The Knight of the Sacred Lake

by Rosalind Miles

  Cheers split the air. “I must let you go to your brother,” Agravain exclaimed, with a flashing smile. “Farewell, till we speak again.”

  But even as he left, he felt he had failed. As he stalked away, a new grievance clamored in his heart. That bumpkin Patrise had dared to patronize him? Both the brothers from the Meads must be numbered among his enemies now.

  Yet the trip to the tilting yard had not all been in vain. He had learned something that no one else could possibly know. And who’d have thought it—Mador and the Queen? What a card to play when the moment came! It was highly likely that the Queen must love him too. A woman like Guenevere would never live without love, and all the court knew that Arthur had been gelded for months.

  Agravain’s soul soared. Yes, he must watch the Queen, and Mador too. He’d get the better of all of them in the end. The rigid figure receded into the night with one idea whirling through his brain. The Queen and Mador. Mador and the Queen.

  NO, PATRISE DECIDED, before Agravain had taken three steps away, it’s no good, I just don’t understand these people, and I never will. Sir Agravain, the brother of Gawain, the nephew of the King, to talk of killing our brothers, and taking their places? I must have got it wrong, it’s impossible, it just can’t be. I’ll look a complete idiot if I breathe a word. It’s nothing to bother Mador with, that’s for sure.

  His honest heart eased. That’s it, not a word to a soul.

  Which is why Patrise wiped the frown from his troubled face before he went back to his brother in the lists. And why, when the panting Mador demanded to know what had kept him and Sir Agravain talking for so long, Patrise responded stoutly, “Mere chitchat, dear brother, nothing at all.”

  CHAPTER 19

  The door to the chamber banged as Ina came in. “Sir Lancelot has had your message, my lady. He’s coming at once.”

  “Thank you, Ina.”

  Ina dropped a cold curtsy, and was gone. A baffled annoyance was written in every line of her retreating back. Why would the Queen do this? Gods above, tell me why?

  The little maid could not have put it into words. But she always knew when the Queen was grieving for Sir Lancelot. Ina’s watchful, wide-set eyes never missed the moment when Guenevere began turning her head in distress, when she seemed to lose her way in wandering thoughts.

  When the King was ill, the Queen had been all clarity. Then it was “Call for the doctor, Ina!” or “Send for the bards, some music would soothe the King now.” And she had saved his life, all the court knew that. But now he was better, she would sit for hours without moving, her head on her hand, till her eyes were pinpoints and her face looked gray and old. Then she would shudder and shake, and come to herself with a start. In those moods she would snap off Ina’s head, or reach for the nearest thing and hurl it at the wall. Most often, though, she would take it out on herself. And to Ina’s way of thinking, that was the worst.

  And now—

  Ina relieved her exasperation by clopping her wooden heels noisily down every hollow step of the Queen’s tower. She knew exactly what was vexing Guenevere now. Good as he was, what had possessed the King to decide that Sir Lancelot must have a wife? Worst of all, that the Queen must tell him so?

  Ina scowled. Dear Gods, was there no end to the blind folly of men? But for the Queen to agree to do what the King asked—Gods above, what cruel madness was that? After all that had passed between her and Sir Lancelot, it was against the law of the Goddess—against nature, against love, against life itself.

  So what to do? Ina’s face took on its Otherworldly look. The answer had clenched her face as tight as a fist before she had reached the bottom of the stairs. My lady must not do this. Sir Lancelot must not give his love elsewhere. The Old Ones themselves will reach down to stop them both.

  STIFFLY GUENEVERE STRUGGLED to her feet. She felt like an old woman, clumsy from sitting and dreaming of the past. The sharp slam of the door echoed in her ears. Ina hated all this, she knew. Well, so did she.

  She moved into the window. A light summer mist still hung over the early-morning meadow far below. The daisies were turning their golden eyes to the sun, and joyfully opening their pink and white petals on another blameless day.

  Whereas here—

  Goddess, Mother, is this my punishment? Will nothing take this cup of bitterness away?

  She stood at the window, feeling the fingers of the sun touch her cold face and hands in vain. Frozen longings racked her body, but when she wrapped her arms around herself to try to catch the warmth, her skin felt gray and shriveled and old.

  Yes, old. To a man in his twenties, a woman ten years older is old, old, old!

  Yet all that was true when he fell in love with me.

  Standing in the kiss of the sun, she drifted back into the past. Her senses faded as the memories came, and in spite of herself, she allowed herself to dream.

  THE FIRST THING she noticed was the power of his gaze, his bright brown eyes burning with their Otherworldly air. Other men had his height, his hands, his hair, but none his intensity, his special grace. The first time they met, he touched her hand to his lips, and fell to one knee.

  “You are the lady of Camelot, Queen Guenevere. I have come to offer you my sword.”

  He sighed, and she heard herself sighing too. His voice kissed her ears like the wild wind in the trees. His hand on hers promised days of beauty, and long nights of bliss.

  “Hush—” she had said then.

  Even then, that first time, it was all she could do not to say, “Hush, my love.”

  She had seen him coming, it seemed, from the time before time. First a shadowy figure moving toward her in the dusk, shining through the gold and silver light, then the lean shape she loved. Then the swing of his cloak, the glint of the gold torque of knighthood round his neck. And then the chestnut sheen of his hair and his long, strong, wonderful face.

  Far away on the horizon a horned moon was shining, and all the heavens were burning with pale fire.

  Come—

  From the airy mansions of the moon, and the far regions of the world between the worlds, she had heard the soft insistent whisper of life itself.

  Come—

  His eyes were hazel and gold that fateful night, and bright with unshed tears. They held a question, and she had answered without words.

  Welcome, love.

  May we be granted the peace of loving and not losing, of giving and not resenting, may this newborn thing grow and flourish between us, and become what it can be.

  His eyes had a woodland gleam, and to her gaze, no soul on earth ever looked more beautiful. The hollows of his face had been waiting for her touch, and she wanted to trace his cheekbones till the day she died.

  When they came together, the moon shone down on groves of white blossom and trees with silver leaves, making their branches sing. The pale fragrance of apples hung in the air. They kissed, and felt their hunger rise to meet them like a tide.

  He gasped and stepped back, only to crush her to him more forcefully than before.

  “You are the woman of the dream, you are the love I have longed for all my life,” he moaned. “But you’re the wife of the King. Oh, lady, lady, what does it mean?”

  “Hush,” she said. “Hush, my love.”

  And she kissed the tears from his eyes, and led him toward the bed.

  But then the time had come when she stood before him, and he knew what she would say. He reached for her hand, and brought it to his lips. “So, lady,” he said huskily, “we must part?”

  Her senses spun. “You know I do not choose this for myself?”

  “The Gods command our lives. We must obey.” He tossed back his hair, and his eyes were very bright. “My Queen, let us make a good farewell. We shall have a long time to remember it.”

  “With you, I lived and loved for the first time.”

  He took her in his arms. “My soul will be with you till we meet in the Otherworld.”

  “Oh, my love—my love—”
<
br />   “One kiss, and then we part.”

  One kiss—

  THE CLACK OF the door latch brought her shuddering to herself. “Sir Lancelot is here, my lady.”

  “Show him in.”

  She tried not to look at his face as he came through the door. His lips, his hands, his every graceful move, all mocked her cold, tormented body aching for his touch. The burnt umber color of his tunic scorched her gaze, and the swing of his cloak was almost more than she could bear. She found herself smoothing down her dull chamber gown, and wishing she had dressed better for him today. Yet why? He was nothing to her now, and could not be.

  Ina closed the door, and the two of them were alone. A painful tension hovered in the air. He bowed stiffly, and brushed her fingertips with his lips.

  “You sent for me?”

  So cold, so cold.

  She took a deep breath as she moved away. “The King asked me to see you.”

  His face showed interest for the first time. “How is His Majesty?”

  “His doctors say he’s doing very well. He’s walking again, and talks of riding soon.”

  A smile warmed Lancelot’s face. “We’ll have him in arms again before too long. Riding out at the tournaments at the head of all his knights.”

  “So Gawain says.” She tried to smile back. “But Kay insists there’s no shame in sitting out. He says he and the King will make a good pair of old cripples sitting on the side, running down all the contestants for poor horsemanship.”

  Gods above, Lancelot thought, as Arthur gets better, she gets worse. His body tensed with the urge to take her in his arms. Never did she look so pale with suffering, so beautiful, so unloved. He could not bear it, and he turned away.

  Guenevere watched him move away from her.

  Why does he hate me now?

  She lifted her head. “The King wanted me to speak to you, Lancelot,” she said steadily. “He is concerned for your future happiness.”

  “I do not understand.” The handsome face closed off.

  “He wants you to think about taking a wife.”

  “A wife?” He laughed in disbelief. “I never think of it.” He shook his head. “I trained for knighthood since I was a boy. If I married, I would have to leave tournaments and jousts and adventures and traveling where I will. I would have to be with my lady, and stay at court with her.”

  Guenevere drew a breath, and forced herself to go on. “That’s what the King desires. He hopes to keep you here.”

  He gave her a strange look, and did not reply.

  She tried a light laugh. “The King has found the very wife for you.”

  His eyes bulged. “What?”

  “A pure virgin named Elaine, a very Christian girl. She’s the daughter of a king, and fated to fulfill a famous destiny.”

  Lancelot stood transfixed. “May the God of the Christians be with her if she is,” he burst out. “But her destiny will never lie with me!”

  Her nerves could take no more. “Oh, Lancelot, you’ll have to marry, all men do! Even Gawain would leave the life he leads for the right woman, if he came across her. Even Kay will find one who can bear his bitter tongue.”

  “You must forgive me, madame,” he said levelly. “I cannot marry this lady. And I cannot court her, knowing that is so.”

  “Why can’t you marry?” she cried. She was in agony. And why am I trying to persuade you, when it would kill me if you touched another woman?

  He made a dismissive gesture, and refused to reply.

  A terrible thought possessed her. “You have a mistress!”

  He turned pale. “No!”

  “You must have!”

  “Madame, I tell you it’s not true!”

  She broke away in a frenzy. “Admit it, Lancelot! I know what knights expect when they go to the aid of maidens in distress. And I know the stories that go round in the knights’ hall.”

  “Not between me and those I call my friends.”

  “Are you so different from all other men?”

  “I do not turn to whores!”

  “So any woman who loves you must be a whore?”

  “No!” He clenched his fists and fought to master himself. His brown eyes were alive with reproach. “The Gods alone know what drives you to speak like this. But I will not stay while you insult me so. By your leave, my lady.”

  With a hasty bow, he turned and strode toward the door. For a moment Guenevere stood still, unable to speak. Then she ran after him, reaching for his sleeve.

  “Oh, Lancelot, don’t go—I didn’t mean—”

  He started at her touch, and turned on her. “You are so cruel, to talk of this to me.” He stared at her in a bitter reproof. “How can I marry, when my heart is given to you?”

  “I had to—Arthur said—” She was flooding with sudden tears.

  “Why do you weep?”

  “Why do you think? I don’t want you to marry, I—”

  She could not go on.

  A moment later he was weeping too. “You knew I loved you; how could you forget? We lay together—I swore my soul to you!”

  “Then you went away—”

  “You sent me away!”

  “And the King wanted me to speak to you—”

  “You are the Queen! You can do what you please.”

  “But a queen can’t always choose to please herself.”

  “You can choose to keep my service for yourself. A queen like you will always have her knights.”

  A hollow echo sounded in Guenevere’s ear. Her sight shivered, and she saw her mother shining like a flower in the forest, surrounded by tall men. A queen will always have her knights, she used to say with her glowing smile. Yet always among them was the one true love, the chosen one—

  Guenevere came to herself in tears. “Oh, Lancelot, forgive me, I didn’t mean to wrong you so.” Her body was throbbing from head to foot. “I know that what happened between us is all in the past—”

  “Hear me, madame.” His voice was raw with pain. “The past is the present, it is with us now. And together they decide the world to be.” He took her hand, and brought it to his face. “You are my lady. I am always your knight.”

  Her body and soul dissolved. She took his face between her hands, and drew his head down for a trembling kiss. “Come to me in private,” she whispered. “As soon as you can.”

  CHAPTER 20

  “What a woman, eh?” Arthur sighed, leaning heavily on Kay’s shoulder. He gasped with the effort of speaking as he walked. “She’s kept me alive, Kay, d’you know that? So I owe it to her to get better as fast as I can.”

  “As you say, sire,” Kay breathed. His own glistening ace and strange color showed what it was costing him to bear Arthur’s weight. Stabbed to the bone of the thigh as a young knight, Kay had never been without pain since that day. But when Bedivere and Gawain had tried to offer their shoulders for the King’s first outdoor walk, they were waved away. Only Kay would do, the foster brother Arthur had trusted from his earliest days.

  “Kay can manage, can’t you, brother?” he had demanded, half heartily, half in a fretful tone. And Kay, a slender man of no great strength even before his injury, had sharply answered, “Yes!”

  Yet it was long, the broad gravel path around the castle walls, where the knights and their ladies liked to court and stroll and play. The heat of the day had passed, and the mild evening air had encouraged Arthur to try his strength. As the word spread, all the court had turned out to greet the King they had given up for dead. Gathered in excited clusters or solemn ones and twos, they stared and bowed and curtsied as Arthur passed. Moving gamely on from group to group, Arthur was visibly revived by the sight of their love.

  But walking behind them, Gawain and Bedivere could see what the effort of supporting Arthur was costing Kay. “Allow me, sire!” Bedivere said lightly, as he slipped between them and shouldered Arthur’s weight, setting Kay free.

  “What?” spluttered Kay furiously.

  “So that’s
the game!” hooted Gawain. “Look out, Bedivere, I’ll be next!”

  What a fool Gawain is, Agravain thought with cold contempt, pacing behind. He thinks like a schoolboy, all japes and pranks. But they’re all only trying to weasel their way in with the King, and curry favor with him, whatever the cost. Fools, all of them. He spat on the side of the path.

  Gawain heard him and turned. What was souring Agravain now? Well, let him get on with it, whatever it was. The important thing was that Arthur was on his feet. The next thing would be to see him out in the field on a horse again.

  A horse, yes. Gawain shifted his legs uneasily as he walked, and rejoiced in the comforting weight of what hung there. He could see that Arthur was moving gingerly, and afraid to stride out. Would the King ever recover himself again?

  Gawain sighed. Who knew? Throughout the land, the King’s wound had been the subject of countless delicate debates. All Arthur’s subjects wondered what it might mean, and no one could say. The oldsters swore that such a thing had never happened before. A knight could take a hundred sword cuts in his life, and never a one so near the site of manhood and knighthood and so much else.

  For how could a man be a knight if he couldn’t sit a horse? Gawain waved his arms jovially at the King. “And when shall we see you on horseback again, my lord?”

  Arthur’s forehead was creased with pain and glistening with sweat, but a smile of triumph marked every step he took.

  “Soon, Gawain, soon!” he rasped. A pale gleam lit his upward-lifted face. “And as soon as we can we’ll have a tournament.”

  “My lord!” Gawain burst out into a joyful guffaw. “A tournament at Camelot?”

  “Yes, yes,” Arthur insisted. “It’s been too long since the last one we held.”

  Bedivere gestured ahead. “These young men will be glad to hear of it.”

  Arthur looked up to see two young knights waiting in the shadow of the wall.