The Knight of the Sacred Lake

by Rosalind Miles

  Both men turned toward her as she came in. Guenevere saw their shocked faces, and the greeting died on her lips. Arthur shook his head hopelessly and gestured behind. She stepped forward to face what was there.

  On the bed lay the thing that had been Sir Patrise. His flesh was black, and already beginning to rot. In his hand he still held the golden apple she had given him last night. Dully she recognized the red silk tunic he had worn, the brown woven woolen breeches, his best leather boots. But his clothes were the only human thing about him now. White bone gleamed through the ruins of his face, and maggots were crawling in the hollows of his eyes.

  Guenevere tried to cry out, and found she could not speak. Vomit rose in her throat, and she clapped her hand to her mouth to keep her revulsion down.

  From behind her came the keening of a soul half mad with grief. “He’s dead!”

  On the bed behind the door crouched Mador, plucking compulsively at his skin and hair. Blood flowed from his forehead and stained the rough whitewashed loam where he had beaten his head against the wall.

  Guenevere crossed to him, and tried to take his hand. But he stared at her unknowing, gibbering in terror and pointing toward the bed. “Patrise—Patrise—he’s dead—”

  “What is this?” Arthur demanded helplessly.

  The sonorous reply filled the small cell. “Witchcraft!”

  Guenevere turned. The Father Abbot towered, gesticulating, over the pitiful body on the bed. “The powers of darkness have taken this knight’s life. All that remains is to establish the cause.”

  Mador leaped, twitching, to his feet. “The apple!” he howled. “The apple killed Patrise.”

  Guenevere gasped. “Surely not!”

  “This?” Arthur pointed to the golden apple in Patrise’s hand.

  “He took it from the Queen, he kissed it, and held it in his hands,” Mador wept. “It was meant for me. But he died instead!”

  “Mador, no!” Guenevere reached out for him, and again he jumped away.

  “The apple, you say?” The Abbot’s head swiveled like that of a hawk finding its prey. He gestured to the golden object in Patrise’s hand. “It must be bewitched, my lord.”

  Arthur nodded heavily. Guenevere stared at the gilded fruit in disbelief. The smooth golden surface had a greenish glint in the early morning sun. And suddenly it seemed an object of evil beyond compare.

  “Let me see.”

  Arthur took up the apple in his gauntleted hand, reached for the hunting knife at his belt, and sliced it in two. The golden halves parted with a soft hissing sigh, and a stench beyond compare seeped into the room.

  “God save us!” With a convulsive twitch, Arthur threw it to the floor.

  “As you say, my son.” The Abbot crossed himself, staring at the fruit. Inside its gilded skin, the flesh of the apple was as black and putrid as Patrise himself.

  Arthur’s gauntlets saved him, came to Guenevere. Goddess, Mother, tell me what this means—

  The Abbot collected himself. Ignoring Guenevere, he fixed Arthur in his glare. “And the Queen gave it to him?” he demanded ominously.

  Mador started and turned toward Guenevere, his face alive with questioning fear. “The Queen?” He was trembling so violently that he could hardly stand. “She did—she did—”

  The Abbot nodded. The germ of a dazzling plan was coming into his mind. “And I say to you again, this is witchcraft.” He placed a commanding hand on Mador’s arm. “Believe me, all witches, like whores, are destroyers of good knights.”

  Mador was staring at the Abbot with rapt regard, drinking in his every word. Guenevere bowed her head. Had this boy ever loved her? Or had she dreamed it all?

  At last Arthur moved to intervene. “Forgive me, Father,” he said, in an effort to take control. “I trust you don’t speak these words against the Queen?”

  “He’s dead! Patrise is dead,” Mador wept, “and his soul will look to me for its revenge.” He threw himself at the feet of the Father Abbot, reaching up to him like a child. “You’ll help me, won’t you, Father? Help me hunt down the witch?”

  The Abbot leaned down to him. “I will, my son. All our forces are at your command.” He glanced at Arthur. “As yours are too, sire, I dare swear.”

  Guenevere gasped with rage. She turned to Arthur. “Sir—”

  But the Abbot already was helping Mador to his feet, a fatherly arm around the slight shoulders, a firm hand on his arm. “Have no fear, my son,” he said forcefully. “We in the Christian faith are experts on such things.” He looked straight at Guenevere, and she saw the shadow of a smile. “Believe me, I shall not shrink from hunting down this witch.”

  SHE HAD BEEN a fine old beast in her time, no doubt about that. She stood foursquare on sturdy, well-shaped limbs, displaying a deep chest and powerful torso with a run of long teats that had suckled many young. Her fur was still a deep umber shaded with black, hardly brindled at all with gray. But age or softness had weakened her grip on her young. Why else would a son of the pack turn on the mother wolf, and pull her down?

  And in the courtyard of the palace too, Orkneyans marveled as the tale spread. And at this time above all, with the queen’s sons due any day. For weeks the whole place had been in a fever as the princes and their entourage made their way up north. The forests had been scoured for miles around to provide enough boar, hare, and wood pigeon for the pot, not to mention every log, every branch and stick to feed the fires, now that winter had come.

  It must have been the activity in the forest that had flushed the she-wolf from her lair. But nothing could account for her appearance at the palace gate, with a young wolf on her heels. And as she ran, he had caught up with her, leaped to rip open her flank, and grinned in triumph as she dragged herself away, mortally wounded, back to the woods.

  Thank the Old Ones that this unlucky portent had been forgotten in all the excitement when the queen’s sons arrived, Sir Lamorak mused grimly, standing with the knight companions behind the queen’s throne. Sir Gawain had been the first off his horse and into the Queen’s Hall, where Morgause waited on her single throne. She wore a velvet gown the color of the chains of amethysts that covered her full bosom and were plaited into her long flowing hair. The ancient diadem of the Orkneys crowned her head, and the ruby-colored train of her cloak flowed over the back of her throne and down the steps of the dais like a river of blood. Her long, strong face might have been carved out of stone, and her hair, freshly hennaed in fantastic shades of crimson and plum, fell to her waist like colored rain.

  Morgause rose to her feet and spread her arms. “My sons!”

  Four mighty figures bounded down the hall and fell to their knees. “Your Majesty!”

  THE FULL PAGEANT of greeting took its lengthy course. Lamorak shifted his weight on his aching feet, and watched with understanding as others of the knight companions did the same. He glanced at the queen, aloft in solitary eminence on her bleached driftwood throne. Glowing in all her glory, Morgause filled the gray granite space. Never had she looked more remote, more queenly, or more terrible. But Lamorak knew what lay behind the regal facade. He had watched Morgause with eyes of troubled love, as fear and foreboding had grown on her day by day, alongside the joy she felt as her sons drew near.

  He felt a sigh grind his innards to pulp. If you had married me, my love, you would not have to fear, he mourned within. I would be seated beside you now, your king and companion, your true partner and protector, never to leave your side. And instead, I must sneak in darkness to the bed we have shared for ten years, lurking in the shadows like your seedy paramour.

  Yet did it have to be so? At their age, did Morgause’s sons really care? He turned his eyes to the four princes standing before the throne, and saw with a start Agravain’s eyes fixed on him with a terrifying force, their glittering black depths raking his face. Lamorak gritted his teeth. He knew he had an open, unguarded mien. What had he given away?

  Again a dark premonition gripped his heart, and he struggl
ed to fight it down. What could he have revealed, after all? Even those who walked the world between the worlds could not read all men’s minds, and Agravain was no wanderer from the astral plane.

  No, all would be well. Lamorak sighed and brought his mind back to earth with the thought of his aching feet. Soon the long ritual of welcome would be at an end. Then each of the princes would be escorted to his own palace in the queen’s compound. There they would be attended by the islands’ fairest maidens, pampered, bathed, perfumed, and clad in the finest plaids the islands could provide. Lamorak nodded to himself. Agravain would be prepared for the queen’s feast like a king. Surely that must improve his temper, and help him to behave like a loving son?

  CHAPTER 43

  “Oh my lady, it’s Sir Mador—he’s petitioned the King!”

  Guenevere had heard of the meeting at once, as soon as Ina hurried back wide-eyed and trembling from the lower court. She went straight to the King’s apartments, sent out a bevy of messengers to track him down, nd by the time Arthur returned, she was ready for him.

  “Why did you agree to this without consulting me?” she began without preamble. She could barely speak for rage.

  Arthur’s head went back. “I am King in my own kingdom, Guenevere,” he said stiffly. “I don’t need your agreement every time my Council meets.”

  She ground her nails in her palms. “If not as my husband, then as King, why?”

  Arthur did not want to admit that he had been asking himself that question ever since he had agreed to the Father Abbot’s smooth suggestion a few hours ago. “Sir Mador demanded a hearing about his brother’s death,” he said stubbornly. “It’s every subject’s right.”

  “But you know that the Christians have been working on Mador. They’re only using him; he’s half mad with grief.”

  Arthur essayed a laugh. “Come now, Guenevere, using him for what? Mador’s a grown man. He knows what he thinks.”

  If only grown men did, Guenevere thought with a bitter surge. With a furious effort, she held to her argument. “They’re using him to push forward this vicious nonsense about witchcraft. You know that isn’t true. So that must mean”—she tried to calm herself—“that we have a murderer among us, someone who wanted one of our knights to die.”

  “I can’t believe that,” Arthur said with confidence. He cocked his head knowingly to one side. “There are many forces of evil beyond our ken. Witchcraft is only the name the Christians have for it, after all.”

  “But, Arthur, if you give in to this, don’t you see where it will lead?”

  Arthur’s honest face showed his bewilderment. “No, I don’t,” he said irritably. “You mustn’t forget that the Christians are men of God. They don’t want to hurt you, or anyone.”

  If only, Arthur—

  She waved a hopeless hand. She wanted to scream.

  “Guenevere—” Arthur moved toward her and tried to take her hand. “You’re taking all this too seriously, my dear,” he said in reassuring tones. “Can’t you see that it’s better to let young Mador have his say? It won’t be for weeks in any case. I’ve set the date well ahead so things can cool down. But we have to let him have his moment in court. Then honor will be satisfied, and it’ll all die down.”

  Arthur, you’re wrong.

  Guenevere turned away and began to pace the floor. “What if he demands the right of challenge for his brother’s death?”

  Arthur smiled. “He won’t,” he said confidently. “He only wants this hearing to lay it all to rest.”

  Guenevere ground her teeth. “But if he does, you’ll have to agree to it.”

  Arthur stared. “You don’t understand, Guenevere. I’m still the King.”

  Guenevere could have wept. “But even as King, if a challenge takes place and I’m found guilty, you won’t be able to stop the course of law.”

  Arthur burst out laughing. “You can’t be found guilty—you’re innocent! So it won’t arise.” He gave a contented beam.

  How to make him see, to understand?

  Her control broke. “You don’t know!” she howled. “The Christians hate the Mother. They’re calling me a witch, and they want me dead.” She flew at him, and beat him on the chest. “And you won’t listen to a word I say!”

  Arthur flushed with anger and drew himself away. “Guenevere, you’re hysterical,” he said coldly. “This is utter nonsense, and I won’t hear any more.”

  “Arthur, I beg you—”

  “No, Guenevere.” He held up his hand. Never had he looked more self-righteous and aloof. “Leave this to me,” he said with chilling emphasis. “You’ll soon see I’m right. And I think you’ll be sorry for this afterward.”

  “LET US HONOR the Old Ones at our feast tonight! And may the Great Ones in their mercy bless us all!”

  Morgause raised her goblet in salute to the crowded hall, and resumed her seat on her throne. All around them now, the granite walls were swagged with deep woven tapestries against the cold. In the body of the long chamber, a forest of trestles had been rigged for all who came. On the dais a long table held the queen, her knight companions, and her kin. She sat with Gawain and Gaheris on her right and Agravain and Gareth on her left, turning from one side to the other in nervous joy. And Lamorak sat with his knights to his right and his left across the table facing her, profoundly wishing that it was not so. I should have been at your side, my love, he mourned, at your side, not here.

  The servants were bringing the food into the hall, each struggling with a trencher as big as himself.

  “Serve yourselves, my lords!” Morgause cried.

  Gawain lifted his head and savored the smell of roast boar, roots, and wild thyme.

  “By the Gods, my lady,” he cried, raising the curious wooden pitcher that held his wine, “I know I speak for all your sons when I say, a toast to our mother, the queen, and may the Old Ones bless our return to our native isles!”

  Gawain, Gawain, threatened Agravain in his ugly heart, don’t speak for me. There are no blessings here for a second son. My Gods have deserted me, or you would not be carousing here, you would not be alive!

  Frenziedly he reviewed the night of Guenevere’s feast. How could the apple have missed its mark? To waste the precious death juice at a stroke, and miss both Gawain and Mador too! Gawain should have died, there was no question of that. But failing Gawain, Mador’s death would have done. Instead, he raged, I had to watch as that fool Patrise walked away with it unharmed, and who knows if Mador ever tasted it at all? I am cursed, he wailed inside, I am cursed and abandoned, while others live to rejoice.

  Seated next to Morgause, he watched moodily as she accepted Gawain’s toast. His mother had lost her stony pallor now, and a drowsy flush bathed her face and empurpled her heavy-lidded eyes. She was thickly perfumed in a rich heathery scent, but above it there was something else, high, thin, and sour. With a stab of recognition, he knew it for the tang of a mare in season, overlaid by the sharp trace of mingled bodies, the smell of sex. A sick rage seized him, and he could not look at her. He jerked his head away.

  “Thank you, Prince Gawain. And may the Mother herself bless you, my sons.”

  Morgause smiled on Gawain and felt a surge of warm contentment sweep over her. The old year was ending, and the new year would bring joy. Her sons and her lover were at peace, feasting together around a groaning board. Gawain and the others would come to accept Lamorak as her chosen one. Life was blessed here; they could all live in accord. Whereas at Arthur’s court—

  “My sons!” She leaned forward. “You’ve been on the road so long, you won’t have heard.”

  “Heard what, madam?” demanded Gawain.

  Morgause sighed, and her face grew grave. “One of Arthur’s knights has met a terrible death. His brother blames the Queen. The Christians are crying witchcraft against Guenevere, and demanding a hearing against her, even a trial.”

  Agravain twitched as if he had been stung. So Mador had eaten the apple, after all? A flame of joy i
gnited in his heart. His Gods had not betrayed him. Mador was dead!

  “One of the knights?” Gawain gasped. “Madam, tell us who?”

  “Sir Patrise, the brother of Sir Mador.”

  Patrise! Agravain started, and could have screamed. So his Gods had been mocking him all along!

  “Patrise?” cried Gaheris. “How did he die?”

  Morgause shook her head. “No one knows. He was found dead on his bed the night after a feast.”

  “It was the feast the Queen gave us before we left! We were all there!” Gawain stuttered. “And Patrise was in fine form that night. Gods above, what a terrible thing!” He brought his hand to his eyes.

  “But how’s the Queen to blame?” Gareth cried.

  “She gave him an apple with poison inside,” Morgause replied. “It turned him black, and rotted the flesh off his bones. The Christians are calling it witchcraft. They say Guenevere made him an offering to the Dark Mother.”

  There was a general laugh of sharp contempt.

  “As if the Great One craves such offerings,” said Gareth hotly.

  “But no one there would have wanted to kill Patrise,” Gaheris put in. “So it can’t have been a human hand at work.”

  A momentary chill passed between them all. Gawain was the first to recover. “Whatever it was,” he declared, “surely they can’t call the Queen to account for it?”

  “In Camelot, never,” Morgause agreed. “But they were in Caerleon, where the rule of the Mother passed away long ago.” Her face darkened with old memories. “Uther Pendragon destroyed the Mother-right. And Arthur is influenced by his wretched monks.”

  Gaheris groaned. “Christians see evil everywhere.”

  Gawain frowned. “And they burn witches,” he said grimly. “It’s one of their foul beliefs. So the Queen stands in danger then, it seems?”

  Morgause sighed. “Indeed, she must.”

  Lamorak stirred. “But surely not of her life?” He gestured to the knight companions all around. “Sir Lancelot must defend her, just as we would fight to the death for our queen.” He bowed his head in homage, and smiled with transparent reverence at Morgause.