The Knight of the Sacred Lake

by Rosalind Miles

  “But?” she prompted gently.

  He crushed her hand in his. “But killing him will not bring Lamorak back,” he said heavily. “There has been too much death. My father waded through blood to my mother’s bed. What he did then is still with us today. Someday it has to stop.”

  “If it can be stopped, Arthur,” Guenevere began. But she could see that Arthur was far away.

  “And surely Agravain may be redeemed?” he went on, with hope and sorrow mingling in his voice. “He is my kin. He and his brothers are all I have now.”

  Guenevere shook her head. “Think what he did to his mother. He would hurt you or those you love just as cruelly.”

  A dull foreboding stirred in Guenevere’s brain. Yes, he would hurt you, Arthur, if he could. He would not scruple to destroy all that you held dear. We may think of this in times to come. Agravain’s malice is not ended yet.

  “Yet blood is blood,” Arthur repeated, with sad emphasis.

  “Banish him, then, Arthur,” she said quietly. “Make him a homeless wanderer through the world. Then he will feel the pain of what he has done.”

  Arthur’s brow cleared.

  “Stand forward, Sir Agravain,” he called. “You must know that you have done a grievous wrong. We banish you from these islands, on pain of death.” He nodded to Gawain, agog at the foot of the throne. “See that he takes ship immediately.”

  “You are most gracious, sire,” Gawain said fervently. “Give thanks to the King!” he barked at Agravain. Without waiting for an answer, he hustled his brother brusquely from the court. Grinning with relief, Gaheris and Gareth hurried along behind.

  Arthur turned to Guenevere. “And now—”

  “Sire!”

  Cutting through the gaily colored court came two monks clad in somber black. The taller of the two was the first to speak as they bowed before Arthur’s throne.

  “Great news, my King!” he cried.

  He does not acknowledge a queen in her own kingdom?

  Here are enemies bolder than any before.

  “You are in Camelot, monk,” she said, raising her voice, “where I rule with the King. Your names, good sirs?”

  The monk turned toward her, raising his eyebrows with a subtly insulting air. “Of course, Your Majesty,” he said smoothly. He gestured to the monk at his side. “This is Brother Iachimo, and I am Brother Sylvester. We are Christians from the isle of Avalon, and we bring tidings of great joy for the King.”

  Tidings of Joy?

  “What—?”

  Guenevere started, her suspicions sharply aroused. But Arthur was leaning forward eagerly at her side. A memory of last night’s loving passed through her mind, and she wanted to please him now.

  “Speak, then,” she said.

  “Sire—”

  Again Brother Sylvester addressed himself earnestly to Arthur alone. “We have received an embassy from Rome. Scholars there have been working on the origins of our faith. The night before our Lord was crucified, He and His disciples broke bread, and shared a cup of wine. The next day, at His passion, He was pierced with a lance, and beaten with a sword. In all the centuries since Jesus died, these sacred relics have been lost to view.” His voice rose in triumph. “But after all this time they have been traced again.”

  No—they cannot do this—they would not dare—

  A red mist was flooding Guenevere’s brain. She leaned forward, gripping the arms of her throne. “Monk, are you trying to say...?”

  But Arthur was already on the edge of his throne. “The relics of Christ’s passion?” he breathed, his eyes bright and staring. “Found again? Where?”

  “Here, sire!” the monk cried. “On the isle of Avalon.” He turned to Guenevere with a superior smile. “Now we know why the ancients called it the Sacred Isle. The holy women who have lived there were guarding a treasure greater than they knew.”

  Goddess, Mother, the arrogance of these men—

  “Hear me, monk,” she said levelly, fighting her fury down. “The Hallows of our Goddess have been on Avalon since before your Christ was born. These sacred things belong to the Great Mother. They have nothing to do with Christianity at all.”

  “They were thought so, madam, in that benighted time,” corrected Brother Sylvester smoothly. “But God lifts the darkness of ignorance with the light of our faith. We know the truth at last.” He turned to Arthur again. “A holy follower of our Lord, Joseph of Arimathea, brought them here. The vessels of the Last Supper, and the weapons of Christ crucified—it’s a miracle, sire!” he cried enthusiastically.

  “Praise the Lord!” put in Brother Iachimo at his side, rolling up his eyes. “The Lord’s name be praised!”

  Arthur’s face was pale with ecstasy. “Christ’s cup and plate?” he gasped. “And the instruments of His passion—sirs, are you saying that you’ve found the Holy Grail?”

  Sylvester’s eyes bulged with triumph. “We have indeed!”

  They have the Holy Grail?

  Guenevere gasped with fear. If they have the Hallows, they must have followed Lancelot, and seized them from him.

  But Lancelot would never give them up. If he had lost the Hallows, he would have sent word to the Lady, to me, somehow.

  And we’ve heard nothing. They must have killed him then.

  Her heart failed, and she could hardly breathe.

  Lancelot is dead, and they have the Hallows now.

  The monk was grinning in triumph again. “Yes, sire, we have found the Holy Grail!”

  Once more he appealed to Arthur, ignoring Guenevere. “I came to you, sire, as one who has found comfort in Jesus Christ, to share the good news. But there is sad news too.”

  Now he will say that Lancelot is dead. That he died defending the Grail for the Christian cause—

  With a face of sorrow, the monk spread his expressive hands. “No sooner have we found the Holy Grail than it is lost again.”

  “Lost?” breathed Arthur, transfixed.

  “Vanished!” the monk cried. “Spirited away! And the Lady of Avalon herself has no idea where.”

  What is he saying?

  Guenevere came to herself with a start. “The Hallows have gone?” she demanded huskily.

  “Without trace.” Brother Sylvester could not keep the anger from his voice. “Removed in the night, we believe, and taken away, but where is not known.”

  Goddess and Great Ones, praises on your name.

  Oh, Lancelot, Lancelot—

  The monk took an eager step toward the throne. “But they may be found again. Will you help us, sire, to recover the Holy Grail? Think what a quest for you and your knights that would be!”

  “It would indeed,” Arthur agreed. His face still wore the rapt, pale look of before, and his eyes were very bright. Guenevere stared at him in sudden alarm. She wanted to hit him, to scream, No, Arthur, no!

  “The quest for the Holy Grail?” Arthur sighed, and fell into deep thought. At last he raised his head. “But I have another quest before me now.”

  He leaned down to address the monks and all the court. “I have my duty here, to this land and this Queen. She and I have ruled together for many years.” He turned to Guenevere and took her hand. “It is time for me to renew my vow to her. She is my faith and my all.”

  Oh, Arthur—oh, my love—

  A low roar of appreciation swept through the crowded court. Guenevere could not move.

  Arthur was clasping her hand. “And I know she will wish to confirm our pledge herself.”

  Guenevere found her voice. “Thank you, my lord,” she managed.

  She stood up to speak to the monks, her strength flowing through her with the power of her joy. “Listen, sirs, and learn. What you call the Grail is our Lady’s loving cup, her vessel of power. It is the circle that contains us all, the cauldron of life itself. It signifies the Great One here on earth, like the Round Table, like the Moon herself, all teaching us that in Her we are all one.”

  “Madam—”

  She
waved him to be silent. “In our faith, monk, each woman is a grail. Within her she bears life, and she gives life from herself. To the men who seek her, she is the one true object of life’s quest. To her children, she is food, warmth, love, and truth. To her man she is delight, transcendence, healing for the soul. In our faith, every woman is a priestess and every man a god. We do not need to crawl to your altars to be called sinners for enjoying and sharing the love our Goddess gives!”

  All the court was on fire with approval now. “The Queen! The Goddess!” they cried. “Love and life to all!”

  Arthur smiled. “So, brothers, you are answered now, I think?” he said courteously.

  “Thanks to Your Majesty, we are,” said Brother Sylvester through gritted teeth. Like two black beetles, they vanished into the throng.

  Guenevere took Arthur’s hand and raised it to her lips. You have kept your oath, my husband. You have stood up for the Great One, for life and love. And both lie ahead for us now.

  “So, Guenevere?”

  She looked toward the door. A faint disturbance was growing as Arthur spoke.

  And there it was again, spreading through the palace. “Merlin, Merlin, Merlin,” came the cry of recognition on a hundred lips.

  “Oh, Guenevere, can it be Merlin, after all this time?” Arthur wept. He turned to Guenevere with a face between grief and hope.

  “Merlin!” came a roar at the door.

  A tall figure burst in as the cry in the hall reached its height. He wore a long gown in Pendragon red, and a rich red velvet cloak that swept the ground. A thick band of gold held back his long gray hair, and gold earrings shaped like dragons writhed in his ears. Both hands were laden with rings like robins’ eggs. He raised his arm in greeting, and the wand of golden yew he carried hummed and purred to itself with a wild, contented sound.

  With him was a tall, well-made, dark-haired youth, dressed like a prince and looking about him in awe. He wore a black tunic edged with gold, and his cloak swung freely with the movement of his lithe, black-clad form. He had a long pale face of astonishing beauty, and hyacinthine eyes, a gift from the Otherworld.

  Guenevere could not take her eyes from his face.

  Who is he?

  She could almost see Morgan’s knowing smile.

  You know who he is, Guenevere. Who else can he be?

  Merlin strode through the throng with the youth on his heels. A strange and haunting air came in with them, and the people parted in awe to let them through. Together they came to a halt in front of the dais.

  “Kneel, boy,” he cried.

  With a flash of his indigo eyes, the youth fell to his knees. A mop of glossy black hair tumbled down over his shoulders as he bowed his head.

  Merlin raised a joyful face to Arthur and laughed with glee. His eyes blazed with a blue and yellow fire. Never had he looked more strange and wonderful. He stood by the boy, and pushed down his bent head.

  “See, Arthur, see!” he cried.

  Arthur surged to his feet, and strode to the edge of the dais. Guenevere came hurriedly to stand at his side. Merlin’s fingers were already parting the youth’s hair. He jabbed a quivering hand at the back of his neck.

  “Under the hairline, there, d’you see?”

  Guenevere’s eyes swam. At the roots of the blue-black hair, a blue-black outline shimmered and took shape. She saw two fighting dragons, closely entwined, each devouring the other’s tail. It was the mark of Pendragon, identical to the tattoos Arthur and Merlin bore around their wrists.

  “Pendragon born!”

  Merlin’s voice screamed and sighed, like the wind on the mountains of the moon. “Embrace him, Arthur,” he cried. “He is your son!”

  CHAPTER 57

  Athur’s eyes were closed. He swayed. Guenevere reached out and grasped him by the hand, caressing it frantically between both of hers. “Arthur...” she began. Her voice trailed away. What was there to say? The youth raised his head, his whole being taut with love and hope.

  Who are you? Desperately Guenevere tried to read the upturned face. The thick black hair and ivory skin were Morgan’s, without doubt, and the large, lustrous eyes midway between blue and black were all his own. But he had Arthur’s broad shoulders and strong horseman’s legs, and Arthur’s capable hands. The handsome head too, the well-shaped chin and jaw, the open gaze were Arthur to the life. Guenevere fought to control her rising fear. He was Morgan’s child, and he was surely Arthur’s son.

  The boy’s hand was on his sword hilt as he knelt. The weapon rested in a scabbard that seemed to draw down the light and whisper to its wearer as Merlin’s yew wand did. Made of silver and plaited gold, it was set with jewels and ancient stones down all its length. Wandering in and out of the pattern of precious stones, faint runes down the shaft breathed out their spells of love. Guenevere bowed her head, and tears from long ago rose to her eyes. It was her mother’s scabbard, the heirloom of the Queens of the Summer Country, which Morgan had stolen from Arthur years ago. And now, years later, she had sent it back with her son.

  “Arthur—”

  She tried in vain to show him what she had seen. He stood frozen in an attitude of grief. In all the court, no one moved or spoke.

  Merlin grew frantic. “He’s your son, Arthur! Speak to him. Mordred’s here!”

  Arthur made no move. Slowly the light died out in the boy’s young face. He cast around for Merlin, but the old enchanter was staring at Arthur in an anguish that mirrored Arthur’s own. Guenevere felt an impulse of pure rage. You could not rest, could you, you meddlesome old man? Pendragon was all in all to you, and you have had your way. But when he was born, Arthur wanted him dead. What if he still feels the same way now?

  The youth looked from one to another for help. No one moved. White-faced, he rose to his feet and took Arthur’s hand. With infinite dignity he touched it to his lips, bowed his head, and stepped back. As he turned away, Guenevere caught the word, “Farewell.”

  Farewell ?

  No, not farewell. There has been too much loss and grief.

  Guenevere turned back to Arthur and took his arm. “Please, my love, will you recognize your son?”

  Still Arthur did not move.

  The boy continued his lonely progress down the hall.

  Guenevere reached a hand up to Arthur’s face. Never had she said anything as hard as this. “Arthur,” she began, in a steady voice, “listen to me. For the love between us, I beg you, welcome your son.”

  Silence. Arthur was staring after Mordred as if a dead man walked.

  She raised her voice. “Arthur, it’s Mordred. Won’t you acknowledge him?”

  “Mordred!”

  With a cry, Arthur raised his head and came alive. In one wild move, he leaped after the departing figure, and caught him in his arms. Sobbing, he hugged the bewildered boy to his chest.

  “Mordred—”

  “Sire—”

  The hurt and pain dissolved on Mordred’s handsome young face, and soon he was weeping too. Through their tears, one sound was heard again and again: “My son—my son—my son—”

  “Come—come, both of you, come.”

  Guenevere moved toward them, suppressing her own tears. She reached up to put her arms around their shoulders, and led them from the hall.

  “SO YOU DID IT, you old fool—I suppose you always knew you would?”

  Merlin stretched out in the velvet dark and permitted himself a soft laugh. He extended an arm.

  “Come here, my dear,” he said invitingly. “No need to be cold and distant with me now. You’ve had your pleasure, playing with me all these years. And was I not a willing instrument when the moment came, and you were ready to hand over your son?”

  Morgan stirred moodily, and renewed her fretful motion through the air. “I always knew that Mordred would win Arthur’s love. But what made you believe that Arthur would receive him well? After Amir died, he didn’t care about having an heir.” She bit her lip. “If he had, he would have left that barren bitc
h and given his love to me!” Her eyes flared red in the darkness of the cave. “I would have given him twenty hundred sons.”

  “Guenevere is not barren,” Merlin said equably. “It is true that the Mother has not yet blessed her again with child. But the springs of life flow in her, mark my words.”

  Morgan clutched her forearms and hugged her naked breasts. “Forget Guenevere,” she ordered. “Tell me why Arthur loves Mordred, when the Pendragon line means less to him than the bitch.” She gave a coughing laugh. “Growing up in Tintagel, Morgause and I knew we were born to be queens. Arthur never came to his royalty till he was full-grown.” She laughed unpleasantly again. “That’s why he proved himself unworthy of me. He would not believe that royal brothers and sisters should rule together as the pharaohs did.”

  “Perhaps,” said Merlin peaceably. “But remember, Arthur never knew his father, and he lost both his sons. He gave up his dreams of lineage long ago. Mordred is not a child of Pendragon to him.”

  “Ha!” Morgan swung through the air with a snarl. “Don’t tell me he loves Mordred as my son!” Tears of fire and crystal scalded her shining eyes and scattered like brimstone, spitting where they fell. She rounded on Merlin, hissing fire, baring her fangs. “The last time he saw me, he cursed me with his hate. Tell me, then, how can he love my son?”

  Merlin’s old heart ached. An infinite, weary pity flooded his soul. She loves Arthur still, he thought, she cannot choose. Whatever he does, she cannot change her fate. But then, neither can I. Nor Guenevere, nor Mordred, nor any of us.

  He spread his withered hands, and concentrated on the raging spirit with all his force. A thousand stars bloomed in his golden eyes.

  “Hear me, lady,” he said. “King Arthur loves young Mordred for himself.”

  Lightning passed through her long pale body, and she quivered with delight. “Himself, yes!” she hissed harshly. “In himself he is precious like his father; he is fine.”

  “He is indeed.” Merlin put a seductive note into his voice. “He has his mother’s beauty, and her magic too. All who see him, love him. And Arthur most of all.”