The Knight of the Sacred Lake

by Rosalind Miles

  And God had smiled on her endeavors, rewarding the convent for her pains. She gave a righteous smile. Of course, the kings who saved fortunes on royal dowries by giving their girls to Christ would want to make some donation to the house. And of course, they had something back in return. They knew that when they died, they would be laid to rest in the peace of a cloistered courtyard, beneath a bell tower crowned with its Christian cross. They loved the idea that the pale hands of virgins would toll their passing bell, and ranks of black-clad nuns would chant the service of the dead.

  So why did it have to change? The Abbess moved her wimpled head fretfully from side to side. Hers had been the first house of holy women in all the isles. Oh, it was true they were surrounded by the wicked on all sides, and they still had not vanquished the foul Goddess faith of the pagans, or their vile notion that women were free to offer the friendship of their thighs to any man they chose. But since King Arthur had turned toward the true light of Christian faith, the old battles were almost won. So the zest had gone out of the struggle, the glory no longer shone from the mountaintops, and the Almighty had left the high places He stalked in days of yore.

  And now, God bless us, she hardly knew her own nuns! No matter how often she scolded or reached for the whip, they scooted in and out of her failing eyesight before she could see who they were. Sometimes, unable to catch the faces hidden by the great white wings of their headdresses, she did not know who came and went. But never would she admit she did not know. Other aged sisters might confuse the new nuns with those who had passed on years ago, but she never did.

  No, she was the Mother still, she reminded herself. Because of her, the greatest Christians of these isles had found their way to her house. Brother John was their chief warrior for Christ, a monk who fearlessly challenged the Goddess worshipers in their sacred retreats. And the leader of the Christians himself, the Father Abbot of London, had visited too, he who had lent his own churchyard to the pagans when they gathered to make Arthur King.

  Jesu, Maria, what a stroke of genius that was! the Abbess marveled. If the Christians backed Arthur when no one else would do so, the Father Abbot had said, then as King, Arthur would have to support them in return. And so it had turned out. Step by step the Christians had won the King’s permission to build more churches, and bring more and more pagans to the light of God.

  And then God had delivered Arthur’s soul into Christian hands. The Lord in His wisdom had taken the life of Arthur’s young son, and the King had turned to his monks when his hope had failed. They had taught him to see that he was an instrument of God’s will, and now Arthur was a Christian king indeed.

  The Lord be praised! The Abbess clasped her hands, and her slack lips moved in thanks. For now he was here, the High King himself, unless that fool of a Sister Gatekeeper had made the biggest mistake of her life. The Abbess threw up her fat white hands and closed her eyes. Salve Regina, hail Mary Queen of Heaven for this blessing on our house—

  “This way, my lords.”

  The sound of boots and spurs in the outer hall brought the Abbess heaving to her feet. The door opened and three or four nuns came flapping into her apartment, with two men behind.

  A spasm of anger shot through her fleshy frame. Why had the sisters not brought the candles, when it was so dim in the chamber that she could hardly see? Jesus and Mary, all she could make out were two great shapes in the gloom. Which of them was the King, and which his knight?

  Yet the bigger of the two, the lofty, broad-shouldered figure had to be the King, even without the gold coronet around the brim of the helmet he carried in the crook of his arm. Breathing heavily, she settled her bulk inside her flowing robes and prepared to curtsy to the ground.

  “No ceremony, good Mother, do not kneel,” the newcomer said gently. “I am Arthur Pendragon, and this is Sir Accolon, a knight of King Ursien of Gore. We hear you keep a house of welcome for travelers far from home. We have come to seek shelter for the night.”

  The Abbess bowed her head. “In the Lord’s name, we do,” she responded stoutly, “and in the name of the Holy Mother, the Blessed Virgin Mary, who rules the heavens for her Son. We take in the lost, we comfort the forlorn, we heal the sick.”

  The sick . . .

  She moved closer and peered through the gloom of the low chamber at the knight at Arthur’s side. He was handsome enough, with his sharp features, wiry body, and well-made limbs. He was clad like a knight in a mantle of fine black wool, and he wore a tunic and hose of shining silver mail. But the pale blue eyes had an unfathomable sheen, and his face wore a sickly film of sweat. As he felt her scrutiny, he gave a sudden twitch, and a dim foreboding seized the Abbess’s heart. Was it the falling sickness, Saint Vitus’ dance, or what?

  “Are you ill?” she demanded abruptly, forgetting the presence of the King.

  But the young man only shook his head and hissed furiously, “No, madam, I am not!”

  “Let us beg a chamber for tonight, Mother, and we will be on our way,” King Arthur resumed, in his kindly tones. “There are three of us out hunting, and we hope for a short chase at least before night falls. We have left our companion in the forest, and plan to rejoin him now. After that, with your permission, we shall all return to you.”

  “My permission, sire?” the Abbess said, almost beside herself at the kindness shining from the King’s quiet gray eyes, his courteous manner and sweet smile. “It is an honor to serve you,” she trumpeted, as the two men bowed themselves out. “Return when you will, King Arthur, we shall be here.”

  “Thank you. Farewell.”

  What a king, what a man! The Abbess lowered herself into a lumbering curtsy as the visitors left. At once the nuns all around swooped down to help her up. Once on her feet, she waved them harshly away. “Get on with your work or prayers, all of you, be off!”

  They scattered like frightened birds. The Mother Abbess nodded. She liked them that way. Ponderously she made her way back to her chair, the chair in which she now spent all her days, and cursed her nuns again. Why didn’t the dimwits bring in the candles now, when an early nightfall had plunged the place into dusk? She reached for the handle of her familiar whip. One of them would feel her displeasure when they returned.

  Oh, it was cold! A dank chill stirred the air, like the mist off a graveyard, and a sudden movement in the shadows caught her eye. “Who’s there?” she called, and turned. In the far corner of the chamber, a nun appeared from nowhere and emerged from the gloom. Head down, white wimple flaring around a white face, she glided past the Abbess and left the room.

  “Sister?” called the Abbess furiously, heaving herself up. No nun ignored her presence, or left the room without a word! Who was it anyway? Not one of her chamber assistants, her trusted nuns. She caught her breath. It was almost like—

  No!

  A shudder shook her unimaginative frame.

  Mother of God, if it were not impossible, she could swear it was Sister Ann.

  The very name brought a fine cold breath of fear. Resolutely the Abbess hefted her great body to the door. She would call the nun back, she would punish her soundly, she would—

  She threw open the door, but hastened outside in vain. For peer as she might up and down the long corridor, she could not blame her poor eyesight for the fact that there was nothing on earth to be seen.

  BEHIND THEM THE white convent buildings lay in a westering light snug on their low green hill. The peaceable sound of the angelus followed them down the rise.

  Arthur half turned to Accolon, riding in the rear. “Now we’re sure of a bed for the night, we can hunt to our hearts’ content,” he said heartily. “There won’t be much game to put up at this hour of the day. And Ursien’s horse wasn’t sound so it may go lame. But we’ll try for a gallop, and we may be in luck.”

  Accolon nodded and silently looked away.

  Arthur stared at his young companion with sudden concern. What was giving Accolon’s face that sickly tinge? Yet was it so strange? Accolon
had been Morgan’s knight for years, ordered to keep guard over her to his last breath. Any young man would be sick at betraying a charge like that. Accolon was not to know that Morgan had got the better of older and wiser men.

  Men like himself, for instance—

  Somberly Arthur turned his horse’s head into the wood. Strange how dark it was now under the roof of the trees, when a June day should last into the night. The air was growing thicker, and colder too. It must be the dew, he thought absently, falling before its time. Where was the feel of the forest in midsummer, the silky kiss of the breeze on sun-warmed skin, the rich loamy smell of the living earth, the sweet fragrance of fern? The rising mist made the place smell like a crypt.

  God spare us, Arthur prayed, enough of these wretched thoughts! He turned to Accolon, riding behind.

  “Let’s have a gallop to make up for lost time. A challenge to see who can reach King Ursien first, before he dies of boredom waiting for us.”

  As he gathered up his reins, a movement at the side of the track caught his eye. A doe hare crouched weeping in the grass, her huge brown eyes turned up to him as he passed. An unwelcome sensation swept him from head to foot. What’s the creature doing there? he thought irritably. If she was ill, why didn’t she crawl to her hollow to die?

  “Hold on, my lord,” came a sharp cry from behind. “No racing for me—my saddle girth’s giving way.”

  Arthur looked back to see Accolon vault from his horse and lead it forward into a clearing under the trees.

  “God bless us, Accolon, you’re fated to ruin our sport today,” he said ruefully. “First your mount goes lame, and now this.” Still grumbling, he eased himself out of his saddle and dropped to the ground. “Here, let me give you a hand.”

  Accolon was standing on the far side of his horse, lifting the saddle flap to inspect the girth. Arthur walked his mount forward and tied it to a tree. The air was colder now, and the mist lay thickly on the grass. Arthur sighed. It did not look as if there would be much hunting tonight. “Accolon!” he called.

  “My lord?”

  The voice was right in his ear. Arthur whirled around. Accolon stood behind him, a sickly grin plastering his face. His sword was raised over his head, poised to strike.

  “God in heaven, no!” Arthur cried, leaping back as the sword carved past his neck. “Accolon, I command you—I am your King—”

  But Accolon was impervious. With a blind stare, he swung again. As his arm went up, Arthur caught a metallic glint at his side. Hanging from Accolon’s sword belt was a scabbard made of plaited silver and gold, inlaid with crystals and moonstones gleaming in the dusk. Down the length of the shaft, letters of white quartz spelled out the runic charm.

  For the Queen of the Summer Country

  from the King of the Fair Ones,

  to keep safe my love.

  But Arthur did not need to read the words of power. He had known them and the scabbard for ten years and more. Once it had been the finest thing he owned. Then he had lost it, and he was justly punished now.

  Grief overwhelmed him.

  “Oh, Guenevere!” he groaned.

  For a moment he bent his head. Then he looked up to see Accolon leaping toward him with the killing grace of a cat. The young knight was grinning, and his pale eyes had turned to blood. Arthur read his fate in their vermilion depths, and was struck still.

  CHAPTER 11

  Goddess, Mother, what has got into the Queen? With her eyes fixed firmly on Guenevere, Ina urged on her unwilling horse, and stifled a sigh. After all her years with the Queen, her mistress could still surprise her as she had today.

  But what a day, the little maid groaned to herself. First of all the Queen of the Orkneys had come flaunting her lover, and painfully reminding Queen Guenevere of her love that had gone. Then a dirty tavern maid had dragged herself in off the road, half dead from traveling, pleading to see the Queen. The guards had only brought her in because she said she came from Sir Lancelot.

  “From Lancelot?” the Queen had asked, in a voice halfway between music and tears. The girl had stood there swaying, on the verge of passing out. Her eyes were bruised with exhaustion, and runnels of dried blood stained the filthy rags she wore around her feet.

  The girl nodded, joy spreading like water over her plain face. “Sir Lancelot.”

  “He sent you to me?” Guenevere persisted. “All the way from your village by the coast?”

  “He told me to come to the Queen,” the girl fumbled out. Her voice had the soft round sound of the deep shires. “He said you were the best lady in the world.”

  “He said that?” There was a long pause before Guenevere spoke again. “How was he—?”

  The girl groped for words, her forehead knitted with effort like a child’s. “Pale, like you are, lady. And just as sickly and sad.”

  A small sound escaped Guenevere, and she turned away.

  Whatever made the wretched girl say that? Ina frowned crossly at the memory. She might have known it would upset the Queen. Of course a village girl could have no knowledge of court ways. And it was the first word the Queen had had from Sir Lancelot, so of course she would take it hard. But when Guenevere suffered like this, who was it who had to revive her and comfort her? Ina could have strung the girl up by her thumbs for giving the Queen such pain.

  Yet after reducing the Queen to helpless tears, Ina marveled, see if the girl hadn’t redeemed herself, after all. Reaching into the soiled bosom of her dress, she had drawn out a gold coin.

  “He gave me this,” she pronounced in her slow country burr, “to pay my way here. But I thought he meant it for you. So I walked here, an’ begged all the way, so’s not to break into it.”

  She reached out, and pressed it in Guenevere’s hand. “Here, lady. From Sir Lancelot. May the Mother in Her mercy bring him safe back to you.”

  Was it really a love token, Lancelot, that you could not send me any other way? I want to think it was. I have so little of you that I can keep.

  Standing in her chamber, Guenevere did not try to check the flowing tears. She had held on while the tavern maid was handed over to the women of the bedchamber to be washed and tended and clothed, and tried to take pleasure in the knowledge that the poor wretch would sleep in a bed for the first time in her life. Tomorrow she would be a maid in the Queen’s service, and start life anew.

  Whereas I—

  I am a bleeding hollow, resounding to the cry of “Lancelot”—

  Enough!

  “Ina, the rosewater, if you please?”

  Guenevere roamed into the window, dabbing at her inflamed eyes and face. She had to compose herself before she could go out riding to meet up with Arthur, Ursien, and Accolon.

  But the three men might already have left the rendezvous. And she did not want to see anyone now. She turned her head. “Send to the stables, Ina, tell them we won’t go. The men won’t miss us.” She gave an unhappy laugh. “They’ll probably have a better time alone.”

  But as she spoke, a cloud of dusky images came beating around like bats inside her head. She saw a hare in a dark wood beside a narrow track. Black trees overhead were hanging their branches down, their twigs dripping blood like severed fingers’ ends. A thick haze hung over the grass, casting a pall of gloom. And in the heart of the forest was something she could not see, a yawning blackness, an evil stench.

  “What—?” she cried.

  Faintly she heard Arthur’s voice calling, “Guenevere—”

  She came to herself with a shuddering start. “Ina, Ina!” she called. “Send for the horses, we ride at once.”

  SHE KNEW THEY had to reach Arthur without delay. But when they came to the wood, there was no sign of the men at the appointed meeting place. They forged on under the canopy of the trees as the evening drew in. Before long it would be night, and they would have to turn back.

  Ahead of them, a movement caught her eye. A dark cloud of flies was hovering to the side of the path. Beneath it in the grass lay a long dark
shape, like the trunk of a tree. As they drew nearer, the whole surface seemed to move, rippling as if it were alive. But the life belonged only to the maggots already invading the body beneath. The dead thing was a man.

  “Ina, come!” Guenevere cried hoarsely. “Quick, hold my horse!” She threw the reins to her maid, and vaulted to the ground. A few steps brought her to the figure lying facedown in the grass. Not Arthur, Goddess, Mother, I beg you—

  Frenziedly she pushed and tugged at the heavy weight. The dead man rolled over with a flaccid thud. His body looked as if it had been mauled by a great cat. His leather hunting garments had been slashed from neck to hem, and a gaping hole marked the place where his throat had been. The gray hair was plastered to the head with blood, and the face was disfigured with long open scars.

  Moved by a sorrow beyond words, Guenevere touched the ruined face and tried to close the staring eyes. But there was no escaping the message in their frozen depths. King Ursien had seen the thing at the heart of the wood. He had met the darkness made flesh, and it had eaten him alive.

  “TRAITOR!”

  Arthur gasped for breath. Then, instinctively, he sidestepped Accolon’s attack, and the upraised sword swept past him without harm. But the young knight turned on him again with the same pallid lips and eyes of blood, the look of death.

  “Think, Accolon, and stop, while I can still forgive!” Arthur cried, raising his hand. Anger pulsed through his veins. “Some madness has seized you, to attack your lord and offer treachery to your King. But throw down your sword, and I need not take your life.”

  Accolon did not hear. He began to move toward Arthur again, smiling like a man in a pleasant dream. Once more he swung the great sword around his head. “Accolon!” Arthur cried in anguish. “Stop, or I must kill you—there is no middle way.”