The Knight of the Sacred Lake

by Rosalind Miles

  Merlin rode past the old woman and did not turn his head. If he looked back, he knew, there would be no one there. He had not asked her how many miles it was. It did not matter; the mule would take him there.

  Behind him, Morgan stretched her long body and resumed her natural shape. She smiled as she watched him riding on his way.

  To Sir Ector, Merlin, go!

  She uncoiled lasciviously, exulting in her power. Merlin would do her will as he did every time he came to her in her spirit body, begging her favor to answer his desires. And now she would see the fruition of all she had labored for since Uther came.

  Thunder and lightning convulsed her brain.

  Go, Merlin! Seek and find!

  And then beware, Arthur, beware!

  TO SIR ECTOR, yes, that was where he must go.

  Merlin’s mind was floating, beyond hope, beyond thought.

  Sir Ector.

  Could it be...?

  He had never considered Sir Ector, the old knight tucked away in his hidden valley hard by Wales. Sir Ector, the King’s loyal vassal, Arthur’s foster father, the most devoted man alive—would he harbor the child of Arthur’s mortal foe? Yet if the boy came as a squire, how would he know whose son he was?

  And where better to hide the boy than under everyone’s nose? Sir Ector never left his lands to come to court. Arthur had not revisited his boyhood home in thirty years. Fond greetings passed between them, to be sure, but after a lifetime of fostering boys to train up as knights, would Sir Ector report to Arthur or anyone else if another young lad had joined him along the way?

  The mule plodded on, mile after patient mile. At last they crested a hill, and the castle of Sir Ector lay below. Trembling in every limb, Merlin rode up to the gate tower and through to the inner court. A group of young lads on the verge of manhood were indulging in a fierce game of rough-and-tumble around the courtyard in the sun, laughing and chasing each other like puppies at play.

  Most of them took no notice as the old man rode in. With his gray-green grass-stained robes, ancient furs, and well-worn boots, Merlin seldom attracted attention unless he chose. But one of the boys acknowledged his arrival with a wave. Breaking away from the group, he leaped toward Merlin in a graceful run.

  “Good day to you, my lord!” he cried as he came up.

  He was taller than all the rest, with a slender, well-made body and finely proportioned limbs. He carried himself like an athlete, and had a horseman’s long, strong legs and clever hands. His dark wool tunic showed off an ivory skin and a head of thick black hair. His eyes were blue-black and smiling, large and lustrous, and fringed like a girl’s. He had Arthur’s open, trusting gaze, and he was the handsomest youth that Merlin had ever seen.

  His voice was light and melodious, with the faintest hint of Wales. “Can I help you, sir?”

  Pendragon...

  The old man’s heart soared and burst with love. He knew he was grinning like an ancient loon.

  “Yes, indeed, my son.”

  Cackling, he handed his reins to the boy, and leaned down to stare him in the face. “Your name, young man?”

  The boy fixed him with his hyacinthine eyes, and gave him a dazzling smile. “It’s Mordred, sir,” he said.

  CHAPTER 52

  They held each other for a moment as long as eternity, and whispered softly together, as lovers do. Guenevere was trembling so violently that she could hardly stand.

  “Can you forgive me?”

  He paused, holding her tightly in his arms. “There is nothing to forgive.”

  “Oh, Lancelot,” she wept, “say you can?”

  He drew her more closely to his chest and tucked her head under his chin. “I should ask you if you can forgive me.”

  She pulled back, astounded, and looked up at his face. “Forgive you? What for?”

  He shook his head. There was an expression she could not read around his long, full mouth. She closed her eyes and tried to compose herself. Only minutes before she had been stumbling weeping through the dark, and she still could hardly believe he was really here. He had led her gently inside the little white house, and drawn her down to lie on the narrow bed. A candle was shining to light their way in, and an applewood fire blazed cheerfully on the hearth. Now their bodies clung together in a hunger that could not be appeased.

  She reached up to touch his face. The corners of his mouth lifted into a smile. Tenderly she stroked the long groove in his upper lip, and traced the clean, hard angle of his jaw. He turned to kiss the top of her head, and his glossy brown hair swung down to brush her face.

  She sighed. “What do I have to forgive you, Lancelot?”

  “Oh—”

  He turned away. She watched as his gaze shifted beyond the rough whitewashed walls of the guest house where they lay.

  Lancelot closed his eyes. “I am your knight,” he said, as if each word cost him pain. “I chose you as my lady, above all the other ladies in the world. But when you doubted me, I was angry, and I rode away.” He caught his breath. “I failed you, lady.”

  She was pierced by a violent pain. “No,” she cried furiously. “No! You came to fight for me when I needed you. You saved my life.”

  His distress redoubled. “But at your trial, all men were against you, and you had no one but me. And I threw you my bloody sword, and rode off again.”

  She saw again the green field of her trial, the dark armor of her accuser, the jury of black-clad monks, and her savior the red knight, furiously spurring away. She could feel his body shaking with every word.

  She held him tightly, and tried to soothe his pain. “Lancelot, it wasn’t wrong for you to be angry with me. I should never have doubted you about Elaine.” She stroked his neck, and hid her face against his chest. “I was—I was half mad with jealousy when I thought you were in love. Gawain said you were going to marry—”

  “My Queen—”

  He laid his finger on her lips. “Elaine was like spring water. You are my soul’s wine. I was not for her, nor she for me. May the Great One in Her mercy grant her peace.”

  For a brief moment, the pale spirit of the lost maid of Astolat hovered sadly between them, and was gone. Then Lancelot’s head went up in the Otherworldly gesture that she knew so well. “I could not love her, because I am yours.”

  He turned his golden gaze full on her face, and her soul dissolved. She reached up and drew his head down for a kiss. His mouth was warm, and her longing for him was as sweet as summer rain. “Oh, Lancelot,” she murmured in her throat.

  His hand was already at her breast. “Oh, lady—oh, my love . . .”

  They came together like new lovers learning how to touch. He took her briefly and gently, and there were as many tears for both of them as cries of joy. After so long all they wanted was to become one again, to be whole. Then they lay together at peace, joined in a love closer than their skin.

  A sudden sadness seized her, and she stroked his flank. “All this while we’ve been apart—tell me, love, where did you go?”

  “Back to my Lady,” he said drowsily.

  “Your—?” She caught herself in a fury of self-hate. Guenevere, Guenevere, Jealous again?

  She forced herself to smile. “Who?”

  “My Lady,” he repeated. “The Lady who brought me up.”

  Guenevere laughed with relief. “Your foster mother—the Lady of Broceliande?”

  He nodded, his hair tickling her breast. “The sister of your Lady here on Avalon. I was brought up in her crystal castle behind the waterfall. She and her maidens taught me all I know.” His bright brown eyes lit up. “Men should be brought to manhood by women, because women remind men of the best they can become.” He laughed like a boy. “Men only remind each other of themselves.”

  She could not help but laugh along with him. Then somehow their laughter turned to kissing, and they made love again.

  Daylight found them drowsing and talking, locked in each other’s arms. They slept a little till the morning sun strik
ing through the window bathed all the bed in gold. The wildfowl were calling from the marsh. Nearby, the otters barked from their dens at the water’s edge, and a thousand songs and cries reminded them of the life outside.

  “Madame?”

  Lancelot reared up on his elbow in the bed. Guenevere came to herself with a sudden pang. Don’t look at me, she wanted to say. She was all too aware that the harsh daylight would show a face stained with tears, eyes swollen with weeping, and a skin that had long forgotten pink and white. Do I look old? He must think I am.

  But Lancelot was gazing down at her with joy. He covered her face with kisses, then vaulted naked from the bed. He stood for a moment in all his unselfconscious glory, then held out his hand. “Come, lady!” He beamed. “Come!”

  With Ina absent, he had to help her to dress. Deftly he dealt with her skirts and underskirts, and the laces and ties of her gown. She chose a simple, free-flowing robe of silk in a forget-me-not blue that he had loved before, and she saw in his eyes that he remembered too. At last she was dressed, “like a Queen,” he said with pride. And hand in hand they went out of the house.

  High above them loomed the vast green bulk of the Tor. They took the pilgrims’ way around the hillside to the top, tracing the ancient winding grassy maze where the followers of the Goddess worshiped Her on high holy days with dancing feet. She noticed that Lancelot fell silent as they climbed, and grew somber as they trod the intricate serpentines. Her heart darkened, and she feared to speak.

  Slowly they traversed the loved shape of the Mother lying on her back asleep. Along the top, the Tor flattened out into a sunlit meadow bright with white and gold. All around their feet, daisies and celandines spangled the grass like stars, and farther off grew tall gold kingcups and silver lady-smocks. A handful of white doves rolled and gamboled in the sky overhead. Guenevere felt the sun warming her soul. She turned with a surge of hope to the man at her side.

  “Lancelot—”

  And then she saw the hawk. A thin, dark outline sharp against the sun, he came down on the doves without warning, and struck at the leader in flight. She dropped from the sky, her white breast stained with blood, while her sisters gathered around her, flapping and screaming to drive the intruder away. The wounded bird fluttered off to the safety of a tree, attended by the rest. Lancelot followed Guenevere’s agonized gaze and took her hand.

  “That was not Merlin,” he said gently. “Merlin is part of the All-Life, a Lord of Light. He shares his being with every creature that runs, swims, or breathes. He would never attack a bird of the Goddess on Avalon.”

  She shivered. “No.”

  He drew her into his arms. “You feared the hawk because you fear Merlin’s yellow eyes.” He sighed. “Lovers who live in the shadows must always dread unwanted scrutiny.”

  Now it was her turn to sigh. “Must we always, Lancelot?”

  He broke away. “What else is there?” he cried. “You cannot leave the King.” He gave a tortured laugh. “And neither can I. I have sworn to serve him to my dying breath.”

  He roamed up and down, clenching his fists. “But neither can I leave you. You have passed through me like wine through water, and changed my soul. You bound me to you for life when you made me yours. Neither of us may either go or stay. And so we suffer. What else can we do?”

  Sorrowing, she reached out to stroke his hand. “Our love is woven out of joy and pain.”

  He ground her hands between his in mute response. She could feel desire for him pricking her skin, threading its way through every nerve and fiber, sinew, flesh, and bone.

  And that is how I love him, she thought. Through every anguish, every ravishment that the human heart can know.

  And from this comes our mystical communion, our faith, our love. Our bodies come together so fiercely to burn away the dross. Then all that remains is the thing itself.

  They were so close that he could hear her body calling, feel her thoughts. His eyes were on her, burning with desire. He drew her down to lie in the long grass, and they made one with the rhythm of the earth.

  SHE SLEPT THEN in the warmth of the midday sun. But as the day passed noon, the air grew cold, and she awoke to find herself alone.

  Did I dream it? Goddess, Mother, surely you would not bring my love back to me, then take him away again?

  She sat up wildly, casting around for him. But he was only a few feet away, staring down the hill and frowning, deep in thought.

  “Lancelot,” she called.

  “See, lady,” he cried harshly, beckoning her to his side.

  From the top of the Tor they looked down on the landing with its stone jetty thrusting into the Lake. The tiny people toiling far below looked scarcely human, like creatures of a lesser world. But they could see the wide barges of the Lake dwellers disgorging a dozen new arrivals, each with his effects.

  Guenevere gasped with shock. “Monks!”

  As they watched, another monk emerged from a building on the hillside, and hurried down to the jetty to greet the new arrivals. Soon all the monks were making their way back up to the stone-built house. Before the door, they stopped and genuflected to the white stone cross on the roof. Then one by one they trooped indoors.

  Guenevere’s heart set like stone. “The Lady told me that they planned to take the Hallows by force,” she said, “and here they are, bringing in more men.”

  Lancelot nodded grimly. “We are only just in time.”

  In time to save the Hallows, perhaps.

  But there will never be time enough for us, my love.

  He read her face. “My Queen, don’t be sad,” he sighed. “Let us take the time we have.”

  He raised his head, catching some unheard sound. “Listen, do you hear that, on the mainland, far away?” His eyes were gleaming. “Beltain is coming, lady. They’re making up the fires. Soon they will celebrate the feast of love. As we will, lady—a love greater than others will ever know!”

  CHAPTER 53

  How long did they have on Avalon? Afterward she could never say. Love’s time is not like other days and weeks, and even then they knew they lived a lifetime in he time they had. By day they roamed the island, seekng out its hidden corners and thickly wooded ways. At noon they would lie in groves of whispering beeches, or rest on the soft white sand at the edge of the Lake. Those who lived on the Sacred Isle, Goddess worshipers and Christians alike, led lives of work and prayer with little time to spare. Day after sunlit day, they had the place to themselves.

  Slowly the island ripened into spring. As the days lengthened, they spent all their time out of doors, not returning to the little white guest house till the night mists rising off the Lake drove them indoors. As the dusk drew in, they would sit hand in hand by the fire, savoring the sweet smoke of burning applewood and watching the shapes in the flames. They made love as freely as breathing, without thought. But above all, they talked.

  They spoke of their boyhood and girlhood, both growing up with love, but in the deep loneliness that royal children know. She told him about her mother, Maire Macha, the great Queen her people called Battle Raven, and for a while the dead Queen lived again in all her beauty, her loving, quicksilver ways, her undying smile.

  Lancelot’s face in the firelight lost the hard contours of manhood as he recalled a youth spent with no thought of tomorrow, only the eternal boyhood of the livelong day. He was an only son, and his mother, like Guenevere’s, had gone to the Goddess before her time. He was lucky then to be fostered by the Lady of Broceliande. Like her sister the Lady of the Lake, her spirit walked the world between the worlds, and taught his spirit how to grow.

  They talked of everything and anything, the topics of all lovers, great and small. But always they came back to the thing they could not change. With each “I love you” came the cry “What are we to do?” The sadness that had seized Lancelot on the Tor was with him still. She could not console him, for she felt it too.

  He gripped her hand and stared into the fire. “You are the Que
en of the Summer Country,” he said at last. “What you do is above reproach. Your people have had thigh-freedom since time began. And as Queen, you may take a chosen one at will.”

  Her eyes flared. “I do not follow my will. The Queen of the Summer Country takes a chosen one for the good of all. She must maintain her vigor, when her vital life is the life of all the tribe. I don’t choose for myself.”

  “No?” He grinned with all the confidence of youth and ran a knowing hand over her body, reveling in the effect of his touch.

  Sharply she pushed him away. “A Queen marries her country, not one man. Champions fall in battle, men grow older, their flesh fails. So the Queen takes a new consort to restore herself. It is her duty to renew the marriage of the sovereignty with the land. And more—it is her right!”

  His laughter fell away like summer snow. “True,” he sighed. “You may take a new knight when you please. But I have no right to enjoy your love. As Arthur’s knight, I am betraying my lord. As his comrade in arms, I break the fellowship of the Round Table by loving you.”

  “Don’t talk to me of fellowship!” she cried. “The love of men and women is far above the love between men. Men together make only war and death.”

  “Untrue!” he hissed in a passion. “For men like my cousin Bors, the brotherhood of the knights of the Round Table is life itself.”

  “But not for you!” she protested.

  “True,” he agreed reluctantly. “Oh, madame, I cannot live without you, I know that now.” He drew a ragged breath. “And I will never leave you from now on. All the suffering, all the separation we have endured has taught me this, that our love is as enduring as the earth.”

  Suddenly he was on his feet, seizing her hands and pulling her toward the bed. “Ask yourself, lady,” he demanded heatedly, “why would I leave the best love in the world?”

  He threw her none too gently on the bed, and kissed her passionately. His hands went swiftly to the front of her dress, as his lips brushed the tears from her face. “Where would I find another Guenevere?”