The Knight of the Sacred Lake

by Rosalind Miles

  He threw his skinny old arms high in the air. “Merlin calls you, Mordred!” he screeched. “Come!”

  He thought the child heard him, but he could not be sure.

  “Merlin—”

  She had returned to play with him again. Yet even as the familiar agony gripped his frame and gnawed at his gut, Merlin felt himself smile.

  I have you now, Morgan, was his last conscious thought. You have shown me your son, and as good as told me where he can be found. Even you cannot stand against the child’s fate. He is Arthur’s son as well as your own, and sooner or later you will give him to his father, because you love them both.

  High overhead, Morgan tossed and writhed as she rode the clouds.

  “Love Arthur?” she screamed. “I hate him! And his bastard brat is nothing to me.” Her wail died away between the echoing spheres. “Morgan Le Fay loves no one but Morgan Le Fay!”

  Merlin shook his head, and let loose a mocking laugh. “The threads of your three lives were woven into one before time began. Arthur was mine, you have been mine, and now I know that Mordred will be mine too. Hear me, Morgan! However long it takes, you will give your son to me!”

  CHAPTER 28

  “And then to see the King coming toward us, with Kay and all the others on his heels!” Lionel laughed, his bright young face creased with delight. “How we got ast them, I swear I’ll never know!”

  “Hush,” Bors said uneasily, glancing around. Even in the heart of the forest, he feared the trees had ears. He looked up the track to the Queen and Lancelot riding ahead. Who could tell if they might not overhear, however absorbed in each other they looked now?

  He drew a deep breath. What was he fretting about? It was not as if Lionel was laughing at the lovers’ desperate plight. Ina too was out of earshot, trailing behind in a world of her own. And it had all been weeks, no, months ago now. He summoned up a laugh. “It was a rare adventure, without a doubt.”

  Lionel looked at him with a younger brother’s love. “How you came up with the idea of getting Lancelot out of the Queen’s chamber dressed as a monk, I’ll never know.”

  Bors shrugged. “It came to me as soon as you said, ‘The King listens to his monks.’ Those robes of theirs make a perfect disguise. The King himself wouldn’t be recognized in one of them.”

  “And then you said, ‘The spirit of brotherhood is our only hope,’ ” Lionel exulted, “but I still didn’t understand what you meant.”

  Bors smiled. “Well, I knew if two Christian brothers could get in to see the Queen, two could come out. The rest fell into place.”

  Lionel nodded, his smile fading away. “The Gods were with us,” he said soberly.

  “They were.”

  Silently the two shared the grim memory of that spring night, beginning with the raid on the monks’ quarters to purloin the robes. Then there was the fearsome business of getting past the Captain who guarded the Queen’s door. The final scare, when the guard had noticed their most un-Christian boots beneath their monkish robes, still made Bors sweat.

  And even when they gained the safety of the Queen’s chamber, two monks entering meant that only two could come out. So while Lancelot donned the monkish habit that Bors had brought in concealed under his own robe, Lionel, habit and all, had climbed out through the window to make his escape. The risk he had taken was the greatest of all three, since all the court was likely to be awake with the King. But Lionel was known as a blameless youth, who meant no more to the Queen than any other knight. If he had been caught slipping around the Queen’s tower dressed as a monk, he would have been taken for a Maytime prankster, nothing more. His name, his presence would never compromise Guenevere.

  But Lancelot—

  Bors gritted his teeth. The horses were picking their way softly through the shining shadows on the path, and the midday sun trickled lazily through the trees. The autumnal smell of the forest enveloped them in its rich, sad scent of nature in decay. In other company, in another place, his soul would be reveling in beauty such as this.

  But now—

  Painfully Bors acknowledged that he did not understand his cousin anymore. Even trapped in the Queen’s chamber with the King on the way, Lancelot had laughed at the danger, and kissed the Queen like a man who would choose to die in her arms rather than save all their lives. Since then, Lancelot had not seen the Queen at all. For safety’s sake, the lovers had kept apart.

  Then at dawn today, Lancelot had called Bors and Lionel to leave Camelot with him, and take the road north. Three hours after that, the Queen and Ina had ridden south. At a certain point, both parties had turned west to meet in the forest, in the heart of the deep green shade.

  But for what? Bors felt his helplessness rising like bile. For the Queen to do nothing but weep, and heap angry reproaches on Lancelot’s silent head? Don’t listen to her, Lancelot, Bors prayed silently. Put an end to this; tell her you must go.

  Tell her, Lancelot.

  The low sound of Guenevere’s voice wove in and out of the branches overhead. Lancelot listened in moody silence till it died away. Then he looked at her, wild-eyed with disbelief. “You’re telling me I have to go away?”

  “Yes.”

  “And not see you again?”

  Never again.

  Guenevere turned her head. Beside the track grew a tree laden with ivy, its pale berries sprouting balefully beneath the glossy leaves. For the rest of her life she could never look at ivy without the memory of that pain.

  “You must go, Lancelot,” she said stiffly. “We both know that.”

  “You are angry with me because I left you alone all this time.” Strong emotion made his accent more pronounced. “But we had to be careful, we were nearly caught—”

  “No.”

  Why did she feel so bleak, so cold, so old? “No, I was not angry that you did not come. It was for the best.”

  “Agravain,” he said suddenly.

  She turned to him with a start. “What?”

  “That morning, when I came late to meet the King, he spoke to me.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He asked me if I had good hunting, nothing more.”

  “Agravain?”

  Unexpectedly she felt her eyes stinging and the furious grief starting up again. She straightened her back. No tears. “You think he suspects?”

  “I thought he had noticed something. He was trying to test me out.”

  “Ha!” She gave a short unhappy laugh. “All the more reason then for you to go.”

  He shook his head. “You blame me, madame,” he persisted. “I do not want to leave because of that.”

  “I told you no.” Can’t you see that I blame myself? That I can’t bear this guilt, this grief, this pain? “We can’t go on like this. We have to think of Arthur, not of ourselves.”

  “Gods above, yes!” he groaned, covering his eyes with his hand. “I swore an oath to love and honor the King. And instead I take his wife behind his back, and dishonor him.”

  “It’s not dishonor! Our love is above the honor code of men!”

  “But that’s all I have, don’t you see?” he ground out. “Since I was fifteen, I have lived that life. To serve King Arthur is every young knight’s dream, and it was mine.”

  “So you love Arthur more than you love me?”

  He gasped with rage. “All this time, I have broken my vows for you. I have waited and endured, lived without hope. And still you reproach me with my lack of love.” He shook his head. “You were right, madame,” he said harshly under his breath. “It is time for me to go.”

  She could not bear it. “Where?”

  The look he turned on her was cold and blank. “Does it matter, as long as I am not here?”

  “Of course it matters!” Gods above, what was wrong with him? “I want to know what you’ll do, where you’ll be...” And who will love you, when I am not there.

  He threw her a glance. “You do not trust me,” he said with a savage laugh. “Already you see
lovers in my bed!”

  “I do not!”

  “No matter.” His face was like marble now. “I must go, and I will. We must part.”

  There was a silence in the forest as if all life had fled. Lancelot drew a ragged breath, and lifted his head with unconscious authority. “I am the son of a king, and I would have made you my queen. As it is, we can have less than the shepherd and the milkmaid in the fields. I have loved you more than anything in the world. But I was not born to love a married woman who will never be free.”

  “Lancelot, I—”

  “No more words. I go, madame, as soon as I speak to the King.”

  He looked up. On either side of the track the trees were thinning as the path wound uphill toward a crossroads ahead. Across the skyline ran the broad highway leading back to Camelot.

  In a silence like death, they mounted to the parting of the ways.

  Lancelot reached for her hand, and pressed it to his lips. “Farewell, madame.”

  She could not speak. He gave a broken smile, then swung his riding whip, pointing down the hill. “To Camelot, my Queen. There lies your way.”

  CHAPTER 29

  The ride back was as wretched as anything she had ever known. The air of the forest seemed laden with grief and decay. When Camelot’s white towers came into view, the golden turrets and bright banners in the autumn gaze seemed like a mocking memory of another life.

  They turned their horses down to the valley below.

  “So, Ina, he’s going,” Guenevere said dully. “Well, I suppose it is all for the best.”

  Ina bit her lip. “You’ll see him again, my lady, I know you will. Sir Lancelot won’t leave you forever without a word. He loves you too much.”

  Guenevere shivered. “Perhaps.” She turned away with another chilling thought: I am quite alone. For sure, Ina has some skills of the Otherworld. But she’s never had a lover in her life.

  Camelot rose up to meet them, glaring in the afternoon sun. As they rode into the lower court, the chamberlain hurried up. “The King has been asking for you, my lady. He wants to hold an audience this afternoon. One of the petitioners has been pressing for help, and must be answered now.”

  Guenevere held her hand to her aching head. “Forgive me, sir. Please tell the King I shall be ready as soon as I can.”

  IN THE CROWDED Audience Chamber, the girl at the front was already on her knees. Her moist dark eyes settled on Guenevere like sticky flies, and her round red mouth was open and ready to speak.

  As soon as Arthur and Guenevere were seated, she rose to her feet. Her breasts, her whole body moved invitingly under her light gown. Guenevere looked at her with distaste. This petitioner would have no difficulty in finding a champion, whatever trials she faced.

  The chamber was crowded with knights and their ladies, lords and lookers-on. There was no sign of Lancelot. Guenevere glanced around in pretended calm. Which of the knights would Arthur send out on this quest?

  “The petitioner may approach!” the chamberlain cried.

  The girl dropped her eyes and curtsied low before the throne. Her long dark hair swung down seductively over her breasts as she tossed her head and launched into her tale. In spite of herself, Guenevere found her attention caught by the story of the girl’s older sister, left sole heir to their father’s castle and estate.

  It seemed the lady had fallen prey to a rogue knight of the road, swept away by his rough wooing, his white grin, his swaggering laugh. Foolishly she had promised herself to him, and taken him to her bed. Then she had come to her senses, and found out what a brute he was. But now he had turned on her, claiming her as his wife. He was keeping her prisoner in her own castle, to force her to marry him and make him her lord.

  The girl ended in tears, on her knees. Would the King send the best knight of the Round Table to do battle with the rogue, and save her sister’s life?

  Arthur listened avidly to every word. “Never fear for your sister, maiden! We shall find you a knight worthy of this great task.”

  Guenevere looked around. With an ugly start she saw that Lancelot had slipped in at the back. He stood at the entrance to the chamber, plainly dressed and ready for the road. Beside him stood Bors and Lionel, similarly equipped. His eyes were fixed on the girl, and he was watching intently all that went on. Her heart lurched. Goddess, Mother, not Lancelot. Not with this woman.

  “Guenevere?” It was Arthur, murmuring quietly at her side. “Who shall we send?”

  She forced herself to scan the body of the hall. Already Gawain was grinning coarsely at his brothers, lusting for the girl, it was clear, not for the quest, whatever rewards it might bring. Agravain’s glowering face and jutting chin showed that he longed to challenge Gawain’s bid to defend this maiden in distress. But the girl would have to be protected from them both.

  She leaned across to Arthur, and touched his arm.

  “Not Gawain,” she murmured. “Nor Agravain.”

  “No,” Arthur said softly, and she knew he shared her fears. She knew too that she could trust him to do right. He was a good man, and a good King. The thought made her feel worse.

  “Who, then?” Arthur wondered quietly in her ear.

  Anyone but Lancelot.

  Through a rising mist Guenevere could see the young woman’s bold black eyes, her glistening mouth, her bulging breasts beneath her low-cut gown. The memory of Lancelot’s lean brown nakedness came to her with a sharp catch of pain. The girl must want him, every woman did. He would rescue the sister, and both of them would be duly grateful afterward. They’d do anything for him; he could count on that.

  Enough.

  She shook her head in disgust. No need for thoughts like these. There were other knights. Her eyes roved over the group nearest the dais. Kay and Bedivere were waiting patiently, secure in the knowledge that they would not be sent. Sir Lucan was holding his handsome face impassively, making sure that he did not catch the King’s eye. With his long red-gold hair and lithe body, Guenevere reflected, Lucan could not help but be a ladies’ man.

  But much as Sir Lucan loved women, this knight liked to choose his mistresses for himself. Being chosen to help a damsel in distress was not what Lucan had in mind. Yet perhaps he was still the man. She turned to Arthur. As she touched his arm, he leaned forward and she heard him call out, “Sir Lancelot?”

  “Arthur—” she said thickly. But she knew it was too late.

  Lancelot broke from the ranks, and came forward down the hall. The girl turned toward him, eyes and mouth open with joy.

  “Yes, Guenevere?” Arthur said fondly, as he watched the knight approach. “What did you say?”

  She was trembling. “You could have chosen anyone else.”

  Arthur laughed. “Lancelot’s the man to make short work of this rogue.”

  “Yes, but—” She broke off. What was there to say? Her mind twisted and turned to find a drop of comfort in the desert of her hopes. She and Lancelot had been almost caught in her bed. If he favored a beautiful young girl, that would still any gossiping tongues. It could save both their names, and even their lives. It must be for the best.

  I don’t care! her heart wept. Not her! He shouldn’t go with her!

  She looked at him, putting all her sorrow and foreboding into her eyes. He looked back with a strangeness that felt like a blow.

  I cannot put my life into your hands, said his cold gaze. I must be free to choose.

  A mad impulse seized her, and a torrent of bitter reproach poured through her mind. So, Lancelot, was that what you wanted, the right to have your freedom at all costs? Is that why you made love to me, and chose me for your lady above the rest—to keep other women at bay, because you never wanted to marry and settle down?

  She gasped, and fought to put away these poisonous thoughts. How could she question his freedom, when she did not have her own? No power on earth could free her from Arthur now. And while Arthur lived, Lancelot could not be hers.

  With a leaden heart she watched Lance
lot move steadily down the hall, drawing near. But as he came up to the dais, there was a flurry among the knights, and a slight figure stepped out before the throne.

  “Sir Mador of the Meads!”

  A buzz of excitement ran through the crowded hall. The whispering died away as Mador approached, his face shining with the light of love. A sudden shadow of fear gripped Guenevere’s heart. On the day of his knight-making, Mador had glowed with that same ardor, that radiant flame. How could he sustain that devotion? How could she?

  Mador threw her a glance of adoration and fell to his knees. He bowed to Arthur. “Sire, send me!”

  Lancelot gave a half-smile and fell back.

  “What do you think?” Arthur leaned toward Guenevere. “He’s a good knight,” he added quietly.

  “One of the best,” she murmured, struggling to stay calm. “Remember when he defeated Agravain, and showed such chivalry?”

  Arthur nodded. “You’re right. And it’s important to give him a chance. Lancelot won’t mind. He’s the first to bring on the younger men.”

  He waved his hand and summoned the girl to the throne. “Lady, we grant you Sir Mador of the Meads to take up your cause.”

  “Sire—”

  It was almost a wail of dismay. The petitioner was looking from Lancelot to Mador with undisguised disgust. Her eyes roamed up and down his short, slight frame, his long fair hair and almost girlish face. Well, he’s not Lancelot, Guenevere found herself thinking savagely, but like it or not, madam, he’s your knight now!

  “Sire!”

  There was a flurry among the ladies as Sir Gawain stepped forward to challenge the decree. His eyes played over the young woman lasciviously.

  “If Lancelot is not to go, send me, my lord!” he implored.

  Arthur smiled fondly. “You want an adventure, Gawain? Then you shall go too. Not with this young lady, for Sir Mador is her champion now. But I give you leave to ride out on your own. A knight errant can do much good in the world. See that you do so, Gawain, and come back safe.”