But her hands on his body were all the reassurance he could need. She stroked him slowly and tenderly, and her every touch told of love awakening from its long sleep. And when she kissed him deep on the mouth and drew him into her, he knew he had come home.
CHAPTER 65
Kay hurried through the lower courtyard, cursing his leg as he went. Not for the pain; that hardly troubled him; he was used to that now. No, the problem was that getting about was so damnably hard these days. Dragging a lame leg meant that strolling about was a thing of the past.
So it would not look casual when he came across Bors and Lionel down at the stables. But Kay was past caring now. If it was true that Lancelot was leaving, he wanted to hear it from the horse’s mouth.
And they should be down there with the horses, Lucan said. He had heard Lancelot tell them to make ready, as they were leaving at once. At this time of the night? Kay cocked a dubious eye at the evening sky. It was a warm enough evening, for sure, and every knight had slept under the stars often enough not to fear it at all.
But no one set out at nightfall by their own choice. Something had sent young Lancelot packing posthaste, and Kay fervently hoped that the “something” was the Queen. Gods above, if only Guenevere had come to her senses at last!
He hurried on, trying not to let his hopes overtake the truth of what he knew. There was more to this whole thing, he conceded grudgingly, than he had first thought at Joyous Garde. The Queen was no trollop, nor some bored, loose-sided woman looking to lie with the first handsome young man in sight. No, what had drawn her and Lancelot into bed was something more than he’d ever dreamed.
Oh, gratitude perhaps, at first—after what the Queen had suffered at Malgaunt’s hands, a few nights of midsummer madness might have been excused. For the love of the King, Kay had devoutly prayed that it would be only that.
Kay sighed. Had he known even then that the feeling between those two was too strong to be put away? That the time in Joyous Garde did not slake their appetites, but created instead a hunger that had to be fed? A hunger so great that they were ready to ruin the life of King Arthur—for all his errors the best man any of them would ever know—in the drive to satisfy their love? Kay frowned. No, not love but lust, like farmyard animals in the spring, goats in heat or a pair of rutting dogs—
By God and all the saints, what was he thinking of? Kay struggled to put away the visions that accompanied such thoughts, for he was not a lewd man. And when he remembered the look Guenevere wore whenever Lancelot was not in sight, he felt a pity for the two of them greater than he had ever known.
But it could not go on. He stumbled on the cobbles, turned his leg painfully, and swore. It should not have started. It should have ended where it began, in Joyous Garde. It should never have dragged on in Camelot and Caerleon, everywhere they went.
He swore again, and not for the pain in his leg. How they’d thought they could keep it to themselves, the Gods alone knew! Oh, they would have known they could trust him, that he would keep silent for Arthur’s sake. And Bors and Lionel were Lancelot’s own men and would die for him. But back at court, the very dogs could have nosed it out by now! There were always eyes at court, always watchers like Gawain’s brother, that damned Agravain. Sooner or later they would betray themselves, and their secret would be known to the whole world.
But if Lancelot was leaving—if he would just go away—
Gods above, what a relief that would be! Not that he had anything against Lancelot, Kay reminded himself sharply. He was a good knight and always one to have on your side. And losing Lancelot would sadden Arthur. That would be bad. But sometimes one bad thing led to a greater good. Arthur’s happiness would be greater, Kay knew in his heart, when the man who was the Queen’s best friend and the King’s dearest enemy was far away.
Through an archway in the distance he could see the faint glow of a lantern and hear the low hum of voices exchanging a few subdued words. He hurried along, ducked through the low arch, and came out in the stable yard. Bors and Lionel stood beside their horses, methodically loading the saddlebags. Farther off, tethered to the wall, stood a third horse, Lancelot’s white charger, fully laden and ready to go.
Kay came up to them awkwardly, unsure what to say. He chucked a thumb at the horses and raised his eyes. “You’re leaving?” he asked unnecessarily.
Bors nodded and did not meet his eye. His neat fingers were busy closing flaps, fastening buckles, and tightening straps. “Time to be off!” he said lightly.
“It’s a bit sudden,” Kay ventured, feeling oddly ill at ease. Once there had been no barriers between him and the two French cousins, and they had talked freely about everything under the sun. But things had never been the same since Joyous Garde. Keeping Lancelot’s secret had put lead weights on all their tongues.
Bors smiled and looked Kay in the eye. “But not a moment too soon.”
Kay saw Lionel drop his head and suddenly bury himself in his packing, the color mounting up his neck to the tips of his ears. These two were no happier than he was at the turn of events. He could have laughed, except it was not funny at all. Well, too late to commiserate with one another now.
“So!” said Kay with forced enthusiasm, rubbing his hands. “Well, you’re off then! Where will you go?”
Lionel raised his head, looking happier for a moment. “Back to Little Britain.”
Bors glanced fondly at his brother. “Yes, we go back to France,” he said. “We have not seen our country for a long time. Lancelot has had many letters from his mother, the queen, begging him to return. She longs to see her only son again.” His expression softened. “And truth to tell, Lancelot longs to see his mother too. She is a rare lady, the queen. Any son would be happy to have such a mother, and they rejoice in one another; they have done so all their lives.”
“So, our queen has given him leave to depart the court?” Kay probed.
“Queen Guenevere is leaving the court herself,” said Bors. “She is taking the King back to Avalon to complete his return to health. The two of them will be the guests of the Lady to rest and walk and take the waters, until King Arthur is himself again.” Bors paused and remembered Guenevere’s face as he would always think of it. “ ‘Going home,’ she said to me as we left. ‘We are going home.’ ”
The words hung sweetly in the air between them. From the woodland above, a nightingale called through the night: Going home, going home, going home …
Bors straightened up, his face brightening as he spoke. “So we’re off again, taking to the road as we did when we were boys.”
Lionel grinned. “Just the three of us, the way it used to be!”
Kay’s spirits lifted in sympathy. “And when shall we see you back?”
“Ah!” Bors’ dark eyes searched the star-encrusted sky. “Do not ask. We are knights-errant now, wandering where we will. As soon as Lancelot has bidden farewell to the fellowship of the Round Table, we are on our way. You would see him yourself if you were up at the castle with Gawain and the rest.”
Lionel came forward, his arms outstretched. “Farewell.”
Kay felt the pang of parting, and feebly tried to stave it off. “But you will return?”
Bors first shook his head, then nodded, and finally shrugged his shoulders helplessly. He tried to smile. “Before we die, we hope. But not soon. Not yet.”
Kay forced an answering smile. “Well then, some of us will have to travel over the Narrow Sea,” he said stoutly, “and challenge you to a bout of arms for the honor of the old days.”
Bors stepped forward and took his hand. “We count on it,” he said. His smile was very sweet. “Until then, old friend, wish us bon voyage?”
Kay took him in his arms. “Till we meet again, brother,” he said. “Till we meet again.”
MERLIN LIFTED HIS old hawk’s head and sniffed the air. Was there a greater joy on earth than to be out and about on a morning of green and gold?
He cackled with delight till his whole frame
shook. When Uther died, he had been forced to run for his life, but now he rode like a king, just as he had before. They had hunted him then, but those days were gone. He had come back to the palace and taken his place again, even though they had all laughed at his boy.
Then there had been his own world of crystal, his healing cave, his safe, sacred place. And now he was well again; he was free; he had the world to himself, and he could go where he pleased.
A skylark rose singing from the wayside, and his spirits soared. He checked his horse, to savor the moment in his mind. But the canny native pony took the bit between his teeth and plodded on serenely down the arched greenway. They were deep in the heart of the country, with no other soul for miles. Overhead the midday sun spangled the leaves with fire, and the mayflies danced like broken motes of light in the shafts of gold pouring down through the trees.
Merlin’s heart shifted as if squeezed by a giant hand. There was nothing he would not do for this land—this tiny seagirt island, lying where the Gods had tossed it through the mists of time to its place on the edge of the world.
He saw it now through the eyes of a high-flying hawk looking back in time. Queen Igraine of Cornwall—yes, an outstanding woman, rare and beautiful. And her husband Duke Gorlois was a fine man, it was true.
Merlin sighed. It was a pity that theirs had not been an arranged marriage, devoid of any passion except dislike. Or that they did not have a union of the ordinary kind, in which love so gradually gives way to indifference that neither party misses it when it is gone. But they had loved each other, Gorlois and Igraine, and that was bad. He could remember that he had felt some pity for Igraine, for them all.
But it had had to be.
And the sorrow had not ended there; it could not. Real grief is never done. The mother’s suffering had become the daughter’s, and their vengeance was still to come. Madam Morgan was still at large, and her huge sense of grievance would never die.
Merlin shifted uneasily in his saddle and felt the future coming on. There were other troubles ahead too that he could only dimly see. But he knew they were there waiting; he could smell their approach as rank as any fox’s, hear the drumming of their hooves like those of rutting stags in spring. They could not be avoided. Whatever was coming was already in the stars.
Well, so be it.
All this, too, would have to be.
For all this had been needed to give Britain a High King.
But for Arthur, the Saxons would be at the gates of London now, breaking down walls, burning the city, crucifying women and toasting babies in the fire. Without Arthur, all the petty kings would be slitting one another’s throats, and the land would be crying out from its open wounds as all countries do in time of war. King Lot of Lothian would still be the self-styled High King, squatting like a toad in the Middle Kingdom, making widows and orphans, hounding bards and dream readers and those who walked the world between the worlds, as he had hunted Merlin when Uther’s day was done.
King Lot of Lothian, Lot the loathsome, Lot the loathed.
Everything had been worth it for that death alone.
Merlin sighed.
And Arthur’s work was not done. And because of that, neither was his own.
On your way, then, old fool!
With a self-mocking cackle Merlin heaved up his trailing robes and tucked them under the backs of his thin shanks, resettling his scrawny buttocks on the saddle and lifting his keen eyes to the road ahead. There was much to do, and only he could guarantee to bring about what would be needed in times to come.
A good thing he was fit again now, the spirit poison of Morgan’s enchantment well and truly shaken off. A good thing he had had Nemue to take care of him on the Sacred Isle. She was the best maiden in all of Avalon for healing the mind’s sickness and the spirit’s decay.
He cackled softly to himself. Nemue was still a fine woman, and she would be so for many years. He stroked his bony hands and thought of her small, firm body, her clear eyes and unaffected stare. One of these days she still might be his, as he had hoped from the first. Life was long, like his patience, and the man who had the strength and courage to wait got most of what he wanted in the end.
He hunched forward in the saddle, his ears pricking forward like a dog’s. In the meantime, he had the glory of the open road, the sweet secret greenways like this, the sunlit highways, cool dark forests, and at the end of the road, the ever-open sea. And the world would know that Merlin was on his way again. Know the old man was about, busying himself for the good of the land.
He drew a breath of the sweet rich air deep into his lungs and humbly thanked the Gods. Life was good, he had been blessed, and there was more to come. The Gods were on his side, on Arthur’s side, weaving the future they had granted him the gift to dream. While there was blood in his veins, then, strength in his limbs, and fire in his heart, Merlin would do their will.
He would repay.
“MAY THE LOVE of the Great One and all your Gods go with you all the way!”
Arthur reached for Guenevere’s hand. Together they left the Lady’s house with her blessing still ringing in their ears. In the world outside, the dawn was breaking in a cloudless sky. Behind them lay a long, loving night of talk and prayer and tears. In the safety of the Lady’s house they had found what had been long lost between them, the truthful dialogue of loving souls.
Arthur lifted his face to the faint warmth of the sun. The pale light gilded his wide forehead and strong jaw. “She was very good to me,” he said quietly.
“No more than you deserve.” Guenevere stroked his hand. “She loves you.”
He shook his head. “She loves both of us.”
Hand in hand they walked away from the house, taking the path up the hill. The island was still hushed and dreaming after its sleep, and the dew lay silvering every blade of grass.
Arthur put his arm around her shoulder. “It’s good to know that Merlin is free again.”
He fell silent, but Guenevere could read his thoughts. “Never fear, Arthur, you have not lost Merlin. You will see him again. Believe me, he will appear when you least expect it, to help and support you as he always did. Till then, you have to grant him the freedom to roam. He has been out of the world for a long time.”
“You’re right.” A look of fond memory crossed Arthur’s face. “Merlin is Merlin. The old hawk must fly when and where he will. Oh, Guenevere”—he squeezed her shoulder feelingly—“that he’s well again is better than I dared to hope.”
Guenevere pressed his hand. “I could say the same about you.” She was almost afraid to tempt providence with the words. “Oh, Arthur, you are truly yourself again!”
“I’m glad you think so,” he said humbly. He gave a tired grin. “But I hope we don’t have too many more nights like this. I’m not the man I was when I came to your Queen-making on the Hill of Stones.”
A golden image dropped through Guenevere’s mind. She saw Arthur stepping toward her through the fiery dark, her Beltain love, her lord of fire and light. Then she saw him hag-ridden and haunted with the curse of Morgan’s love, then ill and wasted, lying in his bed.
But now another Arthur stood by her side, the great frame scarcely changed in the ten years since they met, his fair hair only lightly touched with gray. Leaving the Lady’s house, he had walked with a firmer step, and there was no trace of the beaten Arthur she had hated, the man in thrall to his monks. She brought his hand to her lips and kissed it tenderly. “No, none of us is the same.”
Into the silence between them fell the memory of all that they had shared—Malgaunt, Amir, the days of love and pain. Throughout the night the Lady’s murmuring voice had led them back through the labyrinths of old rage and grief to a new beginning, a tremulous fresh start.
It would not be easy, they knew. The shadow of Morgan still hung between them, and would walk with them always. There had been no trace of her or her son since she fled from King Ursien. But neither of them believed that she was gone from th
eir lives.
And Amir—Amir was dead, but they still had the life of a child between them, the countless memories of his sweet small body, his trusting eyes, his loving ways. The sturdy seven-year-old would remain more fresh to them, she was sure, than many a child who lived to become a torment to his parents, or simply passed into adulthood before their eyes.
Guenevere gripped Arthur’s hand and suppressed a sigh. Unknown to Arthur, another spirit shadow would be with them always too. Guenevere knew with the ache of a fresh wound that Lancelot would walk with her all her days. She would not punish Arthur with the knowledge of what had passed. But she would carry the burden of it from now on. Now every tall slender man seen at a distance, every bright brown inquiring eye, every lift of a head turned a certain way would set the spirit of lost love free to roam again the mansions of her mind, mourning its flight from paradise.
She nodded to herself. So Arthur and I are one. Both of us have suffered the cruel loss of love. We share a common currency of pain. We can help each other through the times ahead.
She looked up. Arthur was watching her with a look of anxious concern. Behind his head a cloud of white blossom was breathing out its sweetness to the world. “It can never be the same,” she went on. “But it can be different; we can make things good again.”
His eyes filled with tears. “I love you, Guenevere.”
“And I love you.” She paused, nerving herself up. Do I have to do this? But it had to be said. “Morgan loved you too, Arthur; I can see that now. She must have loved you from the moment you first met. She had been starved of love for all her life. I’m sure that she’s fated to love you forever now.”
Arthur stopped and took her in his arms. “Can you truly forgive me?”
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