Well, they were wrong, Arthur mused without rancor. Guenevere had come back. Oh, she was still strange to him, huge-eyed and silent, her gaze always roaming around the court, and always on the verge of tears. But after what she had suffered in Malgaunt’s cruel grasp, was it surprising she was still nervous and distraught? And given that Lancelot had saved her life and protected her from worse outrages than Arthur cared to imagine, was it strange that she seemed to want him rather than any other man near her all the time?
“Serve the Lord with thanksgiving, lift up your hearts …”
Arthur bent his head. Have I sinned, Lord, he asked humbly, in too much sorrowing for Amir? My sin was grievous when my pride in him cost his precious life. But did I then fall into a worse offense, the sin of despair? I despaired when I lost Amir, and even more when I lost my queen. But she has found it in her heart to forgive—may I now forgive myself a little too?
He looked along the altar rail and suppressed another sigh. He had to hope—despair was a dreadful sin. Kneeling beside him he could see Gawain and Kay, and at his back, he knew, were Lucan and Bedivere and all the rest of the Round Table fellowship. There was comfort there. He still had the unswerving love of all his knights. Nothing had changed that.
“Bring your joy unto the Lord,” the treble voices of the choirboys purled through the air, “and come before His presence with a song …”
Outside the chapel, a lark rose singing in the sky. The stewards and groundsmen would be down at the jousting field now, overseeing the last touches for the tournament. It would be wonderful to be out there. How long was it since he had gone tilting or jousting with his knights?
“The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ,” intoned the priest, “be among you and remain with you, now and forever more. Go in peace, and serve the Lord.”
Two lines of black-clad monks rose from the choir stalls and led the way out of the church. Arthur rose from his knees, and his knights followed him. How pale they all looked, and dejected, like men who expected nothing and hoped for less! Looking around the well-known faces, Arthur felt a surge of grief for them, and impatience with himself. He had not led these knights as a king should do. The signs of neglect were on every one of them, plain to see. Gawain’s great shoulders were hunched, and Kay’s sallow face looked sick with inward grief.
Kay …
Arthur paused. Kay was not himself. He’d been strange for weeks now, ever since he got back from Dolorous Garde.
Why had his old friend and foster-brother been so afflicted by his time in Malgaunt’s hands? Was it the injuries Kay had taken when he and the others tried to defend Guenevere? Was it the misery of imprisonment and the daily fear of death? Or was it constant grief for the loss of his fighting strength now he was crippled by a withered leg? Whatever it was, Kay never spoke of it. Since Dolorous Garde it was as if he dared not speak of what had happened there.
Arthur looked up at the sky. It was a clear forget-me-not blue, dotted with clouds as white as a rabbit’s tail. Poor Kay. Only time, trust, and love could hope to drive his clouds away.
An odd odor rose faintly to Arthur’s nose. It was the smell of incense hanging in his clothes. He looked at himself in wonder. How long had he worn this dreary, fusty black? Time for a change! Well, at least he’d have fine new robes for the tournament; Kay would have seen to that.
He turned to his knights, and threw his arm around Kay’s neck. “To horse, lords!” he cried. “The field awaits us. Let’s ride out as we always used to do! Come on, Kay. And where’s Lancelot?”
WHERE INDEED?
Kay did not know he could contain so much bitterness, and still live. He could feel his face yellowing, his eyes bulging with tension, his mind shaping a venomous retort as his mouth bit it back.
God almighty, he cursed as he stood on the chapel steps, what a position to be in! He could have wept. Why should he protect the Queen? Concealing her adultery from the King made him guilty of the worst disloyalty a knight could commit against his lord. But to tell Arthur would be to break another faith, betraying Lancelot, a blood brother, a fellow knight of the Round Table whom he had sworn to defend.
Yet Arthur was his brother before Kay was a knight—before Lancelot came, before everything. What should he do? What was his duty to his king and brother now? Yet to do nothing was a kind of cowardice too.
Kay could feel the bile rising at the back of his mouth, the pain gnawing at his innards as he puzzled on. After all, young Lancelot had been only half of it, the whole thing at Dolorous Garde. What about the Queen? Whatever she had done, she was still Arthur’s queen, and every knight of the Round Table was sworn in loyalty to her too.
A fit of rage shook him, as a dog shakes a rat. He dared not to look at Gawain or any of the other knights, for fear his face would give him away. If they knew about the Queen, if they had any idea of what had happened at Dolorous Garde, he couldn’t begin to think what they might say or do. Lancelot would very likely lose his life. At the least he would be banished forever, and the King would surely put away the Queen. And did he, Kay, the closest of all to the King, want to destroy the fellowship of knights, and bring down Arthur’s house of love? No, he could never say a word.
And who was he to judge? Sourly he struggled with his dislike of the Queen. The great Guenevere, in her own eyes at least, was not just Arthur’s queen, but the queen regnant of her own country, where women chose their men. So she believed that she had the right to a new consort when she pleased, and a duty to take the best of her fighting men. And who could be better than Lancelot?
“Where’s Lancelot?” Arthur cried again.
Bitterly Kay looked at Arthur and felt his heart rending. “Where’s Lancelot, my lord? I don’t know. Shall I send for him?”
“DON’T GO LIKE this!” Guenevere reached up from the tangled bed and tugged at the edge of Lancelot’s tunic as he dragged it over his head. “Oh, I’m sorry, I know you have to, it’s just—”
She threw herself back on the bed. Loving this man was like doing battle with the ghostly spirit of herself, the specter of the one she hoped to be. The first time they came together, the furious fire of their love burned out their old selves, and fused one being out of two. And then they shared a bond closer than their skin, too close to live with, too hard to live without.
Now they seemed to sigh on the same breath, and if he wept, her eyes would fill with tears. When she found a sword scar on his shoulder, she felt the pain in her own arm as she traced the silvery seam. When they were in public she watched his face for every passing thought, and when they were alone, he sensed her every mood. And when he came into her, every time they were one.
She reached out her arms. “Kiss me before you go.”
Lancelot did not look at her. He knew he was lost if he even threw a glance her way. “You know I have to hurry,” he said brusquely, grabbing for his boots. He glanced out of the window and read the time by the sky. “Gods above, it’s late. The King will already be out on the jousting field!”
LANCELOT’S HEART BURNED as he turned his back on Guenevere, cursing himself for yielding to her desire. They should not have come here, slipping through the corridors to one of the disused guest apartments, snatching a forbidden hour together while Arthur and the court were all in church.
Boots, sword belt, get going, go!
How often could it go unnoticed, after all, that Sir Lancelot had taken another of his “dawn rides,” while the Queen remained behind in the palace, “indisposed”? Especially as she would now appear in the viewing gallery within the hour, radiant with health and beauty, for the tournament—the tournament that was surely beginning now, even as she lay there naked in the bed begging him to stay?
And among the contestants the King would want to see one Sir Lancelot, he thought desperately, pulling on his boots. Arthur was expecting their best efforts from them all. The competition would be fierce, as the finest knights from many countries would be there. Among them would be such proven warrio
rs as Arthur’s old friend King Pellinore, with his brother King Pelles from faraway Terre Foraine. Every one of Arthur’s own knights, too, could give a fearsome account of himself when his blood was up—Lancelot flexed his right shoulder ruefully, still feeling the bruises from his last bout with Lucan when the champion of the Summer Country had almost had him down.
Almost, but not quite. Without vanity, Lancelot knew he was the best of them all. He knew that he could turn aside the worst of their assaults, and pierce the most desperate defenses in a way given to no one else. And he knew that his skill and spirit would be much in demand today. Reaching for his helmet, he ran a desperate hand through his tousled hair. The King was probably calling for him all over the court. And he was still here, lingering in my lady’s chamber, with—with—
Her unmistakable fragrance assailed his nostrils as he turned to say good-bye. She lay propped on the pillows, her eyes huge, her bright hair tangled with love knots and spilling wantonly over her nakedness. He could see her breasts beneath the tumbling locks, her full nipples pink and engorged from their lovemaking, from the passionate touch of his hands and lips and teeth. Instantly he wanted her again, for all the world, as if he had not only just emerged from her long, strong thighs.
She held up her white arms in a last appeal. “Lancelot!”
Turning from the door again, Lancelot threw down his sword and went back to the bed.
CHAPTER 61
Gods above, were the Great Ones smiling on him at last?
Arthur reined in his horse and turned up his face to the sun. He felt like a prisoner released from confinement underground. His fine new robes were sweet and silky on his skin, and he had forgotten the vibrant pleasure of colors like his royal red and blue.
It came to him with the gentle pain that accompanies the first recognition of a loved one’s shortcomings that his new God did not have much to say about days and events like this. The faith of the Christians dealt in guilt and grief, sweating tears and blood over sorrows of the past, and seeking to avoid eternity in hell.
But the Great Ones saw the trembling beauty of the present moment, the feathery difference of every blade of grass, the serene unending wisdom in the world of nature, so much more noble than anything made by man. He nodded with sad recognition. Yes, it was true. He had been too long in low cells and dark chambers, on his knees in dank chancels, prostrate before cold and remote high altars—too long indoors.
Now the jousting field opened before him, a dazzling expanse of emerald green and gold, spangled with a glittering array of banners, swords, and shields. He sighed with satisfaction. This would be a tournament that all those here would remember all their lives. No, more than that, it would be remembered after they were gone. Other hands and voices would honor their memory on high days and holidays still to come, when those as yet unborn sang the lays of great heroes and their brave deeds of yore.
A sour voice at his elbow brought him back to earth. “She’s late! On a day like this, with royal guests from far and wide, she makes kings look like fools by being late!”
Arthur frowned. Even Kay must not speak of Guenevere like that. “The Queen was not well this morning; she sent word. You know she hasn’t recovered from all she suffered in her imprisonment.”
And what was that? Kay felt a bilious urge to demand. The close attentions of young Sir Lancelot would not be called “suffering” by many females, that’s for sure!
“But her waiting gentlewoman promised that she would be here,” Arthur continued placidly. As he spoke, a great roar rose from the throng crowding the railings all around the field. Arthur smiled. “And here she comes.”
At the far end of the jousting field, a slender silken shape in white and gold flickered briefly in the viewing gallery as Guenevere appeared. Burning like a candle, she raised her arms to acknowledge the applause, and took her seat. Then she leaned forward, and a scrap of white lace fluttered to the ground. Arthur’s voice rang out, and the heralds and trumpets sprang to life: “Let the tournament begin!”
LEANING FORWARD ON her throne in the center of the crowded viewing stand, Guenevere raised a hand to her flushed cheek and tried to look like any other woman at a tournament, with the sun shining down and the court all around. But she knew she was wearing the heavy-lidded, amorous look all women have when they come from their lovers’ beds. Thank the Gods that the midday heat gave her reason to wear a veil!
Lancelot was concealing his part in their tryst, she knew, by galloping madly away from the town. He would find a place of shelter, equip himself for the tournament, and return to the jousting field by another route. But even this simple plan was risky, because he was so well known. Only the fact that all Caerleon was at the jousting field could save him from recognition, and protect them both from worse.
Yet what could be worse than living like this, both together and not together, and so often apart?
“Let the tournament begin!”
The trumpets flared again as all the contestants set off around the field. Mechanically Guenevere noted the fluttering banners, and prepared to greet the lords and kings passing by the gallery. At the head of his men, Arthur’s old friend King Pellinore rose in his stirrups and doffed his helmet with a courtly bow. “Your Majesty!”
“King Pellinore!” she cried with pretended gaiety as she waved, but her heart shrank at the sight of his thinning hair and aged, sun-speckled pate. How old he was—and so suddenly too, it seemed. What had become of the King Pellinore she had known?
Beside him another rider rose to greet her too, taller than Pellinore and thinner, but still recognizably his kin. The light of devotion shone from his pale eyes. His thin white cheeks showed the ascetic spirit of those who mortify their flesh. As she watched him, Guenevere recognized him from long years ago.
At the Battle of Kings, Pellinore had presented his brother, she remembered now, the good Christian King Pelles of Terre Foraine, who believed his daughter was destined to give birth to the greatest Christian knight. Had he brought the divine daughter with him? Guenevere wondered with a sharp pang of jealousy. Or was she still locked up in the castle of Corbenic, cherishing her precious virginity under her father’s anxious guard?
Rank upon rank of knights were surging past her now, as they followed their lords and kings in formation for the joust. Behind the lesser knights came the heroes all the people loved and longed to see: Sir Gawain, Sir Lucan, and Sir Bedivere, riding alongside those who had come to answer the challenge from far and wide. With a stirring of pain Guenevere saw many whose names she had all but forgotten in the trials of recent years. The King of the Black Lands and the King of Belle Isle were among the many who rode past, saluting as if they had last seen her yesterday. As she waved to them the years fell away, and her hurt spirit was bathed in the air of love and goodwill.
“To the lists! To the lists!” The heralds were signaling the first contestants into the ring. Laughing, Arthur slammed down the visor of his helmet and rode forward to open the jousts. At the far end of the field a number of riders milled around in front of the knights’ enclosure, each claiming the honor of the first passage of arms with the King. The chosen contestant would ride at Arthur, bow and feint, then ride past. By knightly tradition, a bout in which neither rider was unseated would bring good luck on the contest and all who took part.
So the opening joust would shed no man’s blood. The sun put a glittering edge on the long lances and sharp spears massing for the fray, and in spite of herself, Guenevere felt a sudden shaft of fear. Beset by sorrow and hag-ridden by his monks, Arthur had not ridden in a tournament for a long while. He could not hope to withstand a full bout now. And even the young and fit were known to die falling from a horse, when the weight of the armor broke their bones and crushed their insides.
If only Arthur still had the scabbard I gave him, my mother’s scabbard to keep him alive …
Don’t think of it; it’s gone. Don’t feed on bitterness …
Her eyes raked the k
nights lining up for the first bout. Well, Gawain was there, and Lucan and Bedivere; they would all take care. All the knights knew the low state Arthur was in. There was no need to worry.
All would be well.
She sighed.
If she could only forget the last tournament, when Arthur nearly died—
Enough!
She must learn not to fear.
“KING ARTHUR!”
Till the last day of his life, the chief herald swore that the first anyone knew of the child was when the tiny figure stood up in the middle of the jousting field and cried Arthur’s name. Some said he must have dropped from the clouds, others that he had sprung up alive from the earth. What was certain was that no one saw him come.
Yet there he was, facing Arthur in the field, absurdly small against the ranks of mounted men. He was a thin child of no more than four or five, with black hair and white skin, clad in a diminutive black tunic with black breeches and fine black leather boots. His childish face had an old-young look, and he stared strangely at Arthur straight ahead.
“A boon, my lord King,” he piped, “I ask a boon! My master Sir Ganmor craves the honor of the opening bout with you.”
“Sir Ganmor?” Arthur smiled in delight at the strange child and his old-fashioned ways. “Who is he, boy?”
The child made a courtly bow. “He is a knight of the Lost Lands, sire. He has traveled many miles to break a lance with you.”
Arthur laughed. “With me, but not on me, I hope, little sir? I am out of condition; I trust your master knows that.”
“He knows.”
Guenevere, Queen of the Summer Country Page 48