At last they gained the sanctuary of the small private apartment at the end. The last of the sun was filling the air with gold, but the whitewashed cell was cool and welcoming. Arthur collapsed on the bed with a groan, and Guenevere straightened his limbs and loosened his bloodstained clothes. His body was cut in too many places to count, and all his wounds were gaping like hungry mouths.
But one, she could see, was worse than all the rest. Below his tunic, there was a deep slash to his groin. It was still bleeding freely, and his legs and even the insides of his boots were sticky with fresh blood. Carefully Guenevere lifted his sword from his side, and laid it on his chest, clasping both hands around the massive hilt. Then she tightened the belt holding the scabbard against his torn body, and prayed that help had not come too late. Arthur slipped out of consciousness as she worked.
Through the door to the outer chamber she could see the black-clad nun on her knees beside Accolon’s body, her face no more than a shadow inside her wimple, her hands joined in prayer. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the sister cross herself, rise to her feet, and make her way down the long room toward her to hover outside the door of Arthur’s cell.
“The Mother Abbess begs a word with you, my lady,” she called softly, dipping her head. “Will you go?”
Guenevere glanced distractedly in the direction of the voice. The Mother Abbess? Gods above, what could that woman want? Irritation seized her as she looked at the nun waiting humbly in the shadows outside the door. What kind of religion forced women to bend their heads like this, be ashamed to show their faces, even their hands?
“Tell the Mother Abbess that I can’t leave the King.”
“The Sister Almoner is coming to take care of the King. I will stay with him till she arrives.”
Guenevere gave a heartfelt inner groan. That dreadful woman now? But maybe it’s best to get it over with. I needn’t be long; I can hurry back.
She turned back to the bed. Arthur was deeply unconscious, sleeping peacefully. She bent over the figure on the bed.
“I have to leave you for a while, Arthur,” she said softly. “This good nun will look after you till I return.”
She dropped a kiss on his forehead, and left the room.
“I shall not be gone long,” she threw over her shoulder as she hastened away. “I beg you, take your best care of the King.”
The nun bobbed a curtsy and bowed her head. “I shall, my lady.” The heavy wimple turned as she watched Guenevere’s every step down the length of the room. At last the tall, hurrying form passed through the door, and disappeared from sight.
Silently the nun entered the cell where Arthur slept. With skillful hands she straightened the pillow under his head. Tenderly she brushed the hair back from his forehead, and lightly touched his hurts. Her long thin fingers wandered down over his body till they reached the scabbard at his waist. With great care she unbuckled the broad leather belt, and lifted the scabbard away.
At once all Arthur’s wounds began to bleed, weeping great red tears. Intently the nun stood watching every one. Her hands were shaking as she clutched the scabbard to her chest, and her eyes burned like mulberries in her white face.
“So, brother!” she whispered savagely. “Where is your safety now?”
A silent prayer poured through the anguish of her mind. Hear me, Accolon, wherever your spirit walks! And wait a while, my love, in the world between the worlds. Wait, and I shall send you Arthur’s soul. I swear by all the powers, he will not last the night!
CHAPTER 13
The Abbess Placida was at prayer, giving thanks to the glory of God. Her fleshy lips rolled with satisfaction as she counted her joys. Praise the Lord who had sent he King here with such terrible injuries into Christian ands. With the High King himself recovering under their roof, the name of the House of the Little Sisters of Mercy would spread throughout the land!
Despite the pain in her knees, the Abbess prayed on. Having the King here would bring all manner of great men to her door. Lords and kings and high princes of the Church would visit him. The Father Abbot of London, the King’s spiritual father, would be the first of many, she was sure. And one of them must surely notice her, and translate her to a higher place. With all the new bishoprics and archbishoprics now being decreed from Rome, one of them must have room for a woman like her.
And if the King did not live, think what that could be! King Arthur, the knight of the sword in the stone, the hero of countless wars and the first Christian High King, what it would be to have him buried here!
No, not buried, she corrected herself at once. King Arthur would draw as many worshipers in a casket as he would underground. His bones should be placed in a jeweled reliquary, so that she could take him with her wherever she went, when she was elevated to York, say, or Canterbury—
“Holy Mother!”
The Abbess let out a sound between a curse and a groan as an urgent young novice came tumbling through the door. “What is it now?”
The nun bobbed her head. “Queen Guenevere is here to see you.”
The Abbess frowned. The pagan Queen, who still clung to the Mother-right, by which a woman would give her body to a man as freely as she gave him her hand? What did she want? She waved a ring-laden hand. “Show her in.”
THE SMELL INSIDE the chamber reached Guenevere as soon as the nun opened the door. “Please go in, lady,” she said. “The Mother Abbess is expecting you.” Guenevere stepped inside, holding her breath.
The Abbess sat facing the door, enthroned on a stout chair of ebony with carved arms and a high polished back. Her feet rested on an embroidered hassock, her whip rested against her chair within easy reach, and a low stool for penitents stood nearby. Behind her, a small altar against the wall bore two fat candles smoldering in the gloom. Above the altar a burning censer breathed out the stink of incense, glowing like an angry eye. Overlaying it all was the unclean smell of stale habitation, like that of an animal in its lair. Guenevere swallowed hard.
“Greetings,” she said.
Greetings? Was that all the rude creature had to say? The Abbess let out her breath, and forced a smile. “You are welcome to our house, the house of God,” she said with emphasis. She pointed to the low stool at her feet. “Take a seat.”
But for this place, Arthur might be dead. Guenevere forced herself to stay calm, and even made her voice polite. “Thank you, madam, I would rather stand. I must not leave the King for long. We were truly blessed to find your convent here. It was chance alone that brought us to your door.”
A complacent smile passed over the Abbess’s face. “We are glad to be of use to the King. God moves in mysterious ways His wonders to perform. And only He has the power to heal our sins.”
Her voice was like the buzzing of a gnat. Guenevere felt a sickness she could not name. These wretched Christians with their everlasting talk of sin! What about the joy of life, the love the Goddess gives? She thought of Lancelot, and could have wept. Waves of desire were racking her to the bone. The next second I must get back to Arthur floated through her mind.
The Abbess was in full flood now, her face flushed with self-praise. “Of course, the King has forgiven us for the past. He knew it was not our fault, what had happened here. Why, we saw nothing, she was far too cunning for that. I had no idea when she came, none of us did—”
A shaft of fear struck Guenevere like a knife. “Forgive me, Mother—when who came?”
The Abbess turned an ugly shade of pale, and her face contorted with old bitterness. “That daughter of evil. Satan’s handmaiden herself.”
Guenevere sat very still. “The King’s sister? She was here? Morgan Le Fay?”
The Abbess nodded. “The very same. She called herself Sister Ann.” A whine of self-justification entered her voice. “God knows I whipped her, as I did them all. She was beaten enough to drive the Devil out.”
But you drove the evil in.
Guenevere hardly knew the sound of her own voice. “You said the King h
as forgiven you for the past. But King Arthur never knew his sister was here. When he found out that his father had had her shut up in a nunnery, he refused to hear any more.”
The Abbess gaped. “But when he came—I thought—”
You thought wrong. “If he had known this was the home of Morgan Le Fay, he would never have darkened your door. He tried to avoid any contact with her at all. Even when her crimes against us came to light, he sent his knights here to investigate, he never came himself. All he ever knew was the name of the place.”
The Abbess assumed a virtuous, indignant air. “Well, of course we changed that! The holy Father Abbot came from London, and exorcised the house. Every sister was examined, and all her coven rooted out, and put to death. Then instead of the Convent of the Holy Mother, we were called the House of the Little Sisters of Mercy, though the Blessed Virgin is still the center of our prayers.”
Guenevere held up her hand. A tide of foreboding was chilling her to the bone. This is the convent where Morgan grew up. Where she lived and worked all her life as a nun. Perhaps even a nun in the infirmary, taking care of the sick—
The words came from her mouth in a strangled gasp. “Did you send for me?”
The Abbess’s mouth fell open. “What?”
“Just now!” Guenevere cried, in an ecstasy of fear. “Did you send one of the sisters to ask me to come to you?”
The Abbess bristled. “Certainly not!” she said frostily. “Of course, when you came to me, I had to receive you, pagan though you are—”
“Gods above, save him! Save the King!”
With a howl of distress, Guenevere burst from the room, leaving the Mother Abbess without a backward glance.
“Holy Mother of God!” The Abbess’s eyes bulged with rage. Was there no end to the rudeness of these godless ones?
She reached for her whip, and slapped it against her thigh. The pagan was beyond her chastisement, of course. But there were other sinners close at hand, and one of them would have to pay for this. The next through the door, she thought viciously, novice or nun, would feel the weight of her rod.
Slowly she savored the pleasure of the coming revenge. With every stroke she could imagine the proud pagan Queen crouched at her feet, smarting under the lingering punishment. There was a muffled knock at the door, and she closed her eyes.
“Come in!”
Her fingers were itching in anticipation of what was to come. Only when she opened her eyes did she see how wrong she had been. And as she felt the whip torn from her nerveless grasp, she knew for sure that the promised vengeance lay in other hands.
GUENEVERE COURSED THROUGH the corridors like one possessed.
This is the house where Morgan was confined.
This is the place where she grew from a tortured child to a black force of nature, hungering for revenge.
Morgan whose cleverness is beyond mortal skill.
Morgan who knows this place like the back of her hand.
Morgan whose malice never sleeps.
Outside the infirmary the Sister Almoner stood waiting with her assistants, armed with bowls of rosewater and clean cloths to minister to Arthur’s wounds. Her eyes widened as she saw Guenevere. “We thought you were inside with the King, Lady Guenevere. We were waiting to come in—” She broke off in alarm. “Who was with him, then? We heard a voice, we heard you talking to him—”
Guenevere brushed past them into the empty room. In the small chamber at the far end, a dark shape hovered over Arthur’s unconscious form, sucking out his life.
“Morgan!” she screamed.
The shape quivered, broke away from Arthur, and rose unsteadily in the air, sagging under the weight of Arthur’s blood. Guenevere covered the length of the room in a couple of strides. Arthur lay spread-eagled on the bed, his every wound weeping his life away. He was clutching Excalibur to his chest in the grip of death, and his face and hands, like Ursien’s, were torn and clawed. Cold filled the chamber, and a graveyard dew clung to his clammy skin.
“Morgan!” Guenevere howled again.
The dark miasma hovered in the air above her head. Guenevere leaped over to Arthur, and snatched at the sword.
“Arthur, give it me!” she breathed in his ear. “Give me Excalibur!”
Frantically she pried the weapon from his grip, lifted it with both hands, and furiously slashed the air. The blade whined in her hand, demanding blood.
“Avenge your master!” Guenevere panted as she swung. “Give me her life for his!”
The air in the little room eddied to and fro. Indolent, taunting, the dark shape parted and re-formed around the slashing blade, its heavy yet weightless body always out of reach. With a mocking hiss it wafted out of range, and floated out through the window into the open air. For a moment it darkened the pink and gold face of the sky, eclipsing the early stars. Then with a whisper of a cruel laugh, it was gone.
Guenevere threw Excalibur to the floor. Beside the bed lay a crumpled black habit, discarded in the heat of flight. A white headdress lay beside it, soiled and askew. The putrid scent of death hung in the air. Arthur sprawled on the bed bleeding his heart out, and the scabbard that could save him was nowhere to be seen.
CHAPTER 14
The setting sun dipped down toward the horizon, gildng the buildings outlined against the sky. Soon it would kiss the water and lose itself in the broad bosom of the Thames. But even at night, London had a haunting ower. The solitary figure in the shadow of the church ooked out over the city he had come to love, and felt the gnawing tooth of sharp regret.
Pacing the familiar churchyard where his sandaled feet knew every step, the Father Abbot clasped his hands in prayer and wrestled with his soul. Must I leave London, Lord, is that Your will? And go to York? From there, it is only one step to Canterbury itself. And I do not seek these great offices, I have been happy enough doing Your will here.
He raised unseeing eyes to the evening sky. Lord, Lord! he cried in silence, you sent me to these islands when the pagans still loved their Goddess with a passion that put all Christian lives at risk. We were a handful of young brothers, armed with nothing but our faith in Christ. With Your love, we built a church here in London, and now we have a foot in many towns. In time you made me the Father of our abbey here, and I have toiled night and day in Your name.
And now this!
His long lean face knotted as he strode around and around the well-trodden square. In the heat of summer, the rough wool of his habit fretted his skin, and he tugged unhappily at the fastening at his neck. Yet this torment too, he had found the way to turn to the love of God. Always drafty and cold in winter and hot in summer, the coarse black gown was the perfect garment for mortifying the flesh. And with the emissary from Rome waiting for him in the abbey guest house, the sooner he mastered his own desires and submitted himself to the will of God, the better it would be.
He paused in his pacing, and raised his eyes to the sky. Overhead small clouds rode like ships at anchor in a perfect watery blue. The Abbot’s tensions relaxed as he took it in. He had detested London for a long time, both the place itself and the people who called it theirs. His bones would never forget the heat and light of Rome, his beloved birthplace and spiritual home. Yet now he found much to be enjoyed in these seagirt islands, with their sweet springtimes and soft summer days.
Of course, it was not Rome. There was nowhere in the world like Mother Rome, no place so fitted to be the center of the faith. A young monk in the City of God truly understood the fight against sin, with Rome’s feast of flesh available every day. Full-bodied girls with eyes like the backs of beetles, lissome pouting youths halfway between boy and girl, tanned and sweating bodies of either sex, endowed with the swell and bloom of peaches and the cleft of ripe plums, yes, Lord, any one of these was temptation enough for a saint.
Rome.
Oh, that glorious, riotous carnival of the flesh!
With a reflexive self-discipline, the Father Abbot put away sensual thoughts and return
ed to the matter in hand. His soul sank into something like despair. Lord God, Father of mankind, is this your trial of me? On this summer evening, myself lost to the world, working peacefully in my study, and the message comes that a legate from Rome has arrived?
But he was not surprised. As the Holy See advanced its forward march, old hands like himself were vital in building the faith. Where once their task was simply to spread the Word, now they were called on to be architects of the Church Triumphant throughout the isles. The great See of Canterbury was the cornerstone of the faith. York was its younger brother, and men of strength and vision were needed to shape them into what they had to be.
“So you were thought of, Father, even as far as Rome.”
The Abbot suppressed a dry smile. He might have known that an embassy from Rome would not wait tamely in the guest lodgings for the summons to meet. Well, he was as ready as he would ever be. He turned to greet his interlocutor.
He saw a small man of indeterminate age standing in the sunset, wearing an innocent smile. He was dressed in the habit of a simple monk, but the rope round his waist was of silk, and his sandals were made of fine leather, intricately tooled. The pitiless sun of Rome had wrinkled his face like a walnut, and his short body was somewhat stooped, though he held himself like a much taller man. His tonsured head sported a sparse fringe of hair, and the hands protruding from his black habit were sun-shriveled too. Only his eyes had stood the test of time. As clear as the sky, they conveyed both wisdom and wit, and a hint of something else behind it all.
“Forgive me if I intrude on your prayers,” said the little man. “I am Domenico of Tuscany at your service, the emissary from Rome.”
The Father Abbot bowed deeply. “The service and the honor are both mine.” He gestured toward the abbey guest house across the open space. “They made you comfortable, I trust? Is there anything I can get for you now?”
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