The Knight of the Sacred Lake

by Rosalind Miles

  “My lord.”

  Gawain moved expansively toward the throne, tossing back his travel-stained cloak. His great chest was emblazoned with the black bull of the Orkneys, and his red tunic and breeches were edged in black and gold. His broad face was wreathed in smiles, and his small blue eyes were lost in the joyful creases of reunion.

  “Sir Gawain!” Arthur chuckled knowingly as the big knight approached the dais. “Did your quest end like Sir Mador’s, with a lovely lady in your debt?”

  “Not mine, my lord.” Gawain’s beefy face was creased with mischievous delight. He rubbed his massive hands. “But I have news that you would least expect!”

  “Another knight, adventuring with a lady? A knight of mine?” Arthur leaned forward, his eyes alight.

  “Aha!” said Gawain, reveling in his tale. “Sire, you shall hear. When I left court, I wandered far and wide. Midwinter found me in a castle deep in the north. The master of the house used to go hunting every day before dawn. And the lady of the manor—”

  Suddenly he felt Guenevere’s eyes from the dais. No, he thought suddenly, not here. This conquest would be best savored when the men were alone. He cleared his throat.

  “—and the lady would arm me herself, to go out hunting with her lord,” he finished hastily. “I left there when the snows melted and spring unlocked the roads. As summer came in, I heard of a tournament up in the Humberlands. When I got there, three knights were triumphing over all the rest. Three in white armor, with golden shields.”

  Guenevere’s heart constricted. Knights in white and gold—?

  She shivered. Gawain’s voice wound on like a bad spell. “They called themselves the knights of Astolat, sons of old Sir Bernard of the Grange. But it seems that Sir Bernard had only two sons before. And neither of them could fight like Lancelot!”

  Gawain let out a mighty guffaw.

  Lancelot.

  Guenevere fixed her features in an attentive smile. “A strange story, no?” she murmured in Arthur’s ear. She turned to Gawain. “And did he win?” she asked pleasantly.

  “Win, madam?” Gawain bellowed with delight. “He trounced these country clodhoppers, one by one! They all limped off with split helmets and broken swords.” He nodded gleefully. “Oh, he hid behind plain armor and a shield without arms. But I’ve seen him fight; I’ve felt the weight of his sword.” He grinned. “It was Lancelot, I’m telling you. And he won the day.”

  Goddess, Mother, bless my love, praise his name—

  “And all because of the favor, the ladies said.”

  “A favor?” Lucan, the ladies’ man, cut in, twinkling. “He wore a lady’s favor in the lists?”

  Sir Bedivere leaned forward, his eyes alive with curiosity. “And it brought him luck?”

  Gawain nodded importantly. “Along with his white and gold.”

  Guenevere put up her hand to conceal the sudden color in her cheeks.

  My favor.

  My colors, white and gold.

  Mother, Great One, bless him for his faith to me.

  Arthur laughed with joy, entranced with Gawain’s tale. “So Lancelot has a ladylove at last? Who is she, Gawain? Speak out, man. Don’t keep us in suspense.”

  Guenevere smiled.

  Ask what you like; you will never know.

  “Sire!” Gawain flexed his enormous shoulders and grinned triumphantly. “The favor he wore was the badge of Astolat. A silk scarf, pearl-embroidered with the arms of the female line.” He paused, enjoying the suspense. “And there’s only one female in the house of Astolat.”

  Gawain clapped his mighty hands like a conjurer finishing a trick. “A daughter—Sir Bernard’s darling and, with his sons provided for, his only heir, it seems.” His eyes rolled. “A real beauty, too, they say. Folks call her the Fair Maid of Astolat.” Gawain began to laugh. “And the best of it is, he’s going to marry her!”

  CHAPTER 36

  The hovel was low, and the roof touched the ground at the back. The newcomer hovered in the shadows outside. As a stranger to the town, and one with evil in his heart, he did not want to ask if this was the place. But even by day there were few passersby in a foul and secret volley such as this. Only a desperate man would be here on a night so black that even the creatures of the dark had kept to their holes.

  Darkness and devils, what was the matter with him? Was he a coward now? Furiously the stranger reached for the latch and pushed open the door. The stink that met him would have deterred many men, but he muffled his nose and mouth in the folds of his cloak and plunged in.

  The gloom inside was little different from the darkness he had left. One tallow lamp lit up a fetid space, cluttered from floor to low ceiling with boxes and bundles and objects he did not know. Strange-smelling plants and herbs hung drying from the rafters, along with rough pelts, foxes’ brushes, and hares’ feet. One corner held a large vat full of a dark noisome liquid with an oily skin.

  “Ho there!” The stranger made his voice manly and strong. “Anyone within?”

  A chorus of low growls greeted his words. As his eyes grew accustomed to the place, he caught a glint of bright eyes and teeth, more than he could count. He knew then one reason for the stink in the room. Half a dozen cruel-eyed dogs crouched on a bed of rags beside a makeshift hearth. Their growling rose to a fury as he came in.

  A sudden cracked shout made his hair stand on end. “Down! Get down, all of you!”

  Abruptly the snarling ceased, and the dogs lay down. Straining every nerve, the stranger caught a movement at the far back of the hovel, as a dusty shape crawled out of the darkness and shuffled to its feet.

  The meager lamplight fell on a black-capped head and a black-gowned body, old before its time. A face sharpened by famine swam into view, and stained hands with nails like claws. The hovel dweller straightened up. A cage of rats was swinging from his crooked grip.

  “Are you the apothecary?” the stranger demanded roughly.

  “If you say so.”

  A good answer, the hovel dweller told himself. He had been an apothecary once, and in time he might be again. He knew at a glance that he still had the skill this young lord would require, and more. Cynically he eyed the stranger’s dark hood and all-concealing cloak. Let me guess what has brought you to my door, young sir, he grinned to himself. He set down the cage, and made a washing motion with his hands.

  “What’s your will, sir?” he inquired.

  The stranger gestured to the rough workbench along the wall, where colored liquids glowed blood-amber, green, and gold.

  “How much?” he demanded brusquely.

  The hovel dweller gave a yellow smile. “Those are all sovereign cordials for the heart. They are guaranteed to bring a dead man back to life. Whereas you, I think—?”

  But the stranger had already turned away. “That, then?” he demanded, pointing to the viscous potage in the vat.

  The hovel dweller gave a sardonic laugh. “Not unless you suffer from the spavins or the strangles, or such diseases of the horse. Of course, if your windgalls are troubling you—”

  “Hold your tongue!”

  For a moment he thought the stranger would strike him down.

  “You know what I want,” came the venomous hiss. “Let me have it, and I’ll be gone.” He was fumbling with the purse at his waist as he spoke.

  The hovel dweller bared his ruined teeth. He turned away and muttered a soft command. At once the dogs left the heap of rags. Without taking his eyes off the stranger, he knelt and rummaged in the filthy bed.

  “Here.” He rose to his feet with something clutched in his hand. It was a thin glass vial smaller than a woman’s little finger, with a dark brackish liquid swirling inside. “Three crowns.”

  “Three crowns? For that?” The stranger gave an unconvincing laugh. “There’s not enough there to kill a cat!”

  “Oh, sir...”

  With a shake of his head, the hovel dweller unstoppered the tiny container, crossed to the workbench, and reached into the c
age. His pouncing fingers seized a rat from behind, pinching the jaw to make it open its mouth. Swinging from his hand, the rat wriggled and screamed with a piercing intensity.

  The hovel dweller chuckled unpleasantly. “Now, now,” he said. Tipping the vial, he allowed one drop to fall into the creature’s mouth. Instantly it gave a scream ten times more agonized than before. Convulsing with a force that broke its back, it twisted out of the hovel dweller’s grip and was dead before it thudded to the floor.

  “Enough!”

  The stranger shuddered, and fumbled to pass over his crowns in an ecstasy of haste.

  “One drop’ll do it, even for a man,” said the hovel dweller conversationally, kicking the rat away. “In a drink, maybe, or on food. My mother swore by it dropped into the heart of an apple, in the very core. It soaks through the flesh, and leaves the outside as perfect as before.”

  “Let me go!” muttered the stranger, almost to himself. He seized the black vial with a determined hand.

  “Allow me.” Grinning, the hovel dweller carefully stoppered it, and handed it over wrapped in a filthy rag.

  The stranger made a bolt for the door, and the hovel dweller followed him.

  “Careful how you use it, now,” he called after the stranger with graveyard joviality. But his visitor had already vanished into the night. The hovel dweller withdrew, shaking his head. They had no sense of humor, these young knights.

  INA ENTERED THE antechamber as dusk fell, a three-branched candleholder in her hand. “Leave me,” the Queen had told her hours before. “I have light if I need it; I will tend the fire. Leave me, Ina. I shall be all right.” But her distracted air and haunted eyes had told another tale. So Ina was not surprised to find the room in darkness and the hearth long cold.

  “Lights, my lady,” she called cheerfully. “Evening’s drawing in. It’s almost time for dinner in the Great Hall.”

  There was no reply. Ina set down the candles with a stifled sigh, and looked around. The outer chamber was cold and deserted, with no sign of life. Cautiously she approached the inner door, pushed it open gently, and peered in.

  Guenevere lay stretched out on the bed, staring at the canopy overhead. In the gloom her eyes had an eerie wildwood gleam, and her hair was spread out around her in tumbled disarray. She looked crazed with pain, like a forest creature caught in a cruel trap, and for a moment Ina flinched from her piteous glare. Then her love for her mistress took over, and she surged across to the bed.

  “Lady?”

  She reached out and placed her hand on Guenevere’s head. The skin was cold and clammy to her touch, as if all human warmth had drained away. But a febrile vein throbbed between the frozen brows, and to Ina’s touch it said, Lancelotlancelotlancelot—

  “My lady,” she said sturdily, trying not to weep. “See now, I’ve brought the candles, let me help you to get up.”

  The shape on the bed stirred and pulled away. “No.”

  “It’s the dinner hour soon. Even if you don’t go down to the hall, you must eat.”

  “No.”

  “Yes, lady,” Ina repeated, as if to a child. “Let’s get up.”

  She slipped an arm around Guenevere’s neck, and spoke softly and persuasively into her ear. Guenevere sat up obediently, but seemed to have no command over her legs as they swung to the floor.

  “He’s going to marry her, Ina,” she said dully, her eyes staring.

  “Not Sir Lancelot,” Ina replied, in the dogged tone she had used a hundred times.

  “You heard Gawain.”

  “Sir Gawain?” Ina cried defiantly. “And what does he know, a great lubbock like him? Why, he knows no more about love or—or anything—than a bull in the fields!”

  Guenevere got to her feet and moved into the window, where the evening candle stood in its usual place. In the west, the day was sinking into night in a welter of purple and blue-black. Here and there were faint shafts of golden fire. But great clouds like bruises darkened the rim of the sky, and the star of love was nowhere to be seen.

  “He knows something,” Guenevere said faintly. “He saw—” She broke off. There was no need for words. You know what it means when a knight wears a lady’s favor at a tournament in plain sight of all. Gawain saw Lancelot with the proof of another woman’s love.

  Proof of his betrayal of our love and me.

  “It’s all gossip, lady, hearsay, nothing more,” said Ina, through gritted teeth. “Sir Lancelot’s a better man than that. He wouldn’t turn from you to the first girl he saw.”

  Guenevere gave a wan and bitter smile. “Even if she’s an heiress, a beauty, and twenty years old?”

  “Not even if she’s the Goddess herself, decked out in the flowers of May!” Ina burst out in exasperation. “Not Sir Lancelot!”

  Guenevere turned away. “He’s only a man, Ina.” Her voice grew pale and remote. “And he’s free to choose. I set him free. So what can I say if he chooses to marry her?”

  LANCELOT TOOK A last look around the tower room. The narrow wooden cot took him back to the months of pain, lying there with nothing to do but chart the passing of the seasons by the sun on the whitewashed wall. Here he had heard the Dark Mother draw up to his side, and felt her breath on his cheek. Here he had braced himself to meet his death, and here he had taken his first steps back to life. Thanks to the Great Ones, all that was behind him now.

  Except for the scar. Unconsciously he fingered the puckered welt on his thigh, a hideous thing, still red and inflamed. Well, what did it matter? No one would see it now.

  Guenevere—

  His loss stabbed him again with the familiar pain, and a restless mournful anger gripped his heart. Gods above, he was only twenty-nine! Must he live like the monks of the Christians forevermore?

  He stifled his longing and moved toward the door. Now all that remained was to make his last farewells.

  “You’re really leaving us, then.”

  Lancelot bowed his head. He had not heard Lavain coming up the stairs. Sir Bernard and his sons had made many attempts to persuade him to stay. There was nothing to be added now.

  “You’ll come back and see us soon?”

  The hope in his face made Lavain look very young.

  Lancelot turned away. “Not soon. And before I leave—” He took a breath, and turned back to the knight.

  In his russet breeches and tunic of sky blue, Lavain was the picture of youth and innocence. Lancelot felt defeated before he began, corrupt and old. But he must speak.

  “One last thing, sir,” he began in a low voice. “All this time, I have never told you my name. You and your kin have most nobly honored my wish to bury myself and my past.”

  There was a pause. The morning sun burned on the whitewashed walls. Then Lavain’s voice dropped into the silence between them, more loudly than he meant. “I know who you are, sir. We all know.”

  Lancelot was astounded. “How?” he cried. “I never breathed a word!” A sudden thought struck him, and he ran a distracted hand through his hair. “Did I talk in my fever? Or when I was asleep?”

  “Neither, sir,” Lavain said quietly. “But you forget one thing. Our sister has watched the river, and dreamed of her knight to come for many years. And for Tirre and myself, Sir Kay and Sir Lucan, Sir Gawain, Sir Bedivere, and their fellows were the heroes of our childhood days.” He smiled with the joy of happy memories. “And of all their exploits, we knew most of Lancelot.”

  Lancelot dropped his head. How strange, how cruel to hear his name again now.

  Lavain stepped toward him. “No other knight of the road would have challenged that outlaw gang, one man against eight, even though you were on horseback. We thought there was something rare about you then.” He gave a gentle laugh. “But as soon as our sister saw you, as women do, she knew.”

  Lancelot had the sense of hearing something he should have known for many weary months. But his pride still drove him to speak. “You had no proof.”

  Lavain smiled. “After the tournam
ent, we did.” His smile broadened. “Did you think anyone there was blind to what they saw in their midst?”

  Lancelot heaved a sigh and tossed back his hair. “It does not matter now.” He fixed Lavain earnestly in his bright brown gaze. “I must be gone.”

  Lavain paused. “Hear me, sir. I have to speak to you as the head of our house.”

  Lancelot’s soul filled with dread. “Surely that must be Sir Bernard’s place?”

  Lavain waved a hand. “I speak with his authority, and my brother’s too.”

  And your sister’s, I dare swear, thought Lancelot desperately. He gathered up his soul. “Forgive me, sir. I know what you will say. I heard the gossip at the tournament. The whole world had me betrothed to your sister before the day was out.”

  “She loves you,” Lavain said simply. He gave an embarrassed smile. “As we all do.” His head went up in the lordly lift that Lancelot had learned to know. “And she is worthy of any man’s love. She’s truthful and brave, and as constant as you could desire. Where her love is given, her heart is set.”

  “She is a young woman of great—” Lancelot began awkwardly.

  But Lavain did not hear. “And I think you know she’s our father’s only heir. Tirre and I have estates of our own from our mother, so our father has vested Elaine with his holding here. And Astolat is no mean inheritance, as you know.”

  “No, indeed.” Lancelot took a deep breath and tried to check his guilt and distress. “Your sister is a pearl,” he resumed gently to Lavain, “and she needs no estate to enhance her worth. Any man would be proud to call her his.”

  Lavain’s face lit up. “So you—?”

  “I cannot, sir.”

  The words fell with a dread finality from Lancelot’s mouth. “I follow one lady, Queen Guenevere. Her love is the lodestar of my imperfect life. I will never marry, never take a paramour.”

  “But surely—?” Lavain had turned pale with the death of hope.