The Knight of the Sacred Lake

by Rosalind Miles

  Already now his hand was at her breast. She turned aside and unlaced her overgown. He slid his hand down the softness of her neck, his fingers gently parting her shift to stroke the tender flesh. Her skin gleamed like mother-of-pearl in the candlelight, and her nakedness made him catch his breath.

  “So beautiful,” he murmured through broken tears.

  The music of his light, accented voice destroyed her last reserve. She folded him to her body, and felt his desire. Yearning possessed her; she could not let him go. She closed her eyes and saw what she desired, his long brown length stretched out for her delight.

  Stepping back, she shed her overgown. Tears stood in his eyes, and a low sound echoed in his throat. “Lady—”

  She kissed his fingertips and brought them to her lips. “My love.” Taking his hand, she led him toward the bed.

  “FROM THE SINS of the flesh, from the evil that besets us on all sides, good Lord deliver us.”

  “Amen.” Crossing himself, Arthur got to his feet.

  The King still moved awkwardly, noted the priest, as he stood at the altar watching his flock. Perhaps it was true what they said, that his great wound had not healed.

  Dear Lord, he prayed with all the fervor of a simple heart, restore the King. And bless the Queen, and reward Sir Lancelot and all the King’s knights for their unswerving love. He bowed at the King’s approach.

  “God be with you, sire,” he said fervently.

  Arthur was walking stiffly toward the door. “A fine sermon, Father. My warmest thanks.”

  The priest bobbed his head. “Our thanks to you, sire.”

  Arthur turned away. “Kay?”

  “Here!” Kay said. “And all the rest of us.”

  “Good.”

  With his knights on his heels, Arthur led the way out of the little church. Outside the April night was thick with stars, and the raw scent of spring was in the air. Another season, Kay mourned, limping along behind, and still the King not himself. It doesn’t matter about me, I can bear to be the court cripple, but God! he prayed fiercely, let the King get back his strength!

  Some good had come of his illness, Kay had to admit. All the knights of the Round Table had rallied around their King. Even those oafs from the Orkneys had learned to bow the knee. Young Mador of the Meads and his brother, Patrise, hardly reached the Orkneyans’ shoulders, but their devotion had been as great. And Lucan, and Sagramore and Ladinas, Dinant and Tor and all of them, they had been there for their lord.

  Kay paused, and felt the old stab of pain in his leg.

  Except—

  Kay shook his head to escape the sour taste of his thoughts. Oh, Guenevere had devoted herself to Arthur, but when did she last look at him with true pleasure, or any sign of love? And what about the constant, veiled and smoldering reserve in Lancelot, who used to be like his father, the French king Ban, bright-eyed and frank. Bors and Lionel too had turned dour and cold. In court, none of their smiles ever reached their eyes.

  Kay shook his head. Put it out of your mind, he told himself. Arthur loves her, and that’s all you need to know.

  Unless what he suspected ever came to light.

  Gods above, he cursed himself, don’t even think of it! Why, it would be the very end of the world.

  He could feel his heart almost cracking in his breast. Ahead of him Arthur was laughing among his knights.

  “We’ll have a feast tonight,” he proclaimed ebulliently. He punched Gawain’s shoulder, then turned back toward Kay. “Gawain, chase up Lancelot, will you? And Kay, send to the Queen.”

  GODS ABOVE, what was wrong with the pair of them?

  Bors ground his teeth to choke back a wild reproach. Were they mad? After all the dangerous hours, a whole afternoon together in the Queen’s chamber under the very noses of the guards, what had possessed the Queen to want Lancelot back tonight?

  But there was no mistake; he heard it with his own ears. Emerging from the inner chamber, Lancelot gave a strange, luminous smile. A lingering scent of patchouli hung about him still.

  “The Queen wants me to come again tonight.”

  Ina gave a gasp. “Sir?”

  “Gods above!” stuttered Bors. “This is madness, man!” He swept a disbelieving hand over his face. “It’s one thing to come calling at this time of day. But we all agreed the nights were too dangerous. Lancelot, I beg you, think again!”

  Urgently Lionel seconded him. “You’ll have to climb the tower, cousin, it’s a dreadful risk. And if anyone came, you’d be trapped here, you’d be caught!”

  Lancelot favored them with his Otherworldly smile. “It is the Queen’s desire.”

  The—? Bors could have yelped with rage. The Queen’s desire will cost us all our heads, he thought vengefully.

  Ina drew a breath. “What time are you sent for, sir?”

  “Midnight.”

  “Midnight.” Bors forced himself to nod. As good a time as any to risk our lives. “At midnight, then, we’ll guard your way here. And at dawn we’ll come back to see you safe away.”

  THE NIGHT WAS DARK, and the sky was thick with mist. From the bell tower came the owls’ lamenting cry. In the King’s bedchamber a fire still burned on the hearth, ordered by Arthur when the feast had left him reluctant to end the day and settle down to sleep.

  Guenevere moved around the chamber like a woman in a dream.

  “You look tired, Guenevere.” Arthur gave a rueful, boyish laugh. “You must be longing for your bed.”

  Go to sleep, Arthur, sleep.

  Guenevere busied herself with the candles. “No, no.”

  “It’s selfish of me to keep you up like this.”

  She approached the bed. “Let me make you comfortable, then you can drop off.” Deftly she removed the pillows from behind his head. “That’s the way to get better, you know that.”

  “Get better?” He laughed unhappily. “D’you think I’ll ever be a husband to you again?”

  Immediately she regretted her brisk tone. “Oh, Arthur...”

  “Come here.” He reached out for her hand.

  She could see the longing leaping up in his eyes, and her soul recoiled. Goddess, Mother, forgive me, I can’t—

  Lightly she disengaged herself, and pulled the sheets up over his arms. “Don’t worry, you’re getting better all the time. You’ll soon be your old self again.”

  And what happens then? she thought, with an inner groan. Don’t ask, don’t even think. Do your duty now, that’s all you can do, and go.

  Go!

  Get out, get away from him, while you still can.

  In one continuous move she straightened the bedclothes, dropped a kiss on his forehead, and left the room. “Try to sleep. You’ll be yourself again before you know.”

  SLEEP, ARTHUR, SLEEP.

  High above the palace, the spirit of Morgan hung quivering in the air. How rich to see Guenevere playing the dutiful wife, when only hours before she had been naked on the bed with Sir Lancelot, moaning with passion and waving her long legs in the air! A gale of silent laughter shivered her frame. Yes, sleep, Arthur, sleep.

  Slowly she filtered down into the royal apartments, and down into the great bedchamber of the King. Arthur lay on his back, his great body dwarfed by the massive bed’s heavy hangings and deep canopy. Morgan shuddered with desire. In another life, he had taken her in this bed. They had acted out the true roles of royal brother and sister here, as the old Gods had decreed since time began. The Egyptians, the Etruscans, the earliest Chinese, all these had honored the union of siblings to preserve the blood royal in its purity.

  But Arthur—

  He lay on his back on the bed, his eyes closed, but still awake, she knew. His hands, his lips, the soft skin of his temples pricked at her heart. She wanted to slit his eyeballs and drop poison into his mouth. He had failed, and like the wretches at the convent, he must pay.

  But not with a simple, easy, little death. No, he must suffer what she’d undergone when they called her a whore in the
face of all the court. To know that his wife had betrayed him with his dearest friend, to be known as a cuckold the length and breadth of the isles, there was grief and shame in abundance for any man.

  Morgan spat, blistering the oak of the bedpost as she hovered above.

  And the white and gold Guenevere would be scalded in her own shame too. Seen as loose in the loins, a betrayer, an adulteress, she would lose her flowerlike fragrance in all men’s eyes. And nothing she suffered could ever be too much.

  She had broken the charm that had bound Arthur to Morgan’s desire. A woman blessed in a husband, lover, son had taken from Morgan the one love she had ever had. The spirit sharpened her claws, and rubbed her scaly hands. Time to make them pay.

  Softly she approached the bed, and laid her fingers on Arthur’s lids.

  Sleep, Arthur, sleep.

  She slipped into the bed.

  Sleep, sleep, my dear.

  And then prepare to dream.

  ARTHUR LAY ON his back, breathing easily. He dreamed that he was suddenly whole again, his body enjoying the tender shape of a female body lying next to his. His mind explored the soft planes and shapely contours, and his hands knew at once the long limbs, full breasts, and rounded hips.

  “Guenevere!” he murmured, and laughed, and wept.

  “Yes, Arthur.”

  She reached out for him, and this time he did not resist. Her hands fluttered lightly around the site of his great wound, weaving a web of light touches and caresses on his skin. In disbelief he felt the familiar, joyous throb, felt himself lengthen and thicken without pain.

  “Guenevere!” he moaned, praying the dream would last.

  “I want you, Arthur,” hissed the spirit in his ear. “I’m all alone in my bed, weeping for you. Come to me, dearest one, come tomorrow before dawn. Call your knights together, as you did when we first met. Spring is here, the green shoots are on the bough. Call on me to go with you for a dawn ride. Come and take me in my bed, as you always did.”

  Arthur wept with joy. “Tomorrow at dawn, Guenevere? In your bedchamber in the tower? Trust me, my love, I’ll be there!”

  CHAPTER 25

  Wake up, sleepyhead!”

  The servant awoke to a boisterous box on the ears. Standing over him was the head chamberer with a grin on his face and a candle in his hand.

  “What is it?”

  “Look lively, it’s the King. He’s calling for all his knights to make a dawn party to greet the Queen. He wants to go Maying, as they always did.”

  “But the blossom’s not out yet.”

  “I know that, clodpoll, it’s still in the bud! But who cares what chamber servants think? Our orders are to attend the King.”

  The boy stumbled to his feet. “And wake up the knights?”

  “Yes, he won’t go without them; call them all, Sir Lancelot, Sir Gawain, you know who.”

  “And send to the Queen?”

  “Gods above, man, not the Queen! The King wants to take her by surprise.”

  “She’ll be surprised all right.”

  “You’re right there, lad. There won’t be a more startled woman in Camelot when the King walks through the door!”

  “SIR!”

  Bors came to himself, in the throes of a bad dream. Someone had been beating on the chamber door, demanding Lancelot. And Lancelot was not there; he was with the Queen. In another second he knew the nightmare was true. There was no imagining the pounding fist, the echoing cry.

  “Sir! Sir Lancelot!”

  Across the chamber he could see Lionel, still half asleep, dazed and terrified. As always, the sight of his younger brother brought out the best in Bors.

  “Lay off that noise, and wait!” he shouted, in commanding tones. “Allow your betters to cover themselves before they open the door.” He leaped up off his rough pallet, reached for a robe, and threw open the door. In the corridor outside stood a servant of the King.

  “So, dimwit,” Bors began dangerously, “what’s the news that disturbs Sir Lancelot in his bed?”

  The servant hung his head. “No offense, sir,” he mumbled nervously, “but the King has a fancy to go dawn-courting of the Queen, and surprise her in her bed. All his knights must attend him before the cock crows. He specially called for Sir Lancelot. Oh, and you too, sir, of course.”

  Bors did not move. His mind stood still. Arthur wanting Lancelot, who was with Guenevere. Arthur calling on Guenevere, who was with Lancelot. He forced himself to speak. “When the cock crows, you say, we must meet the King?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And what’s the time now?”

  “The monks are singing matins.”

  Bors nodded. They had half an hour, maybe more. “Tell the King that Sir Lancelot sends his loyal greetings, and we’ll attend him as soon as may be.”

  He turned back into the chamber, and slammed the door with unaccustomed force. “Goddess, Mother, what are we to do?”

  Across the room Lionel was wide awake and trembling. “The Queen,” he said wildly. “Lancelot’s with the Queen.”

  “As the King will be.” Bors gave a bitter laugh. “Within the hour.”

  Lionel’s face collapsed. “We’re lost, brother,” he said frantically. “There’s nothing we can do. We can’t get word to them in there, past the guards. Lancelot will be caught with the Queen, and it’ll all come out.” His eyes widened as a new horror came into his mind. “The Christians call it sin, and their wretched monks are all around the King now. She’ll go to the fire, and we’ll all burn for it too!”

  He let out his breath in a low wail of despair.

  Bors brought his fingers to his temples. “What did you say?”

  “I said we’ll all die! They’re both trapped in her chamber when he should be here. We can’t get word—”

  “No—after that.”

  “It’s a sin! The Christians call it sin! They burn women for—”

  “That’s it.”

  Bors cut him off. He dropped his sweating head between his hands, and when he lifted it again, his face had a marble calm.

  “Thank you, brother, for your helpful words,” he murmured, through a sick half-smile. “It’s good to have a brother. And the spirit of brotherhood is our only hope, I think.”

  “MY LADY! My lady!”

  The low voice was like a wave on Avalon’s shore. Guenevere swam up to consciousness from a deep pool of sleep. Her hand moved sleepily to the body by her side. Lancelot here, loving her, again and again all night, what could be wrong in this best of all wonderful worlds?

  “My lady!” Ina’s voice throbbed with panic now. “Lady, wake up, I beg of you!”

  Guenevere opened her eyes. The flame of a candle danced before her sight. By its faint light she could see Ina hovering at the bedside, holding out her chamber gown. She glanced down at the sleeping figure in the bed. Lancelot slept like a boy, tangled up in the sheets, spreading his lordly length. She gazed at him, and almost lost herself in love.

  “Lady—”

  “Hush! Don’t wake Sir Lancelot.”

  She slipped naked from the bed. Ina wrapped the gown around her and wept softly, like a child.

  “Oh my lady!” she whimpered. “The King’s coming—he’ll soon be here!”

  “What?”

  “I overheard a message brought to the guard. They were laughing and joking outside the door, and the noise woke me up. ‘The King’s coming,’ they were saying, ‘to surprise the Queen. Just as—’ ”

  “—just as he did when we were sweethearts in May.” Guenevere nodded dully. Whatever had put this idea into his head? What did it matter? He was on his way.

  Her mind surged on. So, no hope of Lancelot leaving through the window, the way he had come. If the King was on a May adventure and about before dawn, all the castle would be awake. They were trapped in the tower like the guilty souls they were.

  “Madame?”

  She had not heard him wake. He sat up in bed, saw Ina, and fumbled to draw the shee
t across his waist.

  “What is it?” he said in confusion, his eyes wide with sleep. “Why is she here?”

  “Arthur is coming to surprise me in my bed.”

  Lancelot’s eyes flared.

  “He knows?” he cried.

  “No. He—” The words choked her, but they had to be said. “He’s coming for love. To take me Maying, as we used to do.”

  Lancelot caught his breath. “With his knights?”

  “Yes. He always used to come with his chosen knights.”

  “So the King will have sent for me.” Suddenly he was unnaturally calm. “Bors will have dealt with that,” he said evenly. “But when his knights meet, I will not be there.”

  “And he’ll find you here.”

  She glanced around the great chamber hopelessly. Chairs, tables, and a comfortable couch, but not a cupboard, not a chest where a man might hide.

  She looked at Lancelot, and terror bloomed. “Gawain’ll kill you, Lancelot, or Agravain, one of them will.”

  He swung his legs from the bed, winding the sheet around his hips, and reached for his sword. “We shall see.”

  “You can’t kill them all!”

  He shook his head. “Madame, I hope and pray I shan’t have to kill any of them. But neither shall they kill me.” He gazed at her with a sudden dark regard. “Or you.”

  She ran to him and threw herself in his arms. “Don’t talk of killing. I can’t bear it!” she wept.

  He pushed her away. “We must.”

  “Lancelot—” She tore her hair. “Listen to me!” she howled.

  “Lady! My lady!” Ina ran to her weeping, and seized her hand. “Lady, don’t take on so, the King will forgive—”

  “Never! He can’t, his monks won’t permit—”

  “Listen!”

  Lancelot started like a stag, and turned toward the door. “What’s that?”

  “Goddess, Mother, save us!” Ina wept.

  “No, do not ask for that.” Lancelot raised his hand with a terrible smile. “The Great Ones do with us as they will.” He sighed. “Ours is not the first love to end in fire and blood. Let us prepare ourselves. To the antechamber, Ina, if you will.”