The Knight of the Sacred Lake

by Rosalind Miles

  Lancelot.

  Bors felt an overwhelming spurt of rage. Why did he have to love Guenevere? I could find you a dozen other lovely girls, Bors mourned in his honest soul, and every one would be grateful to have Lancelot for her love.

  But cousin, you have fallen deep into the toils of this enchanting Queen. And so we’re all caught like fish in a net.

  He closed his eyes.

  I’ll speak to Lancelot, his thoughts ran on. He’s got to understand that the Queen’s not like other women, and serving her does damage to his soul. We must persuade him to go away again. Then when we get him back to Little Britain—

  The doors to the inner chamber creaked and swung wide. Lancelot came through the arch toward them, his eyes very bright. “Good news, cousins,” he cried. “The King is much better than we thought.”

  Bors could not help himself. “And the Queen?”

  “The Queen?”

  Lancelot paused to collect his thoughts. His smile gave Bors his answer before Lancelot could speak. “She is what she is,” came the quiet reply. “She is Guenevere.”

  “GUENEVERE?”

  “Yes, Arthur, I’m here.”

  “Was I dreaming, or did Lancelot come back?”

  “He was here. You rallied at the sound of his voice, and you spoke to him.”

  Arthur smiled, drowsy but satisfied. “I thought I did.”

  “Then afterward you fell asleep again. I think his visit must have tired you out.”

  Arthur struggled to open his eyes. “Perhaps. But I’m sure I’ll feel better now that he’s here.” His hands wandered over the coverlet restlessly. “I can’t remember why he went away. But now he’s back—oh, Guenevere . . .”

  His eyes filled with the tears of bodily weakness, but a smile of joy blazed through. “Almighty God has blessed me in you two. A royal wife, and a peerless, loyal knight. Truly the Great Ones have favored me more than I deserve.”

  Guenevere turned her head away. “If you say so.”

  Arthur’s face brightened with a sudden thought. “Guenevere, we must find Lancelot a wife. If he had a love like you, he’d never leave the court.” He gave a conscious laugh. “Forgive me, dear, of course there’s no one like you. But if he were married, he’d know the happiness we have.”

  A flush mounted his pale cheeks as he warmed to his idea. “Shall we do that, Guenevere? Find Lancelot a love of his own? After all, we both want him to be happy too.”

  Guenevere tried to smile. “Yes, of course we do. But you’re talking too much—I’m afraid he’s overexcited you. Try to sleep again.”

  “Very well.” Arthur’s tone was fretful, like that of a child. “But I shan’t forget this when I’m strong again. A love for Lancelot! We’ll do it together, won’t we, Guenevere?”

  CHAPTER 17

  After so long on the road, it felt strange to be indoors. Irritably adjusting his body to fit the contours of the oddly shaped chair, Merlin sat weaving a cat’s cradle in his mind. So what if the boy had slipped through his ands at the coast? Things would be very different here, e was sure. The Queen of the Orkneys must yield up the child to him.

  The old enchanter surged restlessly to his feet, and with fretful steps traced out the walls of the chamber where he was confined. With a grudging admiration he scanned the smooth granite walls, each stone so finely dressed that even his eye could not tell where one ended and the other began. The whole palace was made like this, he knew. He smiled derisively. If you could call it a palace, this low building scarcely bigger than the neighboring dwellings clustered around, all the houses, shelters, and barns built in the same unforgiving shade of colorless stone.

  But gray stone was the only harvest here, he knew. What else would grow so far north on this skein of seagirt islands, some scarcely more than clumps of barren rock? Life was hard here, and the simplest things had to suffice. Not a tree to be seen, but only driftwood to make chairs like the pitiful thing he sat in, or a bed. The only sound was the endless sigh of the waves, and the seabirds’ plaintive cry. The only crops were a stunted barley and a rough kind of wheat.

  Yet there was more here than outsiders dreamed. A glint of affection lit Merlin’s amber eyes. Already he loved the bleached-out Orkney air, the unending pale blond light of a land where the sun never set. In the mild waters here, fat fish would swarm into the nets, and seagulls laid their eggs on every cliff. Then there were the short shaggy cattle of the place, whose milk and flesh kept the people alive even in the harshest times. The Old Ones had deprived these far northern islands of many of the goods of common life. But the gifts they had given them instead made this a sacred place.

  But sacred to what? Merlin pondered. Did the wife of King Lot still cling to her dead husband’s Gods of blood and bone? Or as a ruling queen, did she proclaim the Mother-right now? And what would she tell Morgan’s son as he grew up? Would the boy be raised in the knowledge of his father, or brought up to think the world was ruled by queens?

  Queen Morgause, yes. Would she—

  He was dimly aware of a man standing before him. Sharply he raised his head. “Yes?”

  It was a warrior of the Orkneys, from his rough plaid and heavy weaponry. His short sword and dagger were stuck through his straining belt, and a massive broadsword swung by his side. His gnarled brown hands and forearms were silvered with old scars, and a hideous wound had collapsed his nose and destroyed his right eye. But the other eye stared out amiably enough, and his mouth hid a welcoming smile in the tangle of his rough red beard.

  “Lord Merlin?” he said.

  Absently Merlin noted the high singsong tones of the far northern tongue. Well, these islands were nearer to the Norselands than they were to Camelot. But why was the hairy brute disturbing him?

  “Yes?” he snapped. “Who are you?”

  The Orkneyan grinned. A warm animal smell came from him as he moved, and his ruined face took on a new aspect.

  “They call me Leif. I am one of the knight companions of the throne. I serve Sir Lamorak, and he serves the queen. He sent me to tell you that she cannot receive you now.” He squinted his odd eye in the effort to remember his charge. “ ‘The queen is busy on affairs of state,’ ” he recited solemnly.

  Gods above, these clowns! Merlin seethed. Affairs of state? So Queen Morgause chose the fiction that she was detained on tasks of government, rather than speak to a Druid of all power? She dared to disdain Merlin the Bard, one of the Lords of Light? Well, he was Merlin still. And Merlin could wait.

  He was aware that the Orkneyan was still standing there. “They say you came from Gore,” the warrior said.

  “From Gore, yes, the land of King Ursien,” Merlin said irritably.

  “Where our queen’s sister was queen.”

  “Yes indeed,” Merlin snapped. “Queen Morgan Le Fay.”

  “What news from there?” The working eye creased up interrogatively. “When Queen Morgan was with child, our queen was overjoyed, and sent us all south with gifts. Then it was said that King Ursien had a cuckoo in his nest.” He gave a coarse chuckle. “That the child was a wedding present he did not expect.”

  “So!” Merlin made his eyes look like wolves’ urine in the snow. “What fool pays heed to rumors?” he breathed savagely.

  “Some even said that King Arthur fathered the child,” Leif pressed on, oblivious. “Then he sent word to kill all the newborns, and Lamorak said no man would kill his own son. And the child was nothing like King Arthur, Lamorak said. Just as dark as King Arthur is fair, and born with a full pelt of hair, like a wolf cub in March.”

  Lamorak said, Lamorak said—

  Merlin sat very still. “So Sir Lamorak saw the child?”

  “And teeth, he was born with teeth!” Leif chuckled on. “Sign of the lion, eh? Shows he was born to fight.”

  Or of the serpent, Merlin thought distantly, born to strike. Well, a Pendragon who knew how to kill would be no bad thing. “But your lord, Sir Lamorak?” he resumed with gritted teeth. “He saw
the child, you say?”

  “When the boy was born, the rest of us were not sent south. Sir Lamorak was the only one to go.”

  Merlin felt a joyful quivering in the depths of his gut. “And did he travel much between here and Gore?”

  Leif nodded angrily. “For weeks we didn’t know where he was. Then suddenly he was back, and not a word could we get out of him.”

  “All in secrecy, eh?”

  “He didn’t trust his own companion knights.” The disgruntled Orkneyan frowned. “And we’re the men of the last circle, all sworn to die before a sword touches him.” He stabbed a finger at his mutilated face. “I took this for him, to keep him fine for the queen. But still we don’t know what happened when he went to Gore. So when I heard in the courtyard that a traveler had come from there, I—”

  “Leave me!” Merlin closed his eyes, and willed the Orkneyan away. So! his soul was hissing. So!

  So Sir Lamorak was in the confidence of Queen Morgause. He had been with Queen Morgan when the child was born, then disappeared afterward. As the boy had done too.

  And now Queen Morgause would not see him—too busy on affairs of state?

  Well, he could wait. Because now he knew he had come to the right place.

  He cackled venomously and rose to his feet, gathering up his robe around his skinny shanks to resume pacing the granite floor of the chamber again.

  The secret lay here with Queen Morgause, Morgan’s only sister, her closest living kin.

  And here he was, Merlin Pendragon, Merlin the Bard.

  And Morgause had to speak to him in the end, if only for fear of the Dark Ones, who punished such breaches of hospitality.

  Well, so be it. Sighing, Merlin made his way back to his seat. Mingling curses and sacred prayers, he wriggled himself down in the driftwood throne again, and set himself to wait.

  THE BEDCHAMBER WAS heavily curtained against the light, the small windows muffled against the night that was always day. Glowing rugs and thick hangings softened the gray stone floor, and brightened the walls. One candle burned on a strange wooden chest, beside a big copper bowl of summer lavender. In the scented darkness of the massive canopied bed, a figure stirred with the question she had asked a dozen times.

  “What does he want?”

  The man beside her loved her enough to answer as if he had not already heard the question many times. “He is Merlin,” he said soothingly, stroking her well-fleshed flank. “Who knows?”

  “He has a reason!” Morgause heaved herself up on the pillows with a furious frown. “And he means no good. How dare the old villain come here?”

  Lamorak reached up and parted the long red-gold hair spilling down over Morgause’s breasts. At Arthur’s court, he knew, Merlin was the King’s enchanter, second father, and his dearest friend. Yet to Morgause he would always be the man who had shattered her life. Once again Lamorak felt her misery touch his heart. As a queen, she was sharp in judgment, fearless, poised. As a woman, she was lover and mother, and any man would rejoice to lose himself between her ample thighs. But the child who had seen Merlin destroy her father and prostitute her mother was still there behind it all.

  “Answer me!” she begged.

  “How dare he? Well . . . ”

  Lamorak put his honest brains to work. He swept a thoughtful hand over her breasts. His fingers sought and found the long, feral nipples, as brown as those of a she-wolf lying up with her cubs. Absently he played and pulled, kneading their tough surface as he knew she liked.

  “Merlin has only one love in life, himself,” he said at last. “After that comes Arthur, and then would come Arthur’s son. My guess is that he’s looking for Morgan’s child.” He laughed. “Of course, we know nothing, but he doesn’t know that.”

  “Could he truly believe that I would betray my sister to him?”

  Lamorak laughed. “If he does, he’s even madder than we think.”

  Morgause scowled. “D’you think Arthur sent him, to find out what we know?”

  “Arthur? No.” The words were out before Lamorak could stop his tongue. “More likely Agravain.”

  Morgause’s heavy eyebrows rose. “Why Agravain?”

  Lamorak trod down a sigh. “Because he is the most troublesome of your sons.”

  Morgause stiffened resentfully in his arms. “He was an unhappy child. His father punished him because he could never live up to Gawain. He will be better now he’s been made a knight. We shall have them up here to visit, and then you’ll see.”

  Lamorak loved her too much to argue. “When he is, sweetheart,” he said fervently, “will you think again, and marry me?”

  A look of tender pain filled Morgause’s eyes. “Oh, Lamorak,” she murmured, “how many times? Don’t ask me again, I’m too old—it’s not right.”

  “Your age is nothing,” Lamorak said wearily. “And I’m a worthy match even for a reigning queen. My father was the first of Arthur’s vassal kings.”

  She tossed her head wildly, flailing the red-gold ropes of her hair. “And your father killed my husband at the Battle of Kings! With your help and assistance, Lamorak. D’you think any one of his sons will forget that?”

  Lamorak groaned from his heart. “I was sixteen, my father’s squire, and only a boy. Surely time has washed away the blood-guilt after ten years? Let me make you Queen of Listinoise, and everyone will rejoice.”

  “No, my love.” She reached for his hand, and brought it to her lips. “Better I stay Lot’s grieving widow and you my knight, bearing my arms at tournaments and jousts. We’ll send for the boys, and all will be well, you’ll see.”

  Lamorak shook his head. He put all his anger and love into one long, hard kiss, and reached out for her again.

  “No, Lamorak!” Morgause gasped and grimaced as she pushed him away. “We haven’t decided about Merlin. Oh, if only he were as easy to deal with as you.” Once again her mind was gnawing on its misery like a bone. “What does he want, Lamorak? What shall I do?”

  Lamorak groaned. “It is for you to make policy here, my queen,” he said roughly, “and for me to love and adore you as I do.” He pushed back the bedcovers as desire stirred again in his spent and aching loins. Reverently he eyed her spreading form. He ran a hand over her white, moonlike belly, caressing the fleshy mound. “Look at that!” he whispered. “All the world’s in there!”

  He reared up beside her on the bed, and heaved her over to lie on her front. With both hands he kneaded her muscular back and shoulders, and stroked and pinched the dimpled, capacious rump. Kneeling behind her, he spread her massive thighs and plunged into the warm depths between her legs, lifting her wide hips till he gained admittance to the place he loved.

  Morgause moaned with delight as Lamorak dug and thrust. King Lot had been a brutal lover, taking his pleasure by punishing her soft vulnerable parts, and she still needed rough handling to achieve her release. But Lamorak had the measure of her needs. As she felt his weight, she sighed, and drew his hand forward to tease her nipple till she was almost lost in the pleasure of such sweet pain.

  What did Merlin want?

  The thought chased through her brain again and was gone.

  What did it matter?

  Let the old warlock sit in the Audience Chamber forever. He would get nothing from her.

  HIGH IN THE CLEFT of a pine, the spirit stirred. Lazily she stretched and uncoiled her sinuous frame as her eyes pierced the miles between her treetop and the place she surveyed. Voluptuously she released her vapors, and savored their stench as she writhed. So Merlin thought Morgause would bow to his will? Ha!

  She brayed like a donkey, and spat with mirth. And Merlin believed he could lay claim to her son? Well, he would have to be taught to think again. And to learn to respect her will, as was her due.

  Her black eyes turned to red. The owl roosting in the nearby tree hooted with fear, and flapped off into the night. She burned on unaware. Had they forgotten, all these earthbound fools, the power she had over all of them when she cho
se?

  She cackled again at the thought of Merlin’s quest. He pitted his will against hers?

  Had the old man forgotten all the times when his ancient frame was racked with unseemly longings from his younger days? When his slack loins and shriveled genitals itched and twitched with the hunger for young flesh? And how often she had come to him in the throes of his midnight lust?

  Must I teach you again, Merlin?

  She laughed, and the mountain creatures ran to their holes.

  So, Merlin, we know what you will choose.

  Now she rode him again in her mind, punishing the quivering old carcass between the spikes of her knees. Enough? No, for the man who killed her father and whored her mother, there would never be vengeance enough. Next time she would rake his eyelids with her claws, goad his sides to blood with the spurs in her heels.

  For always there would be another time. Merlin was hers for all time, it was his doom. Lord of light as he was, this was the darkness he carried at the core of himself, and never would he be free of it.

  Next time, Merlin and Arthur too.

  She panted, and birds dropped poisoned from the trees.

  Arthur—

  She stopped in her airy dance, and the sky grew dark.

  What should she do with Arthur? In the convent, she had gladly sucked his blood. She had wanted him dead, to pay for Accolon. And as the pious Sister Ann, she would joyfully have laid him out and sewn him in his shroud.

  But now—

  Scalding gusts of delight came hissing from her frame.

  It was good to see how Arthur suffered now. Never again would he be free from pain. His body was scarred with a hundred crippling blows, and every puckered weal would remind him of the beauty and strength he had lost.

  But more, she rejoiced, how he suffered in his mind! He would never forgive himself for losing the scabbard of the Summer Country’s queens. And he would never see that again in all his life. That was for Mordred now, as Arthur must know. It was all he would have from the father he did not know. But what else would he need to found a new line of kings?