The two men met at the altar, each bowing formally to the other. The warrior Morgan had found to be the Unknown Opponent was a little younger and not as adroit as Arthur—but close enough a match to be the image of the High King three years ago.
“As the ritual battle began, a druid came to stand next to me,” Nimue continued. “He peered under my hood just long enough to determine who I was…and for me to recognize Cathbad, the druid who was your tutor when you were a child in Rheged.”
I caught my breath; ever since Cathbad had gone to live and work with the Lady, I’d wondered where his loyalty lay.
“His hood was up, and under cover of the cowling he whispered, ‘Beware the real Excalibur.’” Nimue looked into my face with an anguished frown. “Gwen, I didn’t know what he meant, or if he was to be trusted…and he vanished as silently as he had appeared. I dared not interrupt the rite without knowing more, so I turned my attention back to the combatants, keeping a close eye on the swords.”
***
Like dancers the two men move about the altar—thrust, parry…feint, sidestep…lunge. Graceful and elegant, mirrors of each other, self fighting self.
The stage broadens—beyond the altar, across the greensward, back slowly toward the column with its haunting of heads. Avoid the altar—dance around it, keep it always in mind as the pace quickens.
Time enough—the point is made, and Arthur is weary after his nightlong vigil. Yet the Unknown draws the contest out, makes no move to surrender, refuses to capitulate. Impatient, Arthur brings his sword around full sweep, knocking the Opponent off balance…and the blade of the ceremonial sword snaps.
The Unknown rushes forward in a frenzy. Blood everywhere, running down Arthur’s arms and legs, oozing from under his armor in a dozen places.
Aghast, the Companions reach for swords that are not there; Geraint swears at the memory of weapons collected the night before. Arthur’s men look quickly from one to another, uncertain if they should charge across the sacred ground to the King’s aid.
The deadly Opponent is driving Arthur back, relentlessly. The King crouches, pivots, attempts to spin away. Bumping into the unyielding stone of the altar, he trips, struggles for his balance, and falls backward across the sacrificial table. Death rises above him, the blade poised for the final stroke.
Out of nowhere and everywhere comes the sound—a whispered growl, a growing roar that rushes finally into the high, piercing howl of the Morrigan—the battle-cry issues from Nimue’s mouth. Unnerved, the Opponent pauses, looking around warily for the War Goddess, in that moment of distraction the High King wraps both fists around the pommel of his broken weapon and smashes it directly into the face of his adversary.
Stunned, the Unknown goes down, his weapon dropping from his hand. Arthur lunges for it, feels it fly to his grasp like a trusted friend returned at last—the High King recognizes the heft and weight of Excalibur coming home to his hand.
Blind rage rips through him as Arthur turns to savage his Opponent.
***
“It was all over within minutes,” Nimue concluded. “When the Unknown refused to surrender, the High King smote him at the base of the neck and opened a fatal gash.”
“Who was it?” I cried.
“Morgan’s lover, Accolon. She had promised to make him High King once he killed Arthur.”
I groaned aloud, and Nimue nodded grimly.
“Accolon confessed everything as he lay dying, begging forgiveness from his King. Arthur let out an anguished wail and slumped unconscious beside the dying Gaul. I threw off my disguise and calling up Arthur’s men, raced across the field as both the druids and Accolon’s followers disappeared into the woods.
“There was nothing to be done for the Opponent—his fate was sealed when he let Morgan seduce him with her dreams of power. I gave Arthur all my attention, for though he had no shattered bones, he had lost a great deal of blood…from wounds inflicted by his own sword.”
I stared at the doire with horror as her last words registered. Memory of King Pellam and the wound that would not heal floated before me.
“Griflet knew of a deserted hermit’s hut not far away, so we carried Arthur there as quickly as possible. I’ve begged the Mother for help in healing him—he’s well sedated and watched over by his men at this point. I dare not bring him back by horse or litter for fear of opening the wounds again. I’ll need a sizable troop to take back to the hermitage: some to keep a guard around him until he recovers enough to be moved and some to bring Accolon’s body back to Court.”
She paused finally and sighed. “Arthur’s last wish before he lost consciousness was that the warrior’s corpse be presented to Morgan here, in the Court she had herself expected to rule.”
Slowly, I began to see the pieces of the puzzle come together. Morgan hadn’t cared if Urien became Regent of Rheged because she was going to replace him with Accolon. And she had insisted on a feast fit for a coronation because she expected her lover to take over Britain as the “victorious King”—by which time she would have disposed of Urien. Morgan must have been planning this treachery for years, and even I had been too blind to see it.
“What do we do with her?” I asked, my palms going damp at the notion of confronting the Sorceress with news of her darling’s death.
“Put her in irons before you tell her what has happened. Or better yet,” said the doire, showing a streak of vengefulness I didn’t know she had, “lead her unprepared to the Palace entrance tomorrow to see firsthand that her ambition has cost her love his life. That was, I think, what Arthur had in mind.”
I nodded morosely, seeing once more the shadow of Arthur’s darker, Celtic side.
“Where is Morgan?” Nimue asked, and when I told her, the doire pulled me to my feet. “Call up Pellinore and that strapping son of his, and we’ll go shackle her immediately.”
It was not to be that easy. When we reached the anteroom to where the High Priestess slept, her women rushed to surround us, praying solemnly against the tattoo of the raindrops that pounded on the window. But Morgan’s bed was empty, and when I demanded an accounting, her acolytes stared at me in silence, refusing to explain what had happened or how.
“You cannot go against the will of the Goddess,” their leader intoned as I fumed over this new development.
I was certain my sister-in-law had not departed by herself; the brew we gave her would have her still asleep, wherever she was. Her rescuer had to be someone strong enough to carry her away, and though several of her ladies might have succeeded in such a task, none were missing. Both Urien and Uwain were accounted for, though I hardly thought they would have been involved.
“Have you found her lieutenant?” Urien asked, then nodded sourly as I shook my head. “Fanatical little man, you know. Adores Morgan and is as jealous of her as any lover…though knowing her tastes, I doubt she considers him more than a pawn. But if you find him, I wager you’ll find her as well.”
I tried to imagine the dwarf hauling Morgan, drugged and trussed, into the night by himself. It made me marvel at the power even a hopeless love can call up.
We had to leave it at that. A search of the Palace failed to find either of them, and there were two horses missing from the pasture. At dawn I sent Pellinore and Lamorak out after them, for the men of the Wrekin were followers of the Goddess who would try to capture Morgan without doing her any harm; the last thing I wanted was to give the druids reason for claims of brutality.
But I had little hope they’d be successful; the rain had washed away the most obvious signs for tracking, and the country people revered her. No doubt some would hide Morgan and her lieutenant as they made their way back to the Sanctuary at the Black Lake. At least, I comforted myself, Arthur must finally see the true nature of his sister.
Nimue remained in London an extra day, visiting the shrines of Isis and Cybele in search of ways to cou
nteract the treachery of Arthur’s wounds. I intended to go with her when she returned to Arthur, but there were so many visiting monarchs, it was decided I should stay and make sure the last days of the gathering went smoothly.
With Bedivere and Gawain at my side I was able to reassure the members of the Round Table that Arthur, although wounded, would soon be on his feet again. I presided over the last Council meeting, concluding various treaties and standing in state to receive the farewells of those Saxons who were now free to return to their homes.
Nimue reported that Arthur’s wounds reopened at the slightest provocation, and it was a fortnight before she deemed it safe to move him. By then the summer doldrums had settled over London, with the river going sluggish and foul, and the various leaders began returning to their own realms.
When the King of Cornwall decided to leave, the other guests from the south made plans to join his party. A sizable group gathered that morning, and Cook put out food and ale for anyone who wanted a meal for the Road.
Geraint had brought Accolon’s body back to Court and stayed to help me during the last days of the Round Table. I thanked him now as we shared a bannock before he departed.
“You make serving the High Queen a pleasure, M’lady. Would that you had a sister to share my throne in Devon,” the gallant replied.
“Come now, M’lord, with your charm you have the whole of Britain’s womanhood to choose from.” I laughed.
He sighed. “Most of them seem too busy in front of their mirrors…perhaps they don’t make Queens the way they used to.”
“Then find someone you like and teach her,” I joked, remembering my own tomboy beginnings.
“Not a bad idea.” The King of Devon ran an appreciative eye over my ladies. Ettard was standing near enough to hear our exchange; with a flutter of eyelashes she asked to accompany him to his horse. Grinning, the courtier bade me adieu and swept the girl out the door in fine style.
I was shaking my head in amusement when Isolde made her way through the throng and, pausing shyly, extended her hand.
“Thank you for your hospitality, M’lady,” she murmured. “There’s few places I feel comfortable these days, what with the Cornish people always finding fault and Mark surrounding me with spies.”
I was shocked by the realization that the Cornish King would demean his wife by spying on her and looked at the girl with pity.
“It’s a relief to be treated like a human being, and not just a pretty toy,” she went on. “I know Mark means well, but he’d never allow me to do half the things your husband expects of you.”
“Perhaps you should ask him,” I suggested, but the beauty gave a derisive snort.
“I’ve tried. He just laughs and says I don’t need to trouble my head about such matters…as though the only thing I’m good for is singing Irish songs and gracing M’lord’s bed.”
The anger in her voice surprised me, and I was trying to think how to respond when her portly husband bellied up to us.
“Now don’t you go filling my little love’s head full of heathen notions,” he cautioned me jocularly, insinuating himself between us. “She’s as pure as an angel, and I’d not take kindly to seeing her corrupted.”
The man’s inane twaddle disgusted me; the girl was Pagan to the core and only wore the mantle of Christianity because he imposed it on her. Besides, if he was suspicious enough to resort to spies, it seemed hypocritical to mouth such praises of her purity—unless he only wanted to reassure himself rather than discover the truth.
It appeared that Mark was a blatant example of the old saying that love is blind. I wouldn’t want to be present when his eyes were opened.
***
After the last of our guests were gone I walked slowly through the Imperial Palace, worn out and thankful that the public ordeal was over. In the kitchen Enid greeted me with a row of picnic hampers all packed and ready to go. I grinned tiredly and told her how much I appreciated it.
Tomorrow I would finally get to my husband’s side.
Chapter XXVIII
Recuperation
We boarded the barges and headed upriver in the cool of the morning. A flock of swans accompanied us; the white adults glided regally beyond reach, but the young gray cygnets came over to investigate when I splashed my feet in the water.
Bedivere laughed and, standing up, called out, “I hereby proclaim all the swans on the river Thames belong to Her Majesty the Queen, and are to be held safe in her name from this day forth.”
“Fat lot of good that will do during a bad year,” I told him, but he shrugged.
“Who knows…maybe someone will remember.”
I grinned up at him, glad that he would be staying on at Court with us again. Faced with the losses he had known, many another man would have retreated into anger or resentment. But Bedivere had come to terms with his moira and not turned warped and bitter. It made him all the more dear.
We tied up to a stand of willows beside a meadow near Windsor’s cliff, where dragonflies glimmered over the water.
“I’m surprised no one’s built a fort on it, commanding the river as it does,” Bedivere noted.
“Give them time,” Enid commented. “If it can be turned to a military advantage, someone will find a way to do it.” My lady-in-waiting took a dim view of grandiose military postures, an attitude which did not endear her to the more arrogant warriors.
“I have some new riddles,” Lynette piped up. The Saxons are extraordinarily fond of riddling, and during her childhood in London the Grounds Keeper’s daughter had collected quite a store. She brought them with her when she joined the Court, and now we all took turns laughing and testing each other’s wit.
Some we could guess, and some not, but all of a sudden Bedivere asked, “What is rippling red, streaks across the heavens, and moves out of the forest without touching the ground?”
His gaze flicked to something over my shoulder, and with a glad cry of “The Red Dragon of Britain!” I turned around.
A small procession of warriors and healers were making their way through the trees to the water’s edge, carrying Arthur propped and cushioned on a stretcher. I scrambled onto the bank and ran through the green-dappled sunlight toward him, shocked by his wasted condition, delirious with joy because he was alive. Nimue had called on every bit of medical art and magic at her command, and the treacherous wounds were healing slowly. He would continue to sleep much of the time, but she was confident he would make a full recovery.
When I reached his side my husband opened his eyes and recognized me, but before I could speak he stayed me with a lifted hand.
“The Pendragon extends greetings to the competent and admirable High Queen of Britain,” he said. “They tell me you have done a fine job in my absence. Behooves me to get well before you decide you can do it all by yourself.”
“This Celtic Queen has no desire to rule alone.” I grinned in reply and helped to get him settled comfortably on the barge. As we cast off, Taliesin played one of his melodic songs, adding to the festive air of our voyage.
It occurred to me how odd time is, stretching and twisting in a most peculiar way. It was barely three weeks since Lance had left, yet with all that had happened, I’d had no time to think about it—and now the scene in the Park might have taken place in another lifetime entirely. On the other hand, Arthur and I had been married for seven years, and the whole of that time was as close to my fingertips as the ripples of the trout rising on the river ahead of us.
Watching my husband nap under the canopy, I tried to remember when I first knew I loved him. Certainly not when he was announced as my intended groom. Perhaps it was the night at the Wrekin, when I saw our moirai were entwined for life—or during the wild ride away from Morgan, with the horse pounding under us and the wedding lying ahead.
Or the time he’d come back from war, wounded and weak and barely han
ging on to life. Seeing him so vulnerable, even as he was now, always made my heart leap up. Nimue had said once that she loved Merlin not for his magic and power, but for the humanness of the man.
I knew exactly what she meant as I looked at Arthur.
It’s fine to see you proud and regal, sending shivers through the crowd and gathering the warriors to your side—or thoughtful in the quiet times, testing, searching, always trying to evaluate what will bring your Britain into its own. No one could help but love you then, my dear…but oh, my love, how much more we could share, if you would just…
I reached over and brushed the hair from his forehead, not even knowing what I wished he would do, yet still hungering for something I couldn’t put into words.
I’ll never cease to love you, I thought, though I may starve to death in the process.
***
Arthur’s recovery was difficult at best, and for the next few weeks he drifted in and out of melancholy, sometimes turning snappish and sharp, sometimes just staring off into space. How much was the effect of his wounds and how much due to anguish over his sister’s betrayal, I couldn’t tell. One never knew when his sunny countenance would go hard as flint, and if I tried to talk with him at such times, I’d only be rebuffed. Finally I decided to wait until he himself brought up the things that were gnawing at him.
Bedivere and I had chosen Oxford because it was easy to get to by water but remote enough to provide some sanctuary. It proved to be a lovely spot, surrounded by meadows and farms as well as a rich, wild wood. Along this part of the Thames the people were as patchwork as the land, with British aristocrats longtime neighbors of Saxon Federates. They not only seemed to live in peace, they were delighted to have the High King in their midst, even if he wasn’t on his feet and among them yet.
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