“No middle way,” the young knight repeated, with the same glassy grin. “No indeed, my lord, for you must die!”
His weapon was poised at the midpoint of its swing. Arthur leaped back toward his horse, and ducked under its neck. In one desperate move he plucked his sword from its sheath, and snatched his shield from his horse’s flank. Excalibur sang in his hand like a bird released from a cage.
“Come, then, my one true friend,” Arthur whispered under his breath.
Armored, he turned to face his enemy. “Lay on, traitor,” he snarled, “and prepare to die! You have thrown away all hope of mercy now.”
Accolon responded with a crashing blow. Fury lent Arthur strength as he counterattacked, parrying its fall and turning its force back on Accolon. His blood rose to the challenge, as it had done so many times before. He was stronger than his opponent and harder too, blooded in battles that the younger man could not know.
But Accolon had the scabbard, and only one hand could have given him that. A burning grief ran through Arthur’s every joint. Was ever a man so betrayed? With it, Accolon had all the ancient power of the Fair Ones on his side. And either that, or some poisonous magic of the mind, was lending him strength beyond his mortal skill. Enraged, Arthur thrust, and drove, and parried with more than his normal force. But Accolon had the advantage at every turn.
The first cut was nothing, a mere nick on the side. Another blow glanced off Arthur’s shoulder, doing little harm. But it must have pierced the fine links of his silver chain mail. Soon he could feel the blood running down his arm.
Accolon danced in and out of Arthur’s sword range, grinning like one possessed. He scarcely bothered to ward off Arthur’s blows. The heaviest strokes left him unscathed, and drew no blood.
Arthur ground his teeth and communed with Excalibur again.
“Come!” he whispered. “Come, my dear, to work.” He turned on his opponent with renewed force. “Remember the call, à l’outrance, to the death!” he threatened Accolon.
But again and again the charm that Accolon bore turned aside Excalibur’s shining edge. And all the time Arthur’s blood seeped from a dozen cuts, and then a dozen more.
How long they fought, Arthur did not know. But he knew he was losing strength with every step. His grasp on Excalibur was weakening, and his head was beginning to swim. All he had now was the dogged courage of the damned.
“Yield, Arthur!” sang Accolon, with the same deranged glare. “Bare your neck for my sword, save yourself further pain. One kiss of iron, and your soul will be free! You will walk with the Shining Ones on the Plain of Delight.”
Arthur turned up his eyes and looked into his soul. He knew he was bleeding from a hundred wounds. Is this the end? he wondered, then dismissed the thought. He propelled himself forward with the last of his flagging force, Excalibur cutting a silver swathe in his hand.
“Defend yourself, devil!” he bellowed at Accolon. “And may God have mercy on your spotted soul!”
BLESS YOU, URSIEN. May the Mother take your soul—
Guenevere rose to her feet and stepped back to the woodland track. Ina sat on her horse clutching Guenevere’s reins, her fist to her mouth, her eyes round with dread.
“Do not fear, Ina,” Guenevere said steadily. “King Ursien is beyond pain and sorrow now. We must find the King.” She swung herself up into the saddle. “They can’t be far.”
As she spoke, the mist seeping from the ground began to weave its way toward them between the trees. She could feel its clammy fingers stroking her flesh. And there, shrouded in its depths, she could feel the seething hatred she had known from so long ago, the stirring of evil from the time before time.
“Arthur!” she screamed. “Arthur, where are you?”
She thought she heard something deep in the forest, far off the track. From Ina’s face, the maid had heard it too.
“Over there, madam!” she cried.
“Where?” Guenevere felt the mist choking her throat. “Arthur!” she cried.
There was no reply. She called again, putting her heart and soul into her voice. The silence deepened. For all they could hear, they might have been underground.
Guenevere closed her eyes and summoned all her strength. Arthur, she called silently. I can help you, but you must tell me how. Send me a sign, to show me the way. Send your spirit forth to bring me to your aid.
Furiously she poured her spirit into the void.
Goddess, Mother, help me, speed my prayer!
She opened her eyes.
Nothing.
Not a creature was stirring in the darkening depths. The rolling, oncoming fog ignored her appeal. Mockingly the white wisps wrapped themselves around her, and she felt herself yielding to their soft embrace. To sleep now, came the drowsy, sensual thought, to give myself to the arms of this sweet white sleep, how pleasant that would be.
Her eyelids, her body were very heavy now. At the edge of her vision she could see Ina drooping too, her small head hanging down like a wild violet. To sleep, to forget sorrow and pain—to leave this world and go to walk the stars—Goddess, Mother, be with me now as I die—
Her fading gaze dropped down to the ground. Crouched by the wayside hovered a hare, its large brown eyes turned urgently up to hers. With a shock she saw that the creature was weeping great tears, and its anguish reached her through her fatal lethargy. As she struggled to sit up in the saddle, the hare hopped away. “Ina, follow!” she said thickly. “The hare knows the way!”
Unbidden, the horses began to follow the hare. Slowly they tracked it off the woodland ride, pressing into the forest by paths almost too narrow to pass. The going was hard in the gloom, and the dense undergrowth tore at their clothes and flesh. And all the time the mist never left them alone. Ebbing and flowing, writhing and hissing, it mocked and tormented their every step.
Yet all the time, Guenevere knew they were drawing near. At last they espied a clearing through the haze ahead. With a last look the hare vanished into the long grass. Guenevere and Ina spurred forward into the dusk.
A clash of arms greeted them as they drew near. In the center of the clearing staggered Arthur, covered in blood. Guenevere’s own blood rose, and her power sang in her ears.
She reached for the short sword slung by her horse’s neck.
“Accolon!” she cried. “Beware the battle raven who comes to drink your blood! Beware! Beware!”
Howling the ancient war cry of the Queens of the Summer Country, she drove her horse into a charge. Accolon turned and tensed in terror, but made no attempt to turn his weapon against the huge beast now thundering toward him across the grass. Gripped with a mortal dread, he stood motionless as Guenevere rode him down.
Her sword caught Accolon full on the head. Neighing with fury, the great charger knocked him flying, and trampled him as it passed. Guenevere dragged in the reins, heaved the horse around, and stood ready for another charge.
“Surrender, Sir Accolon!” she cried.
Accolon was slowly pushing himself up on his hands and knees. He staggered to his feet, his eyes glazed with pain. A great slicing wound lay open on his forehead, and he clutched his side, as if nursing broken ribs. As he stood reeling, Arthur lunged forward and tore the scabbard from Accolon’s side. At once the bright blood spurted from his wound and ran down his face.
Arthur cried out in triumph. “So, Accolon, the odds are even now!” Excalibur floated eagerly in his hand. “Turn and defend yourself,” he growled. “À l’outrance! On guard! To the death!”
He struck straight and true. Accolon raised his sword in a feeble attempt at defense, but Excalibur found its aim. Accolon took the blow deep in his left side, staggered, and fell bleeding to one knee. His face was a mask of sick bewilderment. “How?” he roared.
Arthur approached him, leaning on his sword. “Oh, Accolon,” he said heavily, “prepare your soul for your maker, for you must die.” He brushed the clammy hair out of his eyes, and shook the blood from his head. “That wa
s your death wound. I will not strike again.”
Accolon clutched his sword in both hands, and struggled to fight back. But his strength was failing, and the sharp point trailed down to the ground. Without the scabbard, the wound on his head was flowing freely, covering his face.
He raised his eyes to Arthur, blind with blood.
“My lord,” he begged. “Let me crave one last favor at your hands?”
“Of course.”
Painfully Arthur bent to lay down his sword and set the scabbard beside it in the grass. Then he moved across to face the fallen knight. His face deeply marked with sorrow, he stood before Accolon, and leaning forward, laid his hand on the knight’s head.
“What is it, Accolon?” he said gently.
“This! Take this for my lady, Queen Morgan, to avenge her wrongs!”
With a violent effort, Accolon hefted the great broadsword and brought the blade up hard between Arthur’s legs. The knight’s sharp grunt of pain was drowned by Arthur’s scream as he fell to the earth, clasping his groin with both hands.
Guenevere leaped from her horse, and ran to Arthur’s side. Blood was pouring from between his legs, bright red against the glittering silver mail. She knelt beside him, and tried to staunch it with the edge of her gown. “The scabbard, Ina!” she screamed. “Get the scabbard, bring it here!”
Ina jumped from her horse, and raced to obey. Fumbling, Guenevere tried to thrust it in Arthur’s girdle to staunch his bleeding wounds.
But Arthur raised his head from the grass and waved her away. Blood bubbled in his throat as he struggled to speak.
“Let me die, Guenevere!” he gasped. “But find her and kill her! Find Morgan Le Fay!”
CHAPTER 12
How long, O Lord, how long?
The Abbess Placida sat in her inner sanctum turning the pages of the great Bible on her knee, but not seeing one of the large black-lettered words. Where was the King? Why did he not return? And how long must she ndure the torment of these thoughts?
There were no such things as ghosts, she told herself. Devils, yes, but they could never enter a house of holy women such as hers. And she had no fear of “fetches,” as the pagans called them, spirit shapes who could walk in human form. So the nun she had seen in her chamber, the woman who had vanished in the corridor as soon as she walked through the door, could not have been Sister Ann. That thing of evil was a bad memory now, no more.
Yet why was she sweating and shaking all the time? We have worked so hard to put all that away, her furious soul complained, how can it return? Yet in spite of herself her mind kept drifting back, Sister Ann, Sister Ann—
The bitter refrain was broken by a knock on the door. A white-gowned novice came tumbling into the room. “Word from the Sister Gatekeeper, Reverend Mother!” she gasped. “Will you come at once?”
The Sister Gatekeeper had been watching toiling figures from afar. So the Abbess was called outside in time to see a tall queenly woman in a bloodstained riding robe entering the courtyard on foot, leading a horse. Tied to the saddle, barely conscious but still upright, swayed the heavy body of a man covered in wounds. An empty scabbard was thrust through his sword belt, and his sword hung from his side. Behind them came a smaller woman leading another horse with a wounded knight. Facedown across the saddle, he was bleeding heavily, his lifeblood leaving a telltale trail of red.
Already the nuns were streaming out of their cloisters to cluster around the newcomers like a flock of crows. The Abbess saw the gold coronet around the helmet of the rider on the leading horse, and let out a piercing cry. “The King has had a hunting accident,” she declaimed, rolling her eyes skyward. “Jesus preserve him, let us pray God for his life!”
Goddess, Mother, preserve me from this!
“No indeed,” Guenevere said furiously, gesturing to the unconscious figure behind. “This treacherous knight attacked the King in the forest, and gravely wounded him. We followed the sound of your bell to seek your help.”
The Abbess gaped. “His own knight attacked the King? What happened? Did he—”
“No, not his own knight. King Ursien’s knight.” Guenevere clenched her fists. “Forgive me, but these men are dying while we stand here. Will you order them some help?”
“Of course!” The Abbess swelled with rage at the implied rebuke. “Sisters!” she shrilled. “Two litters at once, to carry these men to the infirmary. Send to warn the Sister Almoner that they are on their way.”
Guenevere turned to her maid. “Ina, ride back to Camelot as fast as you can,” she said urgently. “Bring the best of the Druid healers, whoever is versed in sword wounds such as this.”
A white-faced Ina nodded and swung herself up on her horse. “Rely on me, lady. And may the Gods be with the King!”
“And with you!” Guenevere raised a hand in farewell as horse and rider clattered out through the gate.
“Come, sisters.”
The Sister Gatekeeper moved forward to take charge. Under her direction, two groups of nuns struggled to lift the men down from their horses, lay them on stretchers, and carry them to the nearby infirmary. Guenevere followed with the rest of the sisterhood. As they entered the low, cool building, the tall, spare figure of the Sister Almoner came forward to greet them.
“Take the King to the private chamber at the end,” she commanded, waving them on down the room. “And for the other, let me have him here.”
“No!” Arthur groaned. “Set me down with him!” He struggled to sit up. “Where is Accolon? I must speak with the traitor. Let me see his face!”
Guenevere flew to his side. “Dismiss these women!” she commanded the Sister Almoner. “The King must have privacy now.”
“Come, sisters!” The Sister Almoner shooed the nuns away.
“Guenevere!” Arthur rasped.
“Here.” Guenevere leaned in to help him, and gave him her arm. With a superhuman effort he swung his feet to the ground and staggered up. Two paces brought them to the stretcher where Accolon lay.
“So, Accolon!” For a moment Arthur stood in angry contemplation of the man at his feet. Accolon’s face was a gray mask of pain, and his nose and lips wore the bluish hue of death. His hand was on his side, where the bright ooze of arterial blood pulsed through his fingers with every beat of his heart. His eyes were closed and sunken in his head.
“Why, Accolon?” cried Arthur. There was no reply. Leaning heavily on Guenevere, Arthur drew back his boot and kicked the motionless figure violently. “Why, man? Why did you want to kill me? Tell me that if nothing else with your last breath on earth.”
Guenevere drew back shuddering. “Arthur, you know why.”
“Yes, I do!” Arthur clenched his teeth, and once more drove his boot into Accolon’s ribs. “But I want to hear it from him.”
Accolon opened his eyes. The blood lust had ebbed away, and now his gaze was washed clean of anything but impending death. He tried for a shrug, but the effort was too great.
“I meant to kill you, Arthur,” he breathed out, “for my lady Morgan’s sake. She hated you more than life itself.”
Arthur nodded, and bared his teeth. “Morgan Le Fay.”
A shaft of joy warmed Accolon’s pale face. “Queen Morgan of Gore. My lady and my love.”
“You poor fool!” Arthur ground out. “Morgan never loved anyone but herself.”
His words reached Guenevere through a haze of pain. She shook her head. No, Arthur. She loved you. She loved you too much.
But Accolon was unperturbed. “She loved me,” he said with an unnatural calm. “She took me for her champion and chosen one. She gave me the scabbard to keep me safe from you. She was going to make me her king.”
Arthur gasped. “What?”
“She planned to kill you and King Ursien, so that we could rule.”
“Kill Ursien?” said Arthur wildly. “But Ursien lives!”
Guenevere reached for his hand. “No, Arthur,” she said sorrowfully. The torn body in the grass rose again bef
ore her eyes. “Morgan waylaid him in the shape of a great cat. But he’s beyond her malice now.”
“And I married him to her—to that death!” Arthur threw back his head in pain, and closed his eyes. “Forgive me, Ursien!”
Accolon gave a wan smile. “I can take word of your remorse to him myself, King Arthur. Soon I shall meet him in the Otherworld.” His gaze drifted off to another time and place. “Yet she loved me. Queen Morgan loved me, and took me for her knight.”
Guenevere could have cried aloud with pain. As I loved Lancelot, and took him for my knight. A terrible envy of Accolon gripped her heart. At least this knight was able to enjoy his love.
“And I loved her when all men hated her.” A flicker of fierce pride shone in the dying face. “You took her, Arthur, but you cast her off. King Ursien never loved her, he only wanted to marry the sister of the King. She bore your child with never a word from you, and I was the only man in the world who cared if she lived or died.”
He paused, gasping for breath. “I loved her then and watched her without hope. But when the child was born, she regained her power. One day I saw her look at me and smile. The next day she touched my hand, and took me to her bed.” A look of transcendent joy spread across his face. “And I knew then that the love she gave me would be worth my life, and more.”
His breath escaped him in a long-drawn-out sigh. His eyelids fluttered and closed, and his face relaxed.
“Die, then, traitor!” Arthur spat in fury, clutching Guenevere as he reeled away. “Oh Guenevere, bring me to my bed, for I fear that like Accolon, I shall never rise again!”
“Arthur, don’t say that!” Guenevere cried in anguish. “I’ll take care of you. As long as you’re wearing the scabbard you won’t lose any more blood. Just let me call the sisters to take care of Accolon.”
“No need, my lady. We are here.”
A nun materialized behind them on silent feet, her hands in her sleeves, her face hidden by her wimple as she bent over Accolon.
“Thank you, sister,” Guenevere said distractedly. Adjusting herself once more to Arthur’s weight, she gave all her attention to helping him down the room.
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