The Knight of the Sacred Lake

by Rosalind Miles

  “Yesss!” Morgan cried. “This is his gift from childhood. I gave it to him in his cradle, before they came to take him away from me.” Tears as sharp as elf-arrows forced themselves from her eyes. “King Ursien took my baby from my breast, just as Uther Pendragon took Arthur from my mother before!”

  “But you got Mordred back,” Merlin reminded her. “And you brought him up as you chose.”

  Morgan’s black temper ebbed like a midsummer flood.

  “Yes!” she agreed. Her nasal laugh snaked through the echoing void. “Yes, I had him with me a good deal. Who noticed the cook’s child in the convent, the poor boy that Sister Ganmor in her kindness had to sleep in her cell, and taught how to read?”

  Merlin chuckled. “And sending him to Sir Ector to be reared with just the same knighthood training as Arthur had—truly, my dear, you have a spirit of incantation and the genius of sea fire!”

  Morgan stretched like a cat, purring at Merlin’s praise. “I knew it would be the one knight’s estate where you would never look.” She threw back her arms, and her nipples glowed like stars. “And it pleases Arthur, no, that his son had the same training as he had himself?”

  “It means the world to him. Sir Ector was the only father he ever knew. He is truly content that his own son fared no worse.”

  Morgan nodded. “Sir Ector has made my son a fine young man.”

  “He has,” Merlin said. He stepped up the soft insinuation in his voice. “He is a prince indeed.”

  “Yes,” Morgan hissed contentedly. She drifted toward Merlin and allowed him to stroke her flank. The touch of her skin bit his fingers like scorpions. But the drive to caress, to probe, was stronger than the sting.

  “You have seen Mordred, since Arthur took him in?” Merlin grinned to himself in the dark, not needing to ask. He had seen the old woman sweeping the courtyard steps as Arthur and Mordred rode out at the head of his knights. He had caught sight of the thin black cat slipping around the King’s quarters as Arthur and Guenevere feasted Mordred in private, with their chosen few. And the Great Ones alone knew how many ravens and crows, black rats or beetles he had seen watching over Mordred in recent weeks. Yes, the spirit of Morgan had not been far from her beloved son.

  Morgan did not deign to answer so foolish a thought. “What you mean, old fool, is have I done with Arthur now? Will I leave him alone? Have I had my revenge?” Her black eyes gaped like pits of hell. “Wait and see.”

  Holding her gaze in his steady golden flame, Merlin sent his soul spinning into the void, and prayed as he had never prayed in all his life. All-Mother, All-Father, grant Arthur your peace. O You who are earth and water and dwell within the spirit of all things, spare him more su fering, let him live in harmony, at one with the evening sunset and the morning dew. Hold back the hatred of Morgan if it can be withheld, and help her to rejoice in Mordred’s happiness. There is su fering, there is retribution, but there comes at last a time for hope and peace.

  Suddenly she was beside him, hissing in his ear. He knew that she had heard every unspoken word.

  “Nothing for me, old man, no prayers for me?” she mouthed in his ear.

  “Oh, yes, madam.” He echoed her hissing voice. “But you already know what I want of you.” He drew her down beside him and kissed her damson lips, stroking her body with a practiced hand. “I want what you have given me since time began.”

  CHAPTER 58

  “Genevere!”

  “Here, Arthur.”

  “Where?”

  She laughed. “Where I always am.”

  The chamber was bright with the last of the winter un, and snug and warm from the fire on the hearth. But outside the fields were spangled with frost, and as Arthur entered, an icy blast came in with him.

  Guenevere looked up from the papers on her desk and laughed again. “Close the door, quickly, you’re making it freezing in here.”

  Arthur bounded up to her, and took both her hands. He smelled of the outdoors, of his leather jerkin, of his horse. His face was ruddy from the cold, and his eyes were as bright as a child’s.

  “Huddling indoors by the fire is making you delicate,” he said fondly. “You should have come out hunting with us instead.”

  She smiled, and squeezed his hand. “Tomorrow I will. How was it today?”

  Arthur pulled up a chair and sat down by her side. In their newfound closeness, he could never bear to have her far out of reach.

  “Truly, Guenevere, you should have been there. Mordred excelled himself. The going was rough, and he never faltered once. Hedges, ditches, he took everything in his stride.”

  “He’s a very good rider.”

  “Horseman, swordsman, and fearless at the joust.” Arthur beamed. “He’s good at everything.”

  Guenevere nodded. “Sir Ector has made him into a fine young squire.”

  “Yes, wasn’t that wonderful?” Arthur marveled. “He’ll be a good knight when the time comes.” His face grew serious. “I think that was what made me see that Morgan meant well—that she sent Mordred for the same knighthood training as I had.”

  “Mordred is a credit to you both,” Guenevere said.

  “And to send back the scabbard—” Arthur’s eyes moistened, and his honest face registered a heartfelt thankfulness and simple joy. “Oh, Guenevere, wasn’t that good of her? It shows she must have been sorry for what she has done. She’s a different person now, I can tell.”

  Guenevere paused and chose her words with care. “It is good to have the scabbard back again,” she agreed.

  She did not want to remind Arthur how easily Morgan had stolen the scabbard before. But she had no doubt that whenever she wanted, Morgan could take it again. So she could not share Arthur’s faith that Morgan had changed. Privately she doubted that Morgan ever meant well. And for that reason, she could never be entirely easy about Morgan’s son. But Mordred was here now, and could not be sent away. And for the love of Arthur, she was determined not to disturb his ever-growing delight in his long lost son.

  For in the weeks since Mordred arrived, Arthur’s mood had passed from the first shock and shame to a constant delight. Almost every day he discovered something that thrilled his heart. Sir Ector had instructed Mordred in everything that long ago Arthur had learned as a boy. So for Arthur, getting to know Mordred had been like revisiting his past and meeting his younger self.

  “When we come to make him a knight, as we must in a year or two—” Arthur broke off and took her hand, plaiting her fingers in his. “Oh Guenevere, do you think he will take the Siege Perilous when the time comes?”

  Guenevere sat still. She had known this moment would come. The great chair with its carved canopy came into her mind, and she could read the prophecy in letters of golden fire:

  He Will Be the Most Peerless Knight in all the World—

  Guenevere sighed. The small ghost of Amir flickered through her mind, and she gently put it away. “It’s a high destiny, Arthur. And only the Great Ones know if it will be his.”

  A moment of melancholy gripped them both.

  Arthur pressed her hand and stroked it lovingly. “I know we always thought it was meant for Amir. If you don’t want Mordred to be considered for it, tell me, and I’ll never mention it again.”

  She wanted to weep.

  Oh, my poor love, never free of the loss of Amir. But why should I use that against Mordred now?

  My son lies in his grave by the sea. And another woman’s son should not have to su fer for that.

  “No, Arthur, I would never ask you to hold Mordred back.” She smiled painfully. “And if that is truly his destiny, none of us could.” She was struck by a happier thought. “Why not ask Merlin when he comes back? He will know. It is already written in the stars.”

  “Yes, indeed.” A smile split Arthur’s handsome face. “He may not tell us, but he will surely know. And he’ll tell us enough to decide what we should do.”

  He heaved a wondering sigh, and shook his head. “Can you believe it,
Guenevere? You here, my son restored to me, and Merlin back with us too? Dear God, I think I’m the luckiest man alive.”

  Guenevere took his face between her hands, and kissed him tenderly. “You deserve it, Arthur,” she murmured. “You’re a good man.”

  “I try,” he said gruffly. Tears stood in his eyes. “And I know how much I still have to do.”

  She patted his hand. “We both do. We’re lucky that the Mother has blessed us with the chance to begin again.”

  He kissed her fervently. “And we won’t throw it away.”

  There was a knock on the door, and Ina slipped in, smiling with delight. “Prince Mordred is here.”

  Arthur leaped to his feet and moved eagerly toward the door. “Show him in.”

  I must love Mordred, and I will, Guenevere thought. It should not be hard to love anyone who could put that smile on Arthur’s face. The twinges of unease that she still felt would fade away, when there was so much to like about the boy.

  She raised her eyes to the door. “Mordred?”

  “Madam.”

  The youth who bounded in had all of Arthur’s passionate energy and a more-than-boyish grace. He was tall for his age, and to judge by his slender frame, not yet full-grown. But already his well-balanced body and handsome face were turning heads. It was to his credit, Guenevere and Arthur agreed, that he never noticed it.

  “Mordred, welcome.” She extended her hand to be kissed. “You had a good day, I hear. The King tells me that you outdid yourself.”

  Mordred threw Arthur a glance of ardent love. “My father is too kind to me, I think.”

  “Nonsense!” cried Arthur happily. “You’re setting a great example to them all. Gawain was puffing so hard today that I think he must be getting old. Even Lucan had to exert himself to keep up. And Sagramore—” He burst out laughing at the memory. “He’s probably still trailing home with the stragglers. We shan’t see them till owl-light!”

  “Sir Sagramore was not well horsed for a country ride,” observed Mordred tactfully.

  Arthur burst out laughing. “At his weight, the Great Ones never yet made a horse for Sagramore!”

  Mordred turned to Guenevere. “Ride with us tomorrow, madam, if you can,” he urged. His eyes went to Arthur and back again. “It’s the finest thing I know, and to have you there—”

  To have a mother and father, poor boy, for the first time in your life? Guenevere nodded. “Tomorrow, yes, I will, I promised the King.”

  Mordred turned to Arthur. “There you are, sir,” he said, beaming. “We can hold the Queen to that.”

  “And you shall,” Guenevere laughed. “Now be off, the pair of you, or I shall never finish these papers today.”

  “Very well.” Arthur took her hand and brushed it with his lips. “But I’ll be back in time to take you down to the Hall.”

  Guenevere smiled in anticipation of the feast to come. She had always loved the evenings in the Great Hall, especially in winter, when the wine went around by candlelight and the fires on the great hearths played off the red and blue and silver of silk and mail.

  She gave Arthur her hand. “Till then, my lord.”

  She stood for a moment and listened to them clattering out. Before they had reached the door, Mordred’s light voice was already deep into some question that required Arthur’s ear. The conversation between them had started as soon as Arthur took Mordred to his heart, and showed no sign of ending, in this life at least. She could hear Arthur’s rumbling tones dying away. “Well, my son, I believe—”

  My son.

  Yes, Arthur was a father now, at last. And who in the world could begrudge him that? Mordred could bring many blessings into Arthur’s life. Morgan’s malice must sleep now that her long abandoned child had come into his own. And despite Guenevere’s lingering concerns, there was no sign that any of her dark power had passed into her son.

  Sighing, she turned back to her papers and worked on. It was some time later that she heard Ina’s discreet cough. “Two knights are here, my lady. Will you see them now?”

  She knew at once it would be Bors and Lionel. They were plainly dressed for the road, but an air of suppressed excitement hung about them both. Above the dull gray-green of their riding cloaks, Lionel’s skin glowed and Bors’ eyes were bright.

  “It’s harsh weather, sirs, to take to the roads tonight,” Guenevere ventured with a smile.

  To her relief, Bors smiled back. “It will be good for us, madam, to go adventuring again. We never concerned ourselves with the weather when we were boys.”

  Lionel laughed and tossed back his long hair. “Better to catch cold on the roads than grow idle at court.”

  There was a silence. “You’re going to Lancelot,” she said with soft certainty.

  The two knights exchanged a glance.

  “To look for him, madam, at least,” Bors corrected. “We don’t know where he is. He said he did not want to burden us with his quest.” He gave a short laugh. “Indeed, he did not even tell us what it was. All we know is that he has a great and worthy task to fulfill, and one he thinks that he must do alone. But we—” He nodded to his brother.

  Lionel laughed tenderly. “We beg to differ,” he said. “We are sons of Benoic, and his nearest kin. So we mean to find him, and assist his quest.”

  Guenevere stood still. He did not tell us where he is, Bors had said. That meant they had heard from him. She drew a shivering breath. “You have news of Lancelot?”

  Bors inclined his head. “He was traveling northward when he sent to us. He was well, he said, and fit from life on the road. His journey had been uneventful, and he told us that the pivot of his day comes every evening, when he sees the love-star rise. Then he faces the west, looks into the setting sun, and prays for his star, his sun, his love.”

  A sweet sadness filled Guenevere from head to foot. She trembled on the brink of joy and tears. “When you find Sir Lancelot,” she said tremulously, “tell him that I too watch for the evening star.”

  “We have seen the candle in your window, lady,” Lionel said softly. “We shall tell him that your flame calls to his, wherever you are.”

  “Thank you.” Guenevere smiled. “May the Gods go with you, sirs,” she said fervently. “And the Mother herself guard every step of your way.”

  She stood and watched them as they left the room. Outside, an early evening darkened the wintry sky. Warm memories and dear hopes, fond thoughts and tender dreams danced around her head and filled her heart and mind. She stood still and let them come.

  To love and be loved—to see love growing between those she loved—what greater joy than that? In the living moment she felt herself at one with the soul of things, with the spirit that lived in the mountain and the earthquake, in the heart of the violet, in the gaze of a newborn child. It came to her then that she knew the voice, the touch, the kiss of that secret now. She was part of that still center, that ever-expanding circle of life itself.

  Life, love, and the sorrow and joy of them both.

  “Guenevere!” called Arthur from below.

  She moved to the window and lit the candle standing there. Its small flame flared up and burned steadily as the love-star rose and bloomed brightly in the west.

  “I’m coming, Arthur,” she replied.

  LIST OF CHARACTERS

  Abbot, the Father Head of the abbey in London where Arthur was proclaimed, leader of the Christian monks in Britain, implacably opposed to the worship of the Great Mother and the Lady of the Lake

  Agravain Second son of King Lot, brother of Gawain, Gaheris, and Gareth, nephew and knight to Arthur

  Amir “The Beloved One,” only son of Arthur and Guenevere

  Ann, Sister See Morgan Le Fay

  Arthur Pendragon High King of Britain, son of Uther Pendragon and Queen Igraine of Cornwall, husband to Guenevere and father to Amir

  Ban, King King of Benoic in Little Britain, father of Lancelot, brother of King Bors, ally to Arthur in the Battle of Kings

&
nbsp; Baudwin Knight of Caerleon, old servant of Uther, supporter of Arthur when he reclaimed his throne

  Bedivere, Sir Knight to Arthur, one of his first three companion knights

  Bernard, Sir Lord of Astolat, father of Sir Lavain, Sir Tirre, and the Lady Elaine

  Boniface, Brother Monk at the Abbey in London sent as emissary to the Lady of the Lake on Avalon

  Bors, King King of Benoic in Little Britain, brother of Ban, father of Bors and Lionel, ally to Arthur in the Battle of Kings

  Bors, Sir Son of King Bors, brother of Lionel, cousin of Lancelot, and knight to Guenevere

  Clariva, Lady Chatelaine of the Castle Fils de Dame, mother of Sir Dorward and governor with him of the school for pages attended by Mordred as a child

  Confessor, the Father Monk appointed by the Father Abbot to run the House of the Little Sisters of Mercy, formerly the Convent of the Holy Mother, where Morgan Le Fay was imprisioned as a child

  Dinant, Sir Knight to King Arthur

  DomeniCo of Tuscany Papal envoy from Rome to the Father Abbot in London, and supporter of his crusade against Avalon

  Dorward, Sir Knight of the Castle Fils de Dame in Listinoise and son of Lady Clariva, with whom he kept the school for pages attended by Mordred as a child

  Ector, Sir Foster-father to Arthur, father of Sir Kay, knight to Arthur

  Elaine “The Fair Maid of Astolat,” devoted to Sir Lancelot

  Excalibur Sword of power given to Arthur by the Lady of the Lake

  GaheriS Third son of King Lot, brother of Gawain, Agravain, and Gareth, nephew and knight to Arthur

  Ganmor, Sister See Morgan Le Fay

  Gareth Fourth son of King Lot, brother of Gawain, Agravain, and Gaheris, nephew and knight to Arthur

  GaWain, Sir Eldest son of King Lot, Arthur’s first companion knight, brother of Agravain, Gaheris, and Gareth

  Giorgio, Brother Monk sent from Rome to work with Boniface in the first Christian onslaught on Avalon

  Gorlois, Duke Champion and chosen one of Queen Igraine of Cornwall, father of Morgause and Morgan, murdered by Uther and Merlin