“Arthur is more than her lord!” Lancelot burst out. “He is the High King, the leader of us all.” His heart contracted. “And he is my lord too. As his knight, I swore to honor him to the death.”
“And instead—?”
“A knight kills his lord every time he lies with his wife.”
“But she sent you away, to spare you all from that shame. And you agreed to go.”
“And now I can hardly live.” Lancelot closed his eyes in a wretchedness too sharp to bear. Goddess, Mother, he prayed, take away this grief—
“If that is what you wish, it can be done.”
Once again the Lady was reading his raw thoughts. He looked up at her in dread.
“Oh, yes.” She smiled her timeless smile. “Here at the Sacred Lake we have many ways to release you from your pain. I can charm you with the magic sleep of the Druids, so that your mind lies suspended in your body, and you hear only my voice. Whatever I tell you in this waking dream, you will obey. I shall tell you that you do not love Guenevere. And when I bring you back to yourself, that memory will remain.” She paused. “Or my maidens can make you the cup of forgetfulness. Drink that, and it will wash your brain clean of all you suffer now. You will sleep many days, and when you wake, it will be as if you had never met Queen Guenevere. You may make your way merrily throughout the whole wide world, and never be troubled with the thought of her again.”
Lancelot had turned pale. “No thought of Guenevere?”
“None.” The brilliants in her headdress flashed like shafts of fire. “She will never trouble you again.”
The dull roar of water filled the echoing space. Lancelot surged to his feet and paced like a thing in pain.
Forget Guenevere?
Forget her limpid eyes, her loving smile, the soft strands of hair curling at her temples, the sweet groove of her lip?
Live without the memory of her small hand placed confidingly on his arm, her hopeful smile, her face turned up to his to ask, “Now, sir, what do you think?” Her childlike frown when she was crossed, her queenly rages when provoked?
Fool!
Why had he dragged himself all the way here to be free of Guenevere, when it was the last thing in the world he could endure?
He could not speak. At last he mastered himself, and turned to the Lady again. “Forgive me, Lady. The love I have for the Queen is the most precious thing in my life. Without it, I am nothing.” He turned away in a spasm of self-reproach. “I have wasted your time in coming here. I swear to you, I’ll repent in time of my own.”
“A wasted journey, Lancelot?” The Lady shook her head. “I do not think so. You are no fool.” She rose from the couch. “Attend.”
In a daze he followed her sinuous figure as she moved down the cave. They came to a halt before the tumbling waterfall. The silver curtain of water splashed and shimmered before their eyes. The Lady composed herself, fixing her gaze on the ground and pressing her hands together palm to palm. Then she turned up her eyes and grew tall, uttering the words of power. “See, Lancelot,” she intoned, pointing a hand. “The waterfall!”
As she spoke, the dancing curtain of water shuddered and grew still. Strange figures took their place on its flashing surface, human shapes moving silently, yet speaking without words. Lancelot saw Arthur and King Ursien of Gore, riding with a knight he did not know. The three men were entering a valley in a dark wood.
The scene changed, and he saw a whitewashed, cloistered dwelling built around a central court. Above the courtyard rose a low bell tower crowned with a Christian cross. The bell was chiming the service of the dead. And suddenly the white courtyard was full of black-clad nuns, flapping like crows around a body on a bier.
The dead man was shrouded from head to foot in white, ready for burial. Draw back the grave cloth, cried Lancelot’s inner voice, let me see who lies there! He knew he would know the man when the shroud went back. He only feared that the face would be his own.
“Lady—” he cried.
“Watch!” warned the Lady with her angry otter’s bark. “Watch, and see!”
Now the moving picture had composed itself again. Two riders were making their way through the gathering dark. As they passed, the forest on both sides of the track shrank away from them in fear. The branches of the trees shivered aside, and the night-walking creatures scurried to their holes.
Then of the two riders, there was only one. He staggered from his horse, blood running from a gash in his head. The helmet that dropped to the ground bore a gold crown. And the blood-covered face raised in anguish to the stars was as dear to Lancelot as Guenevere’s, or his own.
“It is the King!” he cried in agony.
Through the mist came the sound of the convent’s passing bell. Then the falling water dissolved all the images and bore them away. Beside him the Lady convulsed as if a bolt of lightning had passed through her frame, and came to herself again. Lancelot stood in an ecstasy of distress. “The King is in danger!” he cried. “He has been attacked!”
“My pictures speak in riddles,” the Lady said huskily. “But some bad omen threatens your lord, that much is clear.” Her face was full of sorrow. “Will you return?”
Lancelot twisted away. “The Queen ordered me to go.”
“But the King stands in peril of his life.”
“I swore an oath to Guenevere! For the love that lies between us, she has forbidden me the court.”
The Lady’s keen animal eyes never left his face. “King or Queen, which loyalty is the greater? You must choose.” She gave her otter’s cough. “On your knighthood, Sir Lancelot, what will you do?”
CHAPTER 8
The raven of death appearing at the knight-making, just as Agravain was proclaimed—was it Morgan, as Arthur believed?
Or another dark messenger from the world beneath he worlds?
Or simply a passing bird and not an omen at all?
Guenevere roamed her chamber in an agony of doubt and fear. She came to a halt at the window, and drew deep breaths of the warm summer air. The pounding in her head was more than she could bear. Would Morgan’s malice pursue them all their lives? Surely the son of Uther had paid for his father’s misdeeds? Would the daughter of Igraine always seek revenge?
She paused in her pacing, and forced herself to be calm. The knight-making was over, there was nothing more to fear. Arthur was out of harm’s way in the forest, hunting with King Ursien and Sir Accolon.
She sighed.
Arthur was safe.
And soon she would join them on the woodland ride. All that remained now was one last farewell. Queen Morgause was coming to take her leave, before embarking on her long journey back to the Orkneys, eight hundred miles away and more. Guenevere’s heart revived. At least one of Igraine’s daughters did not blame Arthur for all that had passed, but wanted to remain on good terms with him. Already Morgause had made her formal good-byes and received a royal send-off at Arthur’s hands.
Behind her Guenevere could hear her maid Ina padding softly around the chamber, preparing to receive Morgause. Every surface was gleaming with beeswax, Camelot’s reddest roses were glowing in the hearth, and a flagon of honeyed wine was sweetening the air. Ina herself was on alert by the door. When the clatter at the foot of the tower announced the arrival of the queen and her entourage, her sharp ears were the first to pick up the sound.
“Oh madam, they’re here!” Ina’s small, catlike face lit up.
“Hush . . .”
Two pairs of feet were mounting the winding stairs. The ancient walls echoed to the low murmuring of two souls in close communion. Ina flew to the door. It opened to reveal Morgause, attended by Sir Lamorak, her knight.
Her full body was simply clad for the journey ahead, but there was no mistaking that she was a queen. The soft grays and greens of her wrap threw up the fiery tints in her long, curling hair, and she carried her head as if it still bore a crown. She moved into the room with an air of command, and her long, strong hands were heavy
with antique rings. Only the sleepy-eyed look she threw over her shoulder at the knight coming up behind betrayed the woman beneath the queenly show.
If her knight caught the meaning in her glance, he kept it to himself. He bowed to Guenevere with a dignified restraint, and his handsome, expressive face showed his sense of where he was. Tall and rawboned, his body was that of a young knight in his prime, shaped and hardened by horsemanship and deeds of arms. His straw-gold hair and clear skin were like that of Morgause’s two younger sons, Gaheris and Gareth. It must surely comfort Morgause, Guenevere pondered, to have Lamorak with her when her sons were so far away.
“Your Majesty.”
Carefully Sir Lamorak handed his lady through the low arched doorway and into the tower chamber, then dropped on one knee to greet Guenevere. He knelt again to Morgause to kiss her hand, and bowed himself out.
“I shall attend you, madam,” was all he said. But his eyes, his body spoke for him without words. I shall wait for you, his glance said, till the sun and moon burn out. Call, and I will come.
There was a silence in the chamber when he left. Guenevere motioned Morgause to a seat in the window, where the wide bay looked out on the countryside below. Through the open casements, the fresh green scent of meadow and woodland came in with the morning breeze.
The sun danced over Morgause’s strong hands as she folded them in her lap. She turned toward Guenevere. Her heavy gaze wandered to the doorway, where Ina had closed the door on Lamorak.
“Ah, Guenevere,” she said suddenly, “you and I, my dear, we were never friends. Too much bad blood had flowed before we met. The wife of Arthur could never trust the daughters of Igraine.” She paused, looking back in time. “It would have been better for all of us if my brother had not trusted Morgan too. But Morgan’s spirit would always have its way.”
Guenevere did not move. Why is she telling me this?
Morgause met her gaze, and laughed. “Never fear, Guenevere, I am not Morgan’s messenger.” A flash of savage sadness lit her face. “These days I don’t know where my sister is, or if she’s still alive. We were close once, in our childhood. We were happy then. But good King Uther took care of that.”
Guenevere leaned toward her. “Arthur has tried to undo what his father did.”
Morgause shook her head. “The clock of life runs forward, never back. And my life spun off into happier paths. I thought I suffered when Uther gave me to King Lot. But the Mother rewarded me with four fine sons for my pains.” She gave a smile of pride. “Knights now, my sons,” she marveled, “all four of them! I can hardly wait to have them back in the Orkneys with me.”
She gave an ironic laugh. “And I thought I’d had the worst of it by far! I envied Morgan in her nunnery, free to call her soul her own, and her body too, all for the price of singing a few psalms. While all the time . . . ”
She folded her hands, and tightened them in a knot.
“I know.” Guenevere rose to her feet, overwhelmed with distress. “The convent Uther chose was a prison for unwanted girls, no more.”
“With a Mother Abbess who beat them all like slaves.” Morgause smiled bitterly. “And Morgan was such a marvelous child when she was young. Strange and secretive too, but she had the power. Our mother was going to send her to Avalon to study with the Lady of the Lake. We thought Morgan would become the Lady when the time came.” Morgause exploded into an angry laugh. “And this child to be locked up, starved, and whipped for twenty years? I tell you, Guenevere, whatever Morgan has done, I fear you have not heard the end of it.”
Whatever Morgan has done—
The room faded, and a host of dark visions invaded Guenevere’s head. Morgan in the black, nunlike gown she always wore, the shy, tormented virgin, casting down her eyes. Morgan covering her mulberry mouth with her thin white hand to hide a smile, Morgan turning to Arthur for every little thing.
Guenevere moaned, and tried to open her eyes. Then in a torrent the nightmare scenes returned. Morgan caught unawares in Arthur’s bed, a welter of naked, writhing flanks and long white legs, and a gaping, mocking sex, livid enough to make all who saw it turn to stone.
Morgan conjoined with the powers of the night to betray Arthur, when he took Amir to war. All Arthur’s careful plans to protect the seven-year-old, all, all in vain, when that implacable raven-black gaze saw it all, and calmly led them to the enemy.
“Ohh—”
Guenevere came to herself shuddering and drenched in sweat. Waves of nausea washed over her from head to toe. Was she wrong in thinking that Morgause was a friend? Or had she come here to renew the old torment too?
She rounded on Morgause in anguish. “Why are you here?”
Morgause shrugged. “Not as Morgan’s friend or confidante. Our bond of sisterhood was broken long ago. And since my sons are knights of Arthur now, believe me, she trusts me no more than she trusts you. But Arthur is still my brother, blood kin to me on our mother’s side. I wanted to warn him to beware of Morgan, because I know she won’t give up her revenge. But Arthur wouldn’t listen to a word I said. He brushed it all aside, so I came to you.”
And Arthur never told me any of this. “Did he tell you that Morgan stole his scabbard?” Guenevere burst out. “The sheath I gave him for Excalibur?”
Morgause stared. “Your mother’s scabbard, which had the power to protect the wearer from the loss of blood? The one you gave him on your wedding day?”
“The very same.” Guenevere closed her eyes. “It was the most precious treasure of the Summer Country, handed down our line of queens from the time before time. I used to buckle it on him when he went to war. Without it, he will never be safe again.”
Morgause’s lovely face had set like stone. “I knew that Morgan blamed Arthur, and wanted to punish him. I did not know she wanted to see him dead.”
She paused for a while, deep in thought. “But I am not so wasteful of my kin,” she said at last, turning her gaze full on Guenevere. “Arthur must live. So if I hear where Morgan may be found, rely on me. I will let you know.”
“Thank you.” Guenevere took a breath. Morgause means well, you must trust her, came into her mind. If only she could like Morgause more, or fear her less.
“And if ever I can help you in return—” she said without conviction, but trying to sound warm.
Morgause moved her well-covered shoulders uneasily. “That may well be.”
A sudden knowledge flowered inside Guenevere’s head. “You’re concerned about your sons?”
Morgause nodded. “And my knight, Lamorak,” she said simply. “My sons are turning against him, after all. You know he’s been with me since my husband was killed. Indeed, Arthur gave him to me with the aim of healing that very wound. Lamorak was like an older brother to the boys then, and they loved him, one and all.” She gave a wry smile. “It wasn’t surprising. After all, he was much nearer to their age than mine.”
“Morgause, you were a mother at fifteen,” Guenevere broke in. “As a queen gets older, her knights must be younger men. And Lamorak is old enough to make his own choice. What’s it to them how old your knight is now? Are they jealous?”
Morgause looked away. “Not all of them,” she responded quietly. “Gawain is as loyal as the day. Gareth is my baby, so in his eyes his mother can do no wrong. But Agravain has his own view of everything. And he works on Gaheris, which troubles them all.”
“What does he say?”
“That now they are knights, their honor is more important than it was before. And the honor of their mother is their main concern.”
Guenevere grew cold.
“And their father’s honor too,” Morgause went on monotonously. “Agravain says that Lamorak’s father killed their father, and Lot’s death went unavenged.”
Another debt of honor in the eyes of a son of the Orkneys, where blood feuds never die.
“King Pellinore was a loyal vassal of Arthur, and of Uther before,” Guenevere managed at last. “He had no choice but to fight at th
e battle where King Lot was killed. And it was all ten years ago and more. But if Agravain believes that vengeance is still due—” She broke off, defeated by the horror of it all. “Honor is a word of death for men.”
“For women too. In men’s eyes at least.”
Guenevere started. “What do you mean?”
Morgause paused. “Agravain’s newfound honor embraces his mother now. He has made that another reason to hate Lamorak.”
Hate the man who would die for his mother? The knight who would champion
her to his dying breath? Guenevere gave a snort of disbelief. “Hate Lamorak? What is there to hate?”
Morgause took time to reply. “I saw you watching the two of us in the Great Hall,” she said slowly. She looked Guenevere in the eye. “And I could tell you knew.”
Guenevere looked away. “Every queen is entitled to her knights.”
Morgause waved a hand. “You knew.”
I knew you were lovers, yes, Morgause. Because of Lancelot, I knew.
Morgause was watching her keenly. “Did you tell Arthur?”
“No.”
“Did he notice? Has he said anything to you?”
“Arthur has not said a word to me.” There are many things he does not tell me now. And I too have secrets I keep from him. “But he has scouts the length and breadth of the isles. He may already know.”
Morgause shook her head. “No one knows,” she said confidently.
Guenevere started. “No one?” When Lamorak looks at you like that? When you smile at him with bedtime in your eyes? “How can you be sure?”
“Oh, at home in the islands, yes, among those I can trust, there are a few who know. But we have been secret, for my sons’ sake.”
“Why?” Guenevere was seized by an irritation she could not explain. “You’re a ruling queen, and free to choose for yourself. You have no husband to lay claim to your body, as the Christians do. You’re older than Lamorak, it’s true—”
“Many years.”
“But for love and war, an older woman should take a younger man. He’s worthy of your love. He’s the son of a king, he’ll be king in his turn, and a match for any queen.” Anger pushed her further than she meant to go. “Why don’t you marry him, and make an end to all of this?”
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