The Knight of the Sacred Lake

by Rosalind Miles

  “Guenevere?”

  She came to herself with a start. “Yes, Arthur, I’m still here.” “Did I fall asleep again?” His voice trailed off.

  “I don’t know.”

  She shook her head. Arthur was asleep again as she said the words.

  There was a soft knock on the door and Ina padded in, the lamp in her hand golden in the silver dusk. “Sir Gawain is here with his brothers, my lady. He is asking to see the King.”

  Guenevere threw a look at the still figure in the bed and shook her head. “Tell them the King is asleep. I will send at once if he wakes and asks for them.”

  Ina nodded. “And the doctor is here, to see to the King again.”

  Guenevere hesitated. “Are the King’s monks still outside?”

  Ina nodded, hardly bothering to conceal a smile. “They’re out there mumbling their prayers around the clock. They want to know when they’ll be admitted to the King.”

  “Tell them, when the time comes,” Guenevere said. “And show my Druid in.”

  If Arthur lived, it would be due to him, Guenevere thought as the white-gowned figure made his way in. A sturdy, cold-eyed man of middle height, he looked more like a wrestler than the healer he was. Like all Druids, he had been a warrior before he gave his life to the service of the Gods, so his knowledge of war wounds was unrivaled, and his skill with the mind was as great. With a murmured greeting, Guenevere led him to the bed, and stood beside him as he lightly touched Arthur’s hand and his forehead, then turned back the sheets.

  The smell of blood and pus rose from the bed. Arthur stirred, grumbling anxiously in his sleep.

  “How has he been?” the Druid asked quietly, his broad hands peeling back the dressings on Arthur’s sides.

  “Much the same.”

  “Just as this is.” He gestured angrily at Arthur’s wound. Dull inflamed blotches of infected flesh marked the wasted stomach and legs. “The same—or worse. We’re making no headway here, none at all.”

  Guenevere followed the line of his troubled gaze. At the top of Arthur’s leg, a long sword slash cut deep into his groin, severing tendon and bone. Around the wound, the mangled flesh throbbed purple-red, oozing with decay. Below, the swollen and inflated genitals could have been those of one of the Old Ones, the gigantic creatures who had made the world. Only Arthur’s sex lying sleepily to one side, as pale and delicate as a snail without its shell, was a reminder that this was a man.

  Arthur, Arthur, oh—

  The voice of the Druid broke into her thoughts. “The blade of the sword must have been treated with venom, to poison the organs of generation like this.” As the healer spoke, his spadelike hands went brutally to work. “It should have been stitched when it happened,” he said, almost to himself. “Then we should not have—” he paused, and the unspoken words hung heavily in the air “—the fears that we have now.” The doctor gave a grim smile. “But it’s hard to imagine such expertise in a convent of nuns. Indeed, none of us has seen such a wound since the days of the Sacred King.”

  “The Sacred King?” Guenevere struggled to collect her thoughts.

  “Yes, when a queen would change her consort every year. The man she discarded was given to the Druids, and they gave him to the Gods. They hung him on a tree for three days and nights, and took his manhood with a golden sickle so that his blood and seed would give the earth new life.”

  “Sir—”

  “Harsh, eh?” Abstractedly he cleaned, scoured, and dressed the raw tissue as he spoke. Arthur whimpered in his sleep under the merciless hands. “Then it became three years, and then seven, before the king had to die. Then queens like your mother, lady, spared their consorts to live on in their warrior band. Your mother made her former chosen ones into a peerless band of knights.”

  Guenevere saw again her mother’s face, lit by her undying smile. Her voice broke. “They all loved her, to the grave and beyond.”

  “Because she loved them.”

  The Druid pressed the last dressing into place, then laid two heavy fingers on Arthur’s eyelids till the low cries ceased. Reaching for a cloth, he wiped his hands with great deliberation, and turned to face Guenevere. “She loved them, madam, more than she loved herself. She changed her consorts when they failed, for the good of the land.”

  His pale eyes held Guenevere in a hypnotic grip. “The law of the Goddess is that a queen must be championed by the worthiest knight. In the Summer Country, the Queen must obey that law.” His gaze flickered over Arthur, then back to Guenevere again. “We are all praying that the King will recover himself again. But if he does not, you must be faithful to the Great One who gave you life. A woman wounds herself when she clings to a mate who cannot love her as a man. When a queen does so, she wounds the land too.”

  His voice wove a light rhythmic spell around her head. “Lady, I speak as your Druid father, not as the King’s healer now. Arthur’s spirit is moving in pathways of its own. But whether he lives or dies, you must never forget your duty to yourself.”

  My duty to myself . . .

  “OH, IT’S YOU, Ina . . . I didn’t hear you come in.”

  The maid smiled. “You drowsed off, lady, when the doctor went. You’ve sat by the bed for so long that you’ve tired yourself out.” Her eyes were soft. “Take some fresh air, madam, I’ll keep watch here.”

  Guenevere lifted her head. “Thank you, Ina. But I can’t leave the King.”

  “As you wish, lady.” Ina shook her head, and withdrew.

  Guenevere leaned forward to rest her weary body on the bed. The only sound was of Arthur’s gasping breath. A shaft of memory stabbed at her wandering brain. Lancelot caught his breath like that when I asked him to go.

  Her sight faded, and she saw him standing as he had once long ago, bathed in morning sunlight as his page strapped on his armor and prepared him for a joust. As she surprised him in his pavilion, he had turned to face her, a man clothed all in gold with a gaze of burning fire. “Madame?”

  The lilt of his accent lingered in her ear. She heard it again as she saw him standing in her chamber on the day he went away.

  Let us make a good farewell, my Queen. We shall have a long time to remember it.

  Lancelot, my love, my life, don’t go—

  She came to herself with a racking start. Her head was pounding, and a strangled sorrow throbbed through every vein.

  With trembling fingers she threw off her veil, gasping for breath. Then she dropped her head on her arms in a grief too deep for tears.

  She did not hear the door opening and the sound of footsteps across the floor. The first she knew was a touch on her hand, and a light, accented voice.

  “Madame?”

  CHAPTER 16

  Goddess, Mother, don’t torment me so—don’t bring him to me in a dream, then take him away again—

  She sat up slowly, struggling to stay calm. Her eyes were burning, but she could not weep. “Lancelot?”

  His breeches and boots were covered with the dust of he roads, and his shadowed gaze showed he had traveled hard. His face was pale, and he looked troubled to his soul. His traveling clothes hung off his tall frame, and he seemed thinner than when he had gone away.

  Oh, Lancelot—

  His jaw and chin were covered in the soft stubble her fingers loved. His tangled hair seemed to cry out for her touch. But all this was behind them. Calmness and courtesy were the watchwords now.

  “Lancelot.”

  She extended her hand, and he raised it to his lips.

  “My lady,” he murmured stiffly. His kiss on her hand was cold. “How is the King?”

  “The King?” Is it Arthur you love, or me? “What are you doing here?”

  He nodded to the figure in the bed. “I saw the King attacked. I was far away, but I came at once.”

  “You saw it? How?”

  “A lady showed it to me. She can cast figures in a wall of falling water, and I saw the King there.”

  “What lady?” She tried to keep the
jealousy out of her voice. “Who was she?”

  His brown eyes flashed. “A great seer, and wise beyond her years. She keeps the Sacred Lake in my own country.”

  “Is she beautiful?” Guenevere could not help herself. “How old is she?”

  She could feel his anger rising like a tide. “She is my foster mother! She reared me, she taught me to be a knight. My duty to you, madame, took me away. But when the King was in danger, I had to be here.”

  And all I can do is chide like a fishwife, and show my Jealousy—

  “Forgive me, Lancelot.” Slowly she got to her feet. “The King is very ill, have you heard?”

  He gave a curt nod. “We saw the King in danger of his life. So my cousins and I rode back at once to the coast.”

  “Bors and Lionel, yes. I forgot they were traveling with you.”

  “We came as fast as we could to the aid of the King.”

  “Of course.” So you love Arthur more than me. You honor your fellowship of men more than our love. She turned back toward the bed. “Well, there he is. Speak to him if you like, but he won’t know you; he doesn’t recognize anyone except me.”

  She gestured toward the bed. Arthur lay on his back in a red robe emblazoned with the arms of Pendragon, and a white shirt embroidered with gold thread. His coronet lay beside him on the pillow, and his sword Excalibur was in reach of his hand.

  Lancelot’s heart lurched. Ill as Arthur was, he realized, Guenevere still dressed him like a king, and refused to treat him like an invalid. Tears started to his eyes, and an impulse of wonder shook him like a dog. What a woman, his soul mourned, what a queen!

  HER NERVES CLAMORING, Guenevere stared at Lancelot’s unyielding back.

  Why is he so cold?

  Why not?

  You chose to kill the fire of love you shared. Can you complain now that he is cold?

  She made her voice sound firm and matter-of-fact. “Why don’t you speak to the King? Who knows, he may hear you, wherever his spirit walks.”

  Lancelot turned and bowed. “Thank you, madame.” Awkwardly he approached the figure in the bed. “Greetings, sire,” he said loudly to the slumbering form.

  At once the words sounded hollow in his ear. Feeling like a fool, he tried again. “My lord, it’s Lancelot. I’ve come to renew my service now you’ve been struck down. Command me in anything, I shall obey.”

  There was no response. They waited, afraid to speak.

  Guenevere fixed her gaze on Lancelot again. “I’m sorry that the King doesn’t seem to hear,” she said stiffly. “It seems that you have returned from France in vain.”

  The stillness in the chamber was as grim as the grave. Yet neither wanted to move and break the spell. At last Lancelot clenched his fists, passed a hand across his face, and turned away.

  As he did so, Arthur stirred, and opened his eyes. His wasted face cracked in a broken smile.

  “Lancelot?”

  LANCELOT, LANCELOT, what are we doing here?

  From his vantage point at the door to the King’s apartments, Bors gazed stonily at the wall of the antechamber, avoiding every questioning gaze and curious eye. It was enough to bear the weariness in his limbs, without having to endure the rest of the crowd waiting here too.

  Who were all these people? And why were they hanging around, when two guards barred the door, and the Queen’s maid kept repeating that the King could see no one?

  Bors glanced around in something like disgust. To his right a group of monks chattered like starlings in a corner, every now and then breaking into high, giggling laughter, quickly suppressed. Nearer to the door to the inner chamber stood Sir Gawain and his brothers, four mighty figures talking among themselves.

  Both the monks and the Orkney princes had been annoyed when Lancelot was admitted ahead of them all. But none, Bors noted, had resented it more than Agravain. He had watched with eyes like poison as Lancelot was singled out by the Queen’s maid, and ushered in. Then his audible jibe hung tauntingly in the air: “So, brothers, we see who the King values, not his own kin!”

  But Bors was too troubled to care about Agravain now. Wearily he tried to subdue the murmuring of his soul. Why did we return, Lancelot? Why? You had broken away from the Queen, we had crossed the sea, and were safely back in our own land. Only half a day’s ride separated us from a great homecoming feast with our fathers, in the place we love and can truly call our own. Yet all because of the vision you had at the Lake, we find ourselves back here. Why, Lancelot?

  Standing uneasily by his brother’s side, Lionel read Bors’ turmoil in the set of his shoulders and the stillness of his gaze.

  “Not much longer now, brother,” he said quietly. “He must come out soon.”

  He had not reckoned with Agravain standing by. “How much longer do we wait, brother?” Agravain said loudly to Sir Gawain. “Why do we wait at all, when the King’s sister’s sons are of less account than those who come and go?”

  Gawain scowled. “Of course the King will see us, Agravain,” Gawain said roughly, “but Lancelot is newly back from France.”

  Agravain’s face darkened. “And what are we to tell the King, when we get in? ‘We searched for your evil spirit, sire, and couldn’t find a trace? Your Queen made fools of us, but we did our best?’ ”

  “Forgive me, sirs, did I hear you say that the King has an evil spirit?” It was the leader of the monks, a round-faced youngish man of middle height. With his smooth, full cheeks, owlish gaze, and pale fringe of hair flopping down his forehead from his shaven tonsure, he had a solemn schoolboy look as he spoke to Gawain. “We know, of course, of the evil that befell the King. But is there more?”

  His followers were clustering anxiously around as Gawain considered his request. “No, no,” he said at last. “We were keeping watch over the King, no more.”

  The monk beamed. “As we watch over him here.” He gestured to the huddle of black habits in the corner of the room. “We have maintained a constant vigil, day and night, since the King was struck down,” he said proudly. “Please God, we shall heal him with the power of our prayer!”

  Curiously Gawain noted the ardent faith, the shining eyes. The black-clad brethren looked gray with fatigue, yet still they were bubbling with cheerful energy. “What’s the secret?” he said abruptly. “How d’you keep it up?”

  “Bless you, sir!” The monk let out a peal of laughter before breaking off to cover his mouth with his hand. “It is no hardship to witness for our Lord! It’s a privilege to join the struggle for King Arthur’s soul. We hear he’s so badly injured that they fear for his life.” The joy drained from his face. “So we have joined the fight to save the King!”

  He blinked short-sightedly and turned back to his monks. “Come, brothers.” He raised his arms, and they all gathered around. “Let me see. ‘In te, Domine, speravi,’ I think, ‘In Thee, O Lord.’ Brother Mark?” At the sign of his upraised hand, a lone voice gave out a single note. Then a dozen voices combined in a low chant.

  The pure, rich sound of the psalm flowed around the low room. “In Thee, O Lord, have I put my trust; cast me not away in this time of trial; forsake me not when my strength forsaketh me—”

  Gawain felt a breath on the back of his neck. “Perhaps we should try the power of prayer.” Agravain’s voice dripped its poison into his ear. “When an upstart knight of the roads means more to the King than his own sister’s sons—”

  “Agravain, no!” blurted Gareth, the youngest of the clan. His blue eyes were alight with hero worship, and his fresh face colored as he spoke. “You can’t say that about Lancelot! He loves the King as much as we do ourselves.”

  Gaheris, the next in line, was more reserved. But his rebuke was unmistakable. “Lancelot’s no upstart, he’s the son of a king. He’ll be a king himself one day, which neither you nor I will ever be.”

  In spite of himself Agravain’s eyes flickered across to Gawain, standing in all the unconscious assurance of the eldest son. “Thank you for reminding me, bro
ther dear,” he breathed, his eyes glittering. “But if you think—”

  Gawain’s patience snapped. “Out!” He jerked his head. “Get out, Agravain. You’re not going in to the King, acting like this.”

  Agravain widened his eyes. “Why, Gawain, I only—”

  “Understand this, or you understand nothing at all!” hissed Gawain, his flushed face only inches from Agravain’s. “If we brothers can’t hold together, we’re nothing, don’t you see? There’s only the four of us against the world. Orkney should die for Orkney, not fight like cats. You say the King does not honor his kin. Try honoring your own, if you expect honor in your turn! Let me tell you . . .” His voice faded as he drove Agravain before him toward the door.

  The monks sang on. “Deliver me, O my God, out of the hand of the ungodly, out of the clutch of the unrighteous and cruel man—”

  So Agravain was getting a dressing-down, Bors observed. Well, he did not envy Gawain the task of keeping that restless, malicious spirit under control. As well preach brotherhood to a hornet, or family loyalty to a bee-wolf on the kill.

  But kin still meant something in this wicked world. Bors’ heart moved at the sight of Lionel, standing patiently at his side. Ruefully he surveyed his brother’s tousled hair and dust-stained face. He could taste the grit of the roads in his own dry mouth, and knew how Lionel must be longing for a bowl of clean scented water, a leg of chicken, a goblet of wine. Yet we dangle foolishly here, he fretted, while Lancelot dances attendance on the Queen.

  Bors almost moaned aloud in misery. What could they say to him? Of course she was the finest lady in the land. But Guenevere possessed all the danger of her beauty, and the power of an irresistible will. Whatever she wanted was second nature to her. Gods above, she was a force of nature in herself! If she wanted Lancelot away, what else could he do? Yet when she called him again, he was drawn back by a force beyond his command.