The Knight of the Sacred Lake
Page 2
Trust that mooncalf of a girl to show me up like this, the landlord thought venomously. Well, she’d pay for it, as soon as he got his hands on her after they’d gone. And even if he was handsome and well made, what made the tall knight think he was better than other folk? The landlord’s anger rose. What gives you the right to say a man can’t be master of his own wench, Sir Precious? his ugly inner voice was clamoring, even as his mouth was saying fulsomely, “I have a fat chicken in the pot, and some cold brawn on the side. What’ll you take, my lords?”
The tall knight shook his head dismissively and turned aside. “Nothing for me, Bors,” he said to the shorter of the two brothers. “But you and Lionel order what you want. I’ll see to the horses, and join you in a while.”
Sir Bors stood aside and watched the tall knight retreat before he turned back into the alehouse with the fair knight behind. “Well, landlord,” he said, “my brother and I will dine with you tonight. Let’s have the best you’ve got.” The lightness of his tone did not disguise the concern he felt for the knight who had just left. And again the question fretted the landlord’s rising spleen: Who is this man? Why the great care for him?
But two birds in the hand—
Swiftly the landlord drew his new guests inside and ensconced them at the rough corner board. A shout brought the maidservant hastening with the wine, and another good kick as she poured ensured that she spilled only a little of it, and none on the knights. He waited till they had both taken a first sip before easing slyly into what he wanted to know.
“It’s good wine, this,” he began, “best in the house. From France.” He paused. “Like your good selves, unless my ears deceive me.” He smiled with what he thought was a jocund air. “A trace of a French accent there, good sirs?”
Ill fortune be our speed, Bors thought wearily, a fawning publican, a tedious braggart and a fool, must be our host tonight. Well, so be it. We do not journey for our pleasure or delight. This country clown and his bad wine are our affliction now. Tomorrow we may wish ourselves back here.
He took another draught of the sour red wine, and shook his head. “Not France. France is our overlord.”
The younger knight laughed. “We are from Little Britain below France, sons of Benoic. But we have been here since our boyhood. We are knights of this island now.”
The landlord nodded. “Then you’ll be traveling to Camelot for the Queen’s feast.” He jerked his head round the room. “Like most of these here. They’ve been thronging the roads this past week and more.” He guffawed. “Not that this rabble’ll be dining in the palace with all the knights and lords. But the Queen will make sure that there’s plenty for all who come. And they’ll see her and King Arthur and all his knights at the tournament, and come back as happy as birds on mating day.” He rubbed his hands, and showed a mouthful of rotten teeth in a reminiscent grin. “Ten years they’ve been on the throne and ten years married. That’s something to celebrate, eh, good sirs? Ten years! And peace and plenty for us all.”
“Sir?” Appearing silently at his elbow, the servant girl surreptitiously slipped a brimming flagon into the landlord’s grasp. If she could keep him happy, or better still, get him drunk, she might escape the worst of what usually befell her in the cellar when the alehouse had closed and his wife was asleep. The landlord’s hands closed around the crock of ale, and he took a long pull before warming to his theme.
“You’ll not remember how it was before, young sirs, you growing up in France so far away. Oh, the Summer Country was always safe enough under the rule of queens, and for my money, Queen Guenevere’s the best of them all. But the Middle Kingdom was a wilderness after King Uther died, what with rogue knights, and warring kings, and all. So when King Arthur came and claimed it back, we all rejoiced to see Pendragon on the throne again. And when Queen Guenevere took him as her king and married him, and then joined her lands to his—oh yes, lords, we have plenty to be thankful for.”
The two knights exchanged a glance. “We do not go to Camelot,” said Bors at last. “We wish the King and Queen well on their great day, but our business calls us elsewhere. We sail for Little Britain by the first boat.”
The landlord stared. “But they’re making new knights this Pentecost, new brothers of yours in the Round Table, in a mighty ceremony. You wouldn’t want to miss that, surely, young sirs?”
Unless— said his prying mind.
A dull light lit his eyes. Unless they had left the court under a cloud. Banished and sent abroad, never to return. What would it be, their offense, drunkenness, lewdness, dishonoring a lady, or what? He reached eagerly for a chair to plump himself down with them. “So you’ve left Camelot, lords? Tell me, then . . .”
What a fool he is, the little servant thought, with a sick recognition of her employer’s ways. He can’t help himself. He treats the finest knights that ever graced his house like his alehouse cronies, poking his nose into matters beyond his ken. He’ll drive them away with his prying, then punish me.
A sudden uproar broke out by the fire. One of the drinkers, a large local lout, was threatening a traveler, a merchant by his dress. “Who are you calling clodpolls?” he was shouting. “There’s as much brains in this village as where you come from!”
“One moment, sirs.” The landlord hurried off to deal with the fray. Bors looked at Lionel, raising his eyebrows in interrogation, and his brother gave a faint nod.
Both were on their feet as the tall knight reentered the room. “We go?” he asked, without surprise.
Bors nodded. “Time to move on, I think,” he said quietly. “There’s no peace for us here.”
Lionel seconded him with a rueful smile. “Better a night in the open, under the stars. It’ll be warm enough tonight, and far sweeter there.”
“As you will.” The tall knight returned his smile. “We’ve slept out often enough not to fear it now.”
The little servant flew forward in dread. “Oh, sirs, must you go? I beg you, tell him it’s not my fault! And will you leave some money for the wine?” Tears stood in her eyes. “Or else he’ll—”
The tall knight fixed her with his gentle gaze. “My cousin will give you silver for a whole barrel of wine, won’t you, Bors?”
Sir Bors smiled and nodded, and reached for the money pouch at his waist as the tall knight went on. “And he will give you gold for yourself, too. You must leave this man who treats you like a dog. We are riding for the coast to take a ship over the Narrow Sea, or else we would escort you away ourselves. But hear my words. Go to Camelot, and seek service with the Queen. She is the finest lady in the world. I swear on my soul that she will treat you well.”
He lifted his head and looked through the walls of the ale hovel into some magic garden of his mind. “There is a place for you there at court with her, a world of love and grace, and Guenevere is its heart. Say to the Queen that we send our humble wishes for her health and joy. Tell her that she is with us wherever we go.”
The maid nodded, huge-eyed, her chapped lips working as she struggled to fix the words in her memory. “Thank you, sir,” she forced herself to say.
He tried to smile. “May the Great Ones go with you. And may She who is the Mother of them all smile on your journey, and bless your new life.”
He turned and was gone. Sir Lionel was already following him through the door. The maid found herself clutching a piece of silver and a large coin of gold as Sir Bors took his leave.
“Sir!” she gasped. “What shall I say to the Queen?”
Bors’ smile held all the sadness in the world. “Just tell her that you come from Lancelot.”
CHAPTER 3
Low on the horizon, the love-star bloomed in the evening sky. Guenevere moved to the window and carefully lit the tall candle standing there. She stood for a moment willing the tiny flame to speed its message through he night. From her tower chamber, the light would be een for miles. She raised her eyes to the full, smiling moon. Goddess, Mother, she prayed, shine on my love—
She heard the maid’s gown rustling as she curtsied to the floor. “King Arthur sends his compliments, my lady, and begs you to join him in the Audience Chamber. King Ursien of Gore has arrived.”
UNEASILY CONSCIOUS THAT he smelled of weeks on the road, King Ursien stood in the low paneled chamber and shifted from foot to foot. “Why does the Queen want to see us the minute we arrive?” he growled to his knight.
You know why, sire, the young man’s troubled glance replied.
Ursien waved him aside. “I’m too old for this!” he groaned. “The Gods know that I don’t need to be welcomed with feather beds and hot coddled wine. But I need my rest after a hard journey, and I can’t play games with the Queen.” Removing his helmet, he ran a hand through his iron-gray hair. “I can’t give her what she wants, Accolon!”
The young knight bit his lip and turned away. Gods above, Ursien cursed, what’s wrong with Accolon now? Mysterious moods, anger, and storms had dogged every step of their long journey south. What was it all about? In his day knights did not act like love-sick maids. But face it, Ursien, he instructed himself bleakly, any old soldier who survives the wars of his youth, not to mention the jousts and tournaments of his prime, is condemned to live on into lesser, weaker days.
But then again, any young knight would feel it if the Queen of Gore vanished into thin air, when he, Accolon, was the only knight on guard. Of course Accolon blamed himself, it was only natural. And not only Accolon, but all his knights had been shaken to the core. It could hardly have inspired them with confidence in their master too, that king or no, he could not hold on to his wife. Look to yourself, Ursien, he thought, before you start blaming other men.
Well, he had failed. Ursien braced his tired shoulders and took a breath. Failing a High King usually meant death. Praise the Gods that Arthur was too magnanimous for that. He of all men knew what the woman was like. But she had had to be disposed of, and Arthur had chosen Gore. And for Ursien, the honor of an alliance with the King’s sister was not to be refused.
The King’s sister.
Morgan Le Fay.
Gods above, what a woman she was! Ursien’s memory shrank to a hard kernel of desire, the lust that had been his undoing from the start. He had to admit that he had grown hot at the thought of bedding her when the time came. That thin body, chalk white face and black hair, those terrifying eyes and huge mouth—she was a woman to thrill the loins of any man. As a hard-bitten old soldier, Ursien had found a special relish in the idea of risking his manhood in a witch’s place of devils, in the most secret part of the she-devil herself.
Well, he had never had the pleasure, or enjoyed that grim sport. He who had so desired her had never possessed his wife.
And he’d thought, hadn’t he, that he was ahead of the game? He’d known there had to be a reason for Arthur’s desperate message summoning him south. Of course he’d heard the palace gossip as soon as he arrived. Arthur was the last man on earth he’d have suspected of any such thing. But when he’d seen the sister, half-sister, whatever she was, he’d understood at once.
Of course he’d suspected that there might be more to hide than a forbidden love, however shameful that was. And with sons of his own, Ursien had no desire to rear another man’s bastard, even a King’s. So when he married Morgan and brought her back to Gore, he had kept her closely confined, surrounded by her women night and day, in case she proved to be with Arthur’s child.
Before long the women had confirmed his suspicions, and the way ahead was clear. After Morgan had delivered Arthur’s child, he reasoned, there would be time enough for his long-awaited matrimonial rights.
Well, he was wrong. She had disappeared, and the boy she bore too, fled from the castle even though he had kept her under lock and key. He grinned mirthlessly. Now he was married and not married, a husband without a wife. He had no desire for whores, nor would he ever take a concubine. He wanted his wife, and his wife did not want him. What Morgan wanted was to play games with them all.
“Games,” he repeated, moving to the window restlessly. Across the courtyard, the low shape of the chapel loomed up through the violet dusk. At the rear of the building, black-gowned monks were passing to and fro, their hands in their sleeves, their bowed heads lost inside their capacious hoods. Snatches of plainsong floated through the air. Through the high window at the end, Ursien could see the altar light glowing red like a dragon’s eye. A leap of memory took him inside, and he let out another groan. “Ye Gods, isn’t there enough misery in the world?”
“Sire?” The young knight Accolon moved to his side, following his gaze.
Ursien pointed. “There.”
He could almost smell the reek of incense inside the chapel, the sweating flagstones, the mildew on the walls, all overlaid by the stink of suffering. “In my day, knights were made without this ordeal of pain. But since the Christians got their hands on the knight-making ritual, I’ve had to watch young men tortured in the name of faith. And I never saw that it made them better knights!”
He turned to Accolon with a gruff grin. “Not you, of course. You were Arthur’s knight before you came to me.”
Accolon bowed. “I was, sire.” A spasm of tension mottled his face and was gone. “If only I had stayed with the King—”
“Nonsense, Accolon!” Ursien briskly cut him off. “You had no choice, remember, the King sent you to Gore. He appointed you to guard Queen Morgan, and become her knight. He knows you never faltered in your trust. And none of what has happened is your fault, none at all.”
Accolon’s face had taken on a glassy sheen. He licked his lips. “Sire—”
“Enough of this! Don’t look so wretched, man. You aren’t the one who has to answer to the King and Queen.” Ursien turned back to the window with a harsh laugh. “And it could be worse. You could be on your knees down there, proving your loyalty.”
He peered out through the pitted, greenish glass. In front of the chapel, a huge knight in full armor stood leaning on his sword. With his back to the closed doors, he stared out over the courtyard, keeping guard.
“It’s Gawain!” Ursien said with interest, drawing up to the window and beckoning Accolon to share his view. “He must be keeping vigil for his three brothers inside. I knew they’d won their spurs at Le Val Sans Retour. I’d forgotten they would be made up this Pentecost.”
Accolon gave another sickly nod. “They should make good knights.”
Ursien tugged his fingers through his grizzled beard and gave the matter some thought. “The younger two, maybe,” he said at last. “But Agravain—”
“My lord!” Accolon cocked an ear. “It’s the Queen.”
There was a flurry outside, and the guard on the door sounded the royal fanfare. The heavy oak doors swung back, and both men fell to their knees. Ursien raised his eyes to see King Arthur handing Guenevere into the room.
She wore a long, full gown of cream-white silk, with sleeves of ermine falling to the floor. Her waist was encircled with a girdle of gold, and a golden cloak swung from her shoulders as she moved. Gold chains and bracelets flashed at her neck and wrists, and moonstones and crystals lit up her long pale hands. Around her head, containing its rainfall of bright hair, she bore the antique circle of the Queens of the Summer Country, with its large pendant moonstone between the brows.
Behind her came Arthur in a tunic of fine red wool, and a cloak of royal blue silk edged with gold. A sword of state swung from his heavy gold belt, and a silver dagger in the shape of two dragons locked in combat snarled at his waist. His thick fair hair was held back by a coronet of gold, and deep bracelets of gold banded both his wrists.
Ursien stared in unaccustomed reverence. All his life he had seen women come and go, queens and camp followers, young and old, fair and dark, fat and thin. But the Quee
n was different, and above them all. How old was she now, he wondered: thirty? thirty-five? Her tall shapely figure bore no trace of childbearing, let alone of grief. Yet the Gods alone knew what she had suffered in her life. Any other woman who had lost her only son like that would have run mad. Still, her sweet face and luminous smile were just as he remembered them from her wedding day.
Whereas Arthur—
How long was it, Ursien wondered, since Merlin had come to Gore and asked him to take in the unknown boy? The child who had later proved to be the only son of Uther Pendragon, the King of the Middle Kingdom and High King of all the Britons in his time.
Ursien groaned inwardly and felt his age. It must have been thirtyfive years and more since he had taken the child in and placed him with his trusted knight Sir Ector as his foster son. Thirty-five years! And he had to admit that Arthur was showing every one of them now. True, the thick head of dusty fair hair was only lightly sprinkled with gray. But the great bearlike frame was bowed with the weight of care, and deep lines marked Arthur’s face from nose to chin. Yes, Ursien mourned, he was suffering for Morgan still, no doubt about that. As he would for a long time to come.
“Sire—” he said hopelessly.
Guenevere hastened forward to take both of Ursien’s hands. “Welcome, my lord!” she said warmly, as she raised him to his feet. She looked at her husband with urgency. Arthur, Arthur, give a welcome to our old friend Ursien. After all that has happened, he needs our love too. And it was not his fault; he is not to blame.
Arthur’s face did not change. But his tone of voice as he said “Come, Guenevere!” told Ursien all there was to know.
Arthur took up a position in front of the empty hearth, and drew Guenevere to his side. She shivered. How cold he is, she thought, looking at her husband’s withdrawn face. The air in the chamber was chill, and a small wind rattled at the casement with a dismal whine. Guenevere drew her cloak around her arms. This room is cold; we should have had a fire.