. “I will keep the faith. I will return to Arthur; I will not destroy his life. I will live in my marriage, and find the way to love him as my husband once again.”

  “You will indeed, dear Guenevere, for that is your fate.” The Lady drew herself up. “But you must also obey your destiny. You will take the knight I spoke of, for you have no choice. He will take the Hallows; he will be yours to the death.”

  “I cannot!” Guenevere cried in despair.

  “Never is not a word for you to say.” Her voice grew deeper and more sonorous, ending the debate. “Your quest has begun. Your knight awaits you now.”

  The words of protest died on Guenevere’s tongue. She bowed her head, and kissed the Lady’s hand.

  The Lady smiled her thousand-year-old smile. “Go then, in grace and strength.” Her cool lips brushed Guenevere’s overheated face. “Remember that those who follow the Goddess can always enter the dream. May you awake from yours, and become that which you have dreamed.”

  One love dies, and another takes its place—

  But no man can take the place of Lancelot.

  Weeping like a child, Guenevere climbed the steps to the upper world.

  Another knight?

  A new love?

  What could she say to another man, after Lancelot?

  Lady, Lady, she mourned, you always loved me like a mother. Now your desire to save the Hallows has made you cruel and cold. I cannot take a new love. I love Lancelot.

  Lancelot, Lancelot, my only love, my loss—

  Overflowing with grief, she stumbled down the hillside in the dark. The rough undergrowth by the path caught at her skirt, and she knocked her head on an overhanging branch. A wan-faced moon rode fretfully in the sky, obscured by drifting clouds. In the damp air, dew covered the leaves like tears, and soon it would rain. The world was weeping for the loss of her love.

  At last the white shape of the guest house came in sight. As she made for the door, she saw the outline of a tall figure in the shadows, and behind him under the trees, the ghostly shape of a pale horse. Her heart leaped and pounded in her chest.

  He was here then, her new knight, as the Lady had said. She shivered with dread. Faint shafts of moonlight glinted on a silver helmet, a coat of mail, and a tunic of woodland green. She wanted to scream, to run, to hide in the woods.

  Then a voice she would have known anywhere reached her through the dark. “Madame?”

  CHAPTER 51

  She could not say his name. Her hand flew to her mouth and she tried to hold back her little gasping cries. He came toward her and took her in his arms, and she quivered against his chest like a wounded bird. The wool of his tunic was rough against her face, and the muscles f his chest were hard and unfamiliar now. But he held her to him like a precious thing, he kissed her hair and soothed her as she wept, and after a long time, she grew still.

  Now her body began to rememb
er the feel of his, the tall, slender frame, the broad shoulders, the lean, supple hips. The soft stubble on his chin, his fine leather breeches, the dagger at his waist, his coat of mail were as familiar to her as her own skin.

  They stood together in the glade, bathed in the glimmering light. Overhead the moon smiled to herself and sailed on. The stars forgot to dance, and stood still in their tracks to gaze down. The forest air vibrated with the vital hum of life itself, and all the woodland creatures rejoiced with them.

  A thousand voices cried through the moist night air.

  “Live!” hissed the blindworm, working through the earth.

  “Love!” urged the owl, calling from the highest tree.

  There was a pause longer than life itself.

  “Lady?” he said.

  The music of his accent stung her ears. She lifted her head and saw him truly for the first time. His bright brown eyes burned through the dusky night with their Otherworldly gleam. His thick chestnut hair glinted with fragments of fire in the moon’s pale beam. A light shone in his face as he looked at her. He sighed, and she heard herself sighing too.

  He brought her hand to his lips, and she felt the rising swell of life itself. She heard the crying of the white waves on the sea, and the laughter of the storm on the mountaintop. Her body remembered all his gifts of love, long days of beauty and endless nights of bliss.

  “Tell me, lady, am I still your knight?”

  His voice was calling from another world. And still she could not speak his long-loved name. Tears poured from her eyes and she cried aloud in pain.

  He kissed her lips as gently as a child. “Hush, my love. Come indoors. Let me bring you into the warm.”

  MAY THE DARKNESS seize him now, wherever he is—

  If he is—if he exists at all—

  Had he seen him, curled up in that bed? Or was it a spirit shadow, sent for torment’s sake?

  Merlin clambered down from his mule, almost too tired to curse. The going had been hard on the rough mountain pass, and soon it would be night. Already the first stars of evening were coming out. Heartsick, he leaned on the mule’s bony back, and sank into bitterness. How long ago had he embarked on this cursed quest? And when had he started to know that it had failed?

  Perhaps the boy had died all those years ago, lost with the other newborns who were cast away. Perhaps he had perished of a childhood fever, as so many did. Perhaps the boys he had narrowly missed so far were nothing but fetches, designed to lure him on. Grimly Merlin recognized that he had been too ready to believe that Mordred lived. The hunger to find a Pendragon had seized his soul. Could Morgan have devised the whole thing all along?

  He did not know. All he knew was that he must fall back to his cave in the Welshlands, and think again. He was almost on the Welsh borders where he stood. Once over this mountain pass, he could call himself home.

  With a groan he secured the mule’s bridle, turned the beast loose to graze, and lowered himself down. The stony ground struck cruelly hard and cold, punishing his lank haunches, but all he could feel was the turmoil in his soul. Had his power betrayed him, had his craft failed him now?

  He clutched at his head, and tore his iron-gray hair.

  “I am Merlin the Bard!” he cried aloud to the uncaring sky. “Bard and Druid, seer and prophet, singer, dream-weaver and teller of all tales, I am old, I am young, I was dead, I am alive, I am Merlin!”

  His scream rang around the high crags, echoing mockingly from peak to peak—Merlin, Merlin, Merlin—

  “And grief upon me for this!” he keened, punching the air. “Grief, grief, grief upon all my hopes!” He beat his head with his fist. Where had he gone wrong?

  No, not wrong, that he would never believe. For many lives now he had borne the Druid mark, worn all the cloaks of power, prophesying in the shining feathers of peacock, crow, and swan, and no man on earth had vanquished him in contest when his singing robes were on. In dreaming consciousness he had seen past and future, and often both at once. And he had seen the boy.

  A faint comfort eased his wounded soul. Arthur had lain with Morgan, that he knew. Morgan had had a son, he knew that too. The boy lived, Pendragon lived, of that he had no doubt. And he would find him, however long it took.

  The sweet mists of evening were rising to the mountaintop. The old enchanter gulped down great drafts of air, drawing in the life-breath of the earth. But as his heart revived, his doubts did too. So many years in the search—the boy would be full-grown.

  “I wanted the child!” he cried to the barren crags. “Another Arthur, to be mine from birth!”

  Lovingly he recalled the infant that Arthur had been, his honest, slate blue eyes and pale gold hair, his well-made frame. Fostered by Sir Ector, the boy had grown in grace and strength with every year.

  “And I, Merlin, had the shaping of him, body and mind!” he proclaimed. “Arthur was mine—he was only mine!”

  With a start it came to him that those had been the best years of his life, in truth of all his many lives till now. Sir Ector had thought himself lucky enough to have the care of Arthur’s body, rearing Uther Pendragon’s child in his household as a brother for his own son. He had never done battle with Merlin for Arthur’s soul. Merlin had always been welcomed by Sir Ector like royalty himself. As he was, he reminded himself touchily, being Pendragon born. Wherever he went, he should be feted and adored.

  Sir Ector—

  Merlin’s mind drifted off. How long was it since he had seen the old knight? Was he even still alive? A pity he had not kept in touch, for Sir Ector’s estate lay hereabouts on the Welsh borders, not far away. For old times’ sake, Merlin mused unhappily, he might have looked in on the kindly old man who had helped him to make Arthur what he was.

  Darkness and devils, why dwell on triumphs of forty years ago? Merlin’s yellow eyes glazed with bile. Go on, old fool, forget that your beloved Arthur is approaching middle age, and has no son. Forget that the House of Pendragon has no heir.

  He leaped to his feet with a wail. “I have abandoned Arthur for all these years to find his son. And I am no nearer to that than when I began!”

  He surged to and fro on the mountain, railing at the stars. “You have cursed me with the fate of a Lord of Light,” he wept. “How many lives must I suffer to keep Pendragon alive?” Till the boy was found, the House of Pendragon hung on a thread. And who knew if his own thread would hold, or when the Old Ones planned to sever it?

  “Why have I failed?” he begged the gusting winds. “I have denied the spirit woman access to my flesh. I have stayed away from her dark tower, and kept my body pure. I have communed with rocks and trees, I have cast the runes, lit sacred fires and called up visions in the smoke. I have crisscrossed these islands, and everywhere made magic older than the Druid kind. Yet still I cannot find if the boy lives!”

  His lamentation echoed to the stars.

  Find the boy—

  Find the boy—

  The echo mocked him from the highest crag. How much time had he wasted along the way? How long had he spent in the Orkneys, vainly courting the favor of Queen Morgause and her knight?

  The shadow of blood passed over Merlin’s twilight eyes. Ah, poor Morgause. Well, she had paid a high price for her love. But soon, very soon, the queen would rejoin her love, where he waited for her in the world beyond the worlds. Together they would wander the astral plane hand in hand, nevermore to part. Through all eternity, Morgause would be with Lamorak. Their love was never perfect, but it was enduring, like the sea.

  Fool that he was! He should have known the boy would not be there. Yet where?

  “Where? Tell me where!” he screamed in anguish to the rising moon.

  A huge indifference answered his heartfelt cry. Suddenly his old heart and brain could go no more. With the last of his strength he hobbled across to his mule, heaved himself into the saddle, and pointed the patient creature down the mountainside.

  The tears were pouring unchecked from his eyes. He had fai
led; Merlin had failed. There was nothing to do but fall back to the Welshlands, and take to his crystal cave. There he could hide, and rest, and pray to his Gods that his powers would return. He could roam with the wild pigs in the forest, ride a rutting stag under a horned moon, sing to the stars, and drink rock water for his wine.

  The trusty mule picked its way down the rocky path.

  “Yet I am Merlin still!” the old man sang. “I am fire, I am frost, I am the tree, I am the leaf, I am Merlin!”

  He did not know how many miles he passed this way. Day was breaking as he came off the mountainside and made his way down through the trees to the road ahead. As the woodland thinned out, he saw an old woman by the wayside, gathering twigs. Her long, lean body was bent almost to the ground, and her black garments were wrapped tightly around her against the cold. As he drew near, Merlin was swept with a hunger to hear her speak a word. The good wishes of old ones had a power he needed now.

  “Greetings, mother,” he called.

  The old woman straightened up, as far as she humanly could. Her smile was pleasant enough, Merlin noted with a slight lifting of his burdened heart, and old age had not touched her deep black eyes. But her head sat sideways on her crooked spine, and one knobbled hand clutched at her ancient hip.

  “Good day to you, father,” she returned in an old, cracked voice. “D’you travel far?”

  “Far enough,” he replied distantly.

  She nodded, seeming unoffended by his tone. “You’ll be wanting to rest then, sir. A night on the mountain always takes its toll. There’s not an inn hereby for miles around. But there’s a good old knight who’s known to take strangers in.”

  Merlin’s eyes turned color. “Hard by?” he said.

  “Near enough,” she conceded. “It’s old Sir Ector, a good knight of these parts. I suppose you know him, sir?”

  Merlin felt a wind from the Otherworld. “I do.”

  She cocked her head like a blackbird, and flashed him a piercing glance. “Go on, old sir. They are expecting you.”