The Knight of the Sacred Lake

by Rosalind Miles

  Her cry soared to the astral plane, and scattered the stars. King Mordred! Yes, for this alone Arthur must not die. Mordred was too young yet to take his place. The boy had to grow in safety, and learn his destiny. Arthur must live to keep the kingdom for his son.

  But while he lived, he must pay every day. Her mind wandered lazily through what she might do. Easy enough to finish what Accolon had begun. The wound he gave Arthur was one that might never heal. Arthur’s manhood now was hanging by a thread. Cut that, and he would never be whole again.

  Smiling, she started to sharpen her terrible claws. Perhaps she would find another way to castrate him too. It was easy for a man to be noble when his faith was never tried. A clacking like a storm of angry crows began in her head. How noble will you be, brother of mine, when you discover that your friend lies down with your wife?

  Her scream came from the bowels of the earth. “I should be your wife!”

  Next time, she would take Arthur for her own. And not only for her lover, but for her brother, partner, King, and chosen one, to rule together and outshine them all. Next time he would love her as she had loved him. She would not lose him, as she had lost so much before. Since time out of mind he was destined to be hers. And only the wretched Guenevere had come between.

  She writhed in the air, shedding little burning flakes of flame. But for Guenevere, Arthur would have embraced his true destiny. So she must suffer, Guenevere must pay. And Lancelot? He too. He would be a fitting instrument of Guenevere’s doom.

  And Merlin, of course. No other hand had dealt so much destruction through his blind urge to bring Arthur to the throne.

  Merlin, yes!

  The spirit grinned, and her sharp teeth sawed the wind. How better to punish a man than by giving him what he craved? Merlin had staked his life on finding Arthur’s son. Let him find Mordred then!

  She cackled in triumph, and a pregnant woman miscarried in the valley below.

  Merlin would find the boy. But not yet. The search must be long and hard, the road uphill. At last Mordred would be his, as the child Arthur had been his years before. Then Merlin would bring Mordred to his father, Arthur would bring him to Guenevere, and the last act of the fate that bound them all would begin.

  So! Nothing to do now but rest here a little longer, revel in the airy blue, float in this green tree. And then—

  She stretched again, and began to insinuate herself out of her aerie in the cleft of the pine. Where to begin her revenges? In a safe place, the safest she knew.

  It was time to return to the convent, time to make them pay.

  Pay, every one of them, inch by painful inch. She gurgled in an ecstasy of delight. For twenty years she had suffered in that place. In all her years as a prisoner there, no one had spared her. Now she would not spare them.

  No, none of them.

  Every soul who had hurt her must pay.

  CHAPTER 18

  A dull late afternoon crept into the King’s apartments, bathing the white walls and the red-swagged bed of state in a mournful gray. Guenevere stood at the window, her folded arms crossed over her aching breasts, her eyes on he gardens below. Midsummer had passed, and the eaves had lost their tender green. A damp June had passed into a sour July, and day after day, rank clouds had strangled the sun.

  Behind her Arthur sat propped up on his pillows marshaling his thoughts. “We’ve agreed, then,” he said heartily, “that Lancelot must be married—and soon?”

  She closed her eyes. It was good that Arthur was well enough to think about these things. And it was kind of him to want to reward his loyal knight for returning to his side. She should be pleased that Arthur was better every day, now that his terrible wound had at last begun to heal. But nothing seemed to ease the ache in her body, or the tightness around her heart.

  She opened her eyes, and forced herself to attend. We’ve agreed, Arthur said. Did she agree? She stared at the greenish glass of the window till its flaws and bubbles danced before her eyes. “Yes.”

  “Good!” Arthur cried. “I want to keep him with us here at court. If we don’t, he’ll only go back to his own land again. When Lancelot’s here, we’re all happier, you know that.”

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t sound convinced.”

  “I know you think he made you better this time.”

  Arthur smiled. “He reminded me of why I wanted to live.”

  And I don’t, Arthur? After all the hours I spent watching and weeping at your bedside, wasn’t my love worth living for at all? “He did? That’s good.”

  “So if he had a wife, he’d never want to leave.” He chuckled. “If we find the right woman for him, he won’t be able to tear himself out of her arms.”

  Guenevere raised her hand to her throbbing head. “I’m sure you’re right.”

  There was a pause. “You don’t like the idea, I can tell.”

  Guenevere stood still. “I—I haven’t thought about it, that’s all.”

  “No, don’t deny it, Guenevere, I know you.” Arthur gave a meaning laugh. “You want him to have a fairy-tale romance, meet a beautiful lady as they do in the storybooks, and fall in love.” He paused again, his hand absently soothing one of the puckered scars on the side of his neck. “But dearest, not everyone is as lucky as we were. And you’ve made it hard enough for Lancelot as it is.”

  She turned on him. “What d’you mean?”

  Arthur’s laughter was open now. “Why Guenevere, you know he’s already in love with you, like all the young men here at court. It’s ridiculous.”

  Why is it ridiculous? I’m not old!

  “Of course you’re quite out of his reach. But God knows there must be plenty of young girls willing to love him in your place.”

  “I daresay.”

  “But where’s the girl who’d be right for a man like him?” He paused, and held out his hand. “Guenevere? You’re not with me. Come and sit here while I talk to you.”

  Guenevere moved to the seat at the side of the bed. Arthur took her hand in his two great battle-scarred fists, and stroked it lovingly. “Remember King Pelles, whom you met at the Battle of Kings?”

  “Your old friend King Pellinore’s brother? Yes.”

  Oh, yes, I remember him well.

  She had only to close her eyes, and King Pellinore’s voice was rumbling once again in her inner ear. “Greet my brother, Your Majesty, I beg—the King of Terre Foraine, in the far northeast.”

  “Your Majesty?”

  Before her had stood a thin and desperate man, whose sunken face and bloodless skin had the clammy pallor of one on the point of death. All the life of his body was concentrated in his eyes. Buried deep in their bony sockets, they blazed with a fanatic’s fire.

  They were meeting on the eve of the battle that would make Arthur King, or destroy them all. “May all your Gods fight with you,” she had said.

  “There is only one God, and Jesus is His name!” the mad old king had shrilled. “He will give us victory, He will ride on the points of our swords, and His foes shall taste death!”

  One God, the Lord God of Hosts, enemy of the Mother, Father of hatred and death—

  King Pelles, yes, I remember him.

  Guenevere came to herself, shivering. “Yes?”

  Arthur sighed. “You know his wife died young, and left him with an only child, a girl. King Pelles believes that his wife died to punish his sins, but his daughter will redeem his destiny. It has been foretold to him that his grandson will be the noblest knight in all the world.”

  He paused, feeling his way with care. “But only if the girl comes untouched to the bridal bed. The prophecy demands that she must be known to no man. Then the best knight of our time will come to her, and father her Christ-given son. This boy is fated to do the work of God. His name is to be Galahad, the servant of the Lord.”

  Guenevere felt a spurt of wild distaste. “Yes, I remember now. Pelles refused his daughter every woman’s right to bestow the freedom of her thighs, in pu
rsuit of his mad dream.”

  Arthur gave a careful smile, watching her. “They are far from the ways of the Goddess in Terre Foraine. But if she must have the best knight in the world, that must be Lancelot.”

  Must be? “How old is she these days?”

  “Oh, eighteen, twenty—marriageable age.”

  Ten years and more younger than I am then. “I’ve forgotten what she’s called.”

  “Elaine.”

  “I do not like her name.”

  Arthur dared not let his inner smile reach his lips. “It does not compare with Guenevere,” he solemnly agreed.

  Guenevere shifted unhappily in her chair. “Where is she now, this Elaine?” she said, watching Arthur with mounting unease. There had been so many tales over the years.

  “Oh, she lives like a princess in a golden tower, up a flight of silver stairs, Pelles said, behind a door of bronze. The tower is secured by three separate locks, each with a different key, each in the care of a different lord of the court, until the knight comes who is fated to father her child.”

  “Gods above!” Guenevere repressed a shudder of anger. “The girl’s kept a prisoner for the sake of her wretched virginity! Oh, Arthur—” She leaned forward and pressed his hand. “That’s what comes when the rule of the Mother is overthrown, don’t you see?”

  “No, I don’t,” Arthur said quietly. “I’ve heard that she’s pious and virtuous, and she chooses to live this way. She is simply waiting for her knight who is to come.”

  Guenevere turned away. A sickness took hold of her gut. “The best knight in the world?”

  “So her father believes.” Arthur was watching her closely now.

  “And you? What do you believe?”

  “She’s young, she’s lovely, she’s pure, and she’s the daughter of a king. I think she’d make a perfect bride for Lancelot.” He cleared his throat. “You’re good at these things, Guenevere. Why don’t you put it to him? I want to know what he thinks.”

  AGRAVAIN MADE FOR the tilting yard through the fading light. His legs and arms jerked as he hurried along, and his lips twitched with the curses raging inside his head. Sores, sword strokes, sharp wounds, and foul diseases light upon you, Gawain!

  “Get out!” he’d said in the antechamber of the King. “You’re not going in, Agravain, after saying things like that!”

  Thank you, dear brother! Agravain emptied his heart, then began the stream of invective over again. May plagues blister your tongue, and cleave to the roof of your mouth. May toothaches and bone aches, liver poison and a flux of the gut come upon you, may your toenails rot—

  Agravain’s head spun. Somewhere there must be a sword that would rid him of this. One blow that would put him at the head of the Orkney clan. But not a hired blade. Rogue knights and men of the road were only good for the kill. Once the knife was in, the wagging tongues were out, and the killer blabbing in the nearest alehouse, telling his tale.

  No, Agravain brooded, as he strode along. What he needed was another second son. A younger brother who stood to gain as he did if an unknown hand cut off his brother’s life. They could come to an understanding to relieve each of them of his difficulty—

  He was at the tilting yard before he knew it. The whole place was still alive, though it was getting late. Knights and young hopefuls were all busy here, practicing their skill at arms. Agravain pushed his way through the throng around the gates and stood looking about. He knew they would be here.

  To his right, a knight on a charger was thundering down a long fenced alley on one side of the field, his lance aimed at a straw opponent at the other end. On the opposite side, a second alleyway held those jousting at shields set up on poles, or aiming to spear small rings dangling from ropes. Lining the edges of the field, hanging from the fences to cheer their own knights on, were the pages and squires. All around the waiting horses pranced and sweated and frothed, depositing great piles of steaming droppings on the ground.

  “A hit! A hit!”

  A huge roar rose from the crowd as the mounted knight caught his straw opponent on the point of his lance, and sent him spinning from his hobbyhorse. Agravain reeled for a moment at the noise and stench. Then the next cry sent him hastening forward again.

  “Sir Mador! Sir Mador of the Meads!”

  At the top of the arena, the next heavily armed knight on a restive horse waited his turn to charge. He was flourishing a grass-green banner and bearing a shield emblazoned with Mador’s arms. Agravain grinned like a dog. Mador, good! Where Mador was, Patrise would not be far behind.

  Agravain found him at the far end of the lists, where the attendants were struggling to replace the straw target on his wooden horse for Mador’s charge. Seeing Agravain coming, Patrise turned and smiled. “Sir Agravain.”

  He nodded curtly. “Your brother is trying a few passes today?”

  “Today and every day.” Patrise’s fresh young face broke into a tender smile. “Though everyone says he’s already one of the best. But we must do better for our mother’s sake, Mador tells me all the time.”

  Agravain paused. “Your mother?”

  “I shouldn’t have said that.” Patrise gave a small embarrassed laugh. “Mador says we mustn’t speak of it.”

  Mador says, Mador says—Agravain bit back the jibe he wanted to make, and gave a frank and manly smile. “You can talk of it to me. The fellowship of the Round Table is a brotherhood of blood.”

  Patrise bit his lip. “I suppose so.”

  “What does your father say?”

  “Our father’s dead.” Patrise glanced away to the end of the arena, where Mador was still waiting for the tilt.

  So only Mador stands between Patrise and the estate. Agravain’s soul crowed. “How so?”

  “He took a bad fall at a tournament. After that, my mother swore that her sons would never tread the path of chivalry. But before he died, he made her change her mind and promise him that she would make us knights. Still, the cost of it has made her very poor, and our land is under threat. So we must restore her fortunes, Mador says.” His attention switched back to the action at the top of the field. “There he goes!”

  The knight in armor charged furiously down the lists. In one smooth motion he set his lance in its rest, struck the straw target on its red paper heart, and tossed the dummy spinning in the air.

  The field resounded with cheers at Mador’s tour de force. Patrise flushed with pride. “Mador says I’ll be as good as he is one day.” He laughed. “I don’t believe him. But he knows I’ll try.”

  Mador says, Mador says—

  Coldly Agravain put aside his irritation and pressed on. “This land of yours—”

  “It’s above the Severn Water, where the Welshlands meet the Middle Kingdom, right on the borders there,” Patrise obliged. “It’s good land, green and fertile.” He laughed self-consciously. “And it’s the country of my heart.”

  He gestured around at the shouting bystanders, and at the horses and riders gaudy in red, green, and blue. “My heart is in the hills, not with all this. I want to persuade my brother to stay here at court, winning the favor of the King and Queen, while I go back to the Meads to run the estate for him.”

  “For him?” Agravain kept his eyes on the distant figure of Sir Mador, lining up for another charge. “Why not for yourself?”

  Patrise stared at him. “What do you mean?”

  Agravain counted to three. “You are your brother’s heir, are you not?”

  “No!” Patrise colored hotly. “Oh, I suppose if he—yes, it’s true there are only the two of us. But Mador will marry and have children, of course he will. He’s only twenty, there’s plenty of time.” His color changed again. “Except—”

  Agravain stiffened imperceptibly. “What?”

  Patrise lifted his shoulders in an embarrassed laugh. “He loves the Queen.” He shook his head, bemused. “He adores her, he can see no woman else. He dreams of Guenevere, he talks of her in his sleep. For him, she is the woman of t
he dream.” He glanced sideways at Agravain with a doubting look. “I shouldn’t be telling you this.”

  Agravain made his voice as smooth as silk. “All men seek the woman of the dream. Sir Mador is no different from all the knights at court. We all worship Guenevere. She’s practically divine.”

  Patrise gave a relieved grin. “But my brother will find a love of his own in time. He’ll have a great brood of children, girls and boys. And when he does, there’ll be room at the Meads for us all.”

  Agravain’s voice was cool. “Did you never think of owning the land yourself?”

  Patrise shook his head. “It’s Mador’s,” he said simply. “He was born to it.”

  And he could die for it too, Agravain thought, if you weren’t such a great fool. Born to it? He wanted to squeeze Patrise by the throat till his eyes burst. He looked away. “I read once that the firstborn were not always the rightful possessors of land,” he said casually. “That if the second son had more vigor and the will to rule, he should put himself in his older brother’s place.”

  Patrise laughed in disbelief. “Why should he do that?”

  “To give the line more strength. To weed out the weaker for the stronger, and prune the family tree till only the best and hardiest shoots survived.”

  “But my brother is strong. And he’s young.”

  Agravain looked him deep in the eye. “And young men never die?”

  “Die? I don’t understand. Why are you telling me this?” Patrise’s high color had ebbed, leaving him grim-faced and gray. “Excuse me, sir,” he said with stiff formality. “I have much enjoyed the pleasure of this conversation with you, but now I must attend my brother in the lists.” He cleared his throat and looked back at Agravain. “I am truly fortunate in having him for my kin. All I want is to be at his side.”

  “As you should!” Agravain cried, and clapped him on the shoulder heartily. “And may the Gods above grant your desire. I, too, am blessed in my brothers, it’s a bond thicker than any in the world.” He raised his eyes as Mador came hurtling past, and watched him hit the target once again.