Kay raised his voice. “Believe it, sir,” he said with emphasis. “What you say is false. You wrong the Queen, and you wrong all of us, to accuse us of such foulness and treachery!”
“And I challenge you for that!” added Sir Lionel hoarsely, his cheekbones blotched by two burning marks of shame. “It’s a vile accusation, for the Queen and for us all! Choose which of us you will answer in the lists, and we shall seek satisfaction from you, prince or no, as soon as our wounds are healed.”
“You talk of satisfaction for the honor of a whore?” Malgaunt cried. “You’d venture your lives for her? D’you think I’d have accused her without proof?” He grabbed for the pillow again, with its telltale marks of red. “Queen Guenevere has been unfaithful to the King! Someone came into the Queen’s bed last night dropping blood from a wound.”
Lancelot’s blood …
Guenevere lay still and did her best to breathe. In the deep mullioned window behind Malgaunt, the iron bars and the sill beneath were stained with blood. One touch would also show that the central bar was loose. The most cursory search would soon establish which man in the castle had torn the flesh of his hands. Then Lancelot would die, too, for treason to his lord.
“I know one of you lay with the Queen last night,” Malgaunt persisted madly. “Which one?”
She could see from their faces that the blood on the pillow told its own tale. Before, even the coldhearted Kay had been showing some pity for her shame. Now he was looking at her as men looked at whores in the street. Sir Lionel was shaking his head furiously, his eyes fixed on the ground. But some of Malgaunt’s malice had stuck in his trusting heart. And Sir Bors—beneath his tightly closed lids the tears were streaming down, and he was making no move to brush them away. Oh, Bors, her soul cried, don’t weep for me!
Malgaunt watched them all, relishing every sign of misery and shame. So now you know what it is like to suffer as I have done! Tell me then, lords. Which one? Which one?
“Who else can it be?” he cried. “I’ll get the answer, if I have to keep you here all day! Who lay with the Queen? Who was the traitor she had in her bed last night?”
“PAGE!”
Lancelot threw open the door of his chamber and peered down the empty corridor angrily. Where was the boy? His own page knew to inquire after Queen Guenevere every morning without needing to be told. But here he had had to summon a household boy and give him detailed instructions before sending him on his way.
As he had done half an hour ago now. What was keeping the wretched lad? He’d never needed more urgently to know how the Queen was.
Troubled and short of sleep, Lancelot prowled his chamber and tried to keep his head.
His love.
And the wife of another man.
He groaned in pain. He had come to Camelot in search of honor and renown. Now he had committed the worst of forbidden sins.
Adultery and treason.
And who was to say which of them was the worse?
“My lord, my lord!”
The page ran into the room, his eyes staring, his face red with haste. “My lord, they’ve arrested the Queen! Prince Malgaunt is taking her to King Arthur to be burned!”
GUENEVERE STARED NUMBLY at the walls of her inner closet. Standing like a statue of herself, she had endured Ina’s fumbling attempts to dress her while Malgaunt and his men waited outside. Sir Kay, Sir Bors, and Sir Lionel had been taken back to their quarters on Malgaunt’s orders, to make ready for the journey to Caerleon, where they would all be accused.
Guenevere bit her lip. There would be a trial in full if Malgaunt had his way. Her cousin would never forgive her for refusing him now. He would prosecute her and her supposed lover before the King and all the lords of the land.
She was too fearful to allow herself any hope. Any moment Malgaunt or a sharp-eyed guard in the chamber might see the blood on the window bars. Then there would be no concealing the truth. If she sent for Lancelot, what could he do? If he came, he might even betray himself. He was young and in love, and in danger himself now too. How easy would he find it to dupe and deceive, to stay calm in the face of the raging Malgaunt?
“Ready, my lady.”
Ina’s dull voice, her pale tear-washed face, showed that she too had put away all hope. Guenevere nodded. So be it. She clutched her traveling cloak round her and moved toward the door. As she came out into the bedchamber, the cold blast of Malgaunt’s hate awaited her.
“The Queen!” he announced sardonically to his men. “Well, Her Majesty’s off to Caerleon now, lads! Let’s get her under way.”
In the courtyard below, the whole castle had gathered to see them off. Malgaunt’s knights were all drawn up under the command of their leader, the Druid Tuath. Hundreds more eyes watched from the galleries and balconies as Malgaunt led her out.
A covered litter waited by the gate, with an escort of mounted men before and behind. Sir Kay stood ready, holding his horse, and traveling chairs awaited the injured Sir Bors and Sir Lionel. Malgaunt pointed toward the litter and offered Guenevere his arm in a cruel parody of chivalry. “Let me assist you, lady.”
“Hold there!”
On the walkway above the courtyard, Lancelot appeared. From the fresh color in his face and firm set of his chin, no one would have known that he had not slept. He was clad in a white tunic and a light coat of mail. In one hand he held a long dagger, in the other a drawn sword.
Guenevere felt the blood rush to her face. But he did not look at her. “Prince Malgaunt, this is not the behavior of a knight! To invade the Queen’s bedchamber, and insult her in her bed—? And to accuse her knights so shamefully? Take it back, sir, or I challenge you here.”
“On what grounds, Sir Lancelot?” Malgaunt cried scornfully. “I have proof that one of these knights came to the Queen’s bed. You cannot challenge that!”
Lancelot stood very still. “I tell you, Prince, on my honor as a knight,” he ground out, “that none of these three knights lay with the Queen last night. None of these men was with her in her bed. Withdraw this foul scandal now, or prepare to fight. Name the time, the place, the weapons, and I am yours!”
“Time, place, and weapons?”
Malgaunt paused, considering. Guenevere caught her breath. What was he up to? Would a small flame of chivalry stir at last in Malgaunt’s rotten soul? Or did he simply think to kill Lancelot—to kill them all—to cover up his own attack on her?
Fight, Malgaunt, fight. Be a man, not a murderer! shrieked her inner voice. As if he had heard her, Malgaunt slowly nodded his head.
“The time, you say? Why, then, let it be now,” he said with the ghost of a smile. “As to weapons, choose what you will. I am armed.” In one swift move he drew both his dagger and his sword, and stood on guard. Then the wolf in him broke through at the thought of blood. “And what better place for me to kill you, sir, than here?”
Guenevere stepped forward, trembling, as the rest of the crowd fanned back. Lancelot vaulted lightly from the walkway and moved to meet Malgaunt in the center of the courtyard. Guenevere crushed her hands to her mouth to keep from crying out. Not an hour before, she had been so closely entwined with that body, those arms, those legs, that they had made one being out of two.
Terror rose like vomit in her throat.
“À vous!”
“Have at you!”
Malgaunt braced himself, grinning like a man who scents victory, spreading his feet as he crouched low for the attack. Lancelot waited lightly, seeming unprepared for a battle to the death.
Guenevere’s senses reeled.
Oh, my foolish love!
You could have called Malgaunt to battle in the tournament field, where you would have been armored and helmeted and protected at every point. But you have nothing, while he is fully armed.
Oh, my love, my love, am I to lose you before I have found you, bury your body before I have known it alive?
Malgaunt feinted left, then right, then leaped up from his deep toadlike squat
. As he came up, Lancelot neatly sidestepped the attack, lunged forward, and slipped the point of his sword over Malgaunt’s guard and into the side of his neck. Malgaunt could not arrest his powerful upward leap. With his own momentum he drove Lancelot’s sword straight down into his heart.
Malgaunt’s knees buckled, and he went down grinning as Lancelot drew the weapon out of the wound. Great spouts of blood sprang from the hole in his neck, and his life force ebbed away. His spirit left his body before his body felt the pain.
Now the thing that had been Malgaunt lay crumpled on the ground, a heap of flesh and chain mail pouring bright blood. His eyes were still alight with the wild gleam of victory. He died gloating in the belief that he was seconds away from killing Lancelot. In the world between the worlds, Guenevere knew, Malgaunt would already be boasting of his win.
Lancelot lowered his sword, and the blood ran down the blade. He turned to Tuath. “Bury your master with all reverence,” he commanded in a voice Guenevere did not recognize. “Then leave here, Druid. This castle is mine now. There will be no place for you.”
Tuath gave him a glittering glare, stood gazing about him madly for a moment, then bowed his head. Lancelot turned to the four walls of the courtyard, addressing the hidden eyes. “I have taken this castle in a fair fight, and I claim it by all the laws of chivalry and war!” he proclaimed. “Prince Malgaunt is dead, and I am your master now. He called it Dolorous Garde. From now on it will be known as Joyous Garde, in token of the change. All who wish to serve me will have twice what you were paid before. All who want to leave will get twice their discharge pay. I will have none but willing hearts about me now!”
The drawn sword-points of the hundred knights had dropped the moment Malgaunt died. All through the castle ran a surge of delight. Malgaunt still lay grinning on the ground, hunched like a vulture gorged on blood. His natural savagery was etched on his face. It would not be hard for Lancelot to be a better lord than this.
“My lord!”
The first of the knights had thrust forward to kiss his hand. “I am yours, my lord,” he said tensely, “as we all are. I captain this troop. Forgive me, sir. Under our previous orders, we were the men who captured the Queen—and they call me—”
Lancelot held up his hand. His eyes were very dark. “You are pardoned, good sir, whatever you did before. And I must beg you to speak to me later, if you please.” He turned on Guenevere a glance of pure rage. “I shall be busy for a while. The Queen and I have some serious business now.”
CHAPTER 57
He bowed and, as he led her indoors, offered her a cold mailed fist and a glance that was even colder. Guenevere was struck by a childish pain: Why don’t you kiss me, hug me, smile at me? Yet she knew they were the focus of a thousand curious eyes. She crushed the foolish longing in her heart.
In the Great Hall, for the first time he seemed at a loss. Though he had made himself lord of the castle, he did not know where he was.
“May I suggest, my lord,” Guenevere said tremulously, “that we withdraw to the apartments I occupied?”
As they reached the top of the stairs, Ina came running toward them, laughing and weeping in the same breath.
“Oh, sir!” She was panting so excitedly that Guenevere thought she would pass out. “Sir Lancelot! Oh, sir!”
“Ina,” Guenevere said as firmly as her voice would allow, “as you see, Sir Lancelot is lord of this castle now.” She turned to Lancelot. “With your permission, my lord?”
He bowed. “As you wish.”
“So,” Guenevere resumed, “until Sir Lancelot makes his own dispensations, will you order the household, Ina, and take command? Speak to the stewards, the chamberlain and the butlers, and the maids of the chamber, and see how it goes. Have some wine and refreshments sent up straightaway, for Sir Lancelot will be in need of food. And in the meantime”—she took a breath and dared not look at him—“see that we are not disturbed.”
Ina attended them back to the apartment and then withdrew, her dancing eyes fixed on the ground.
“Guard, ho!” Lancelot abruptly discharged the man at the door. “Go to your commander. Say I will meet him at the changing of the watch. Until then, tell him, we have no need of you.”
“My lord!”
The man was surveying Lancelot with eyes of open adoration, Guenevere noticed furiously. Why did she hate it so when others loved him too? Why was she jealous of those who could never challenge her?
The guard bowed out, closing the door. Lancelot stood frowning, lost in his thoughts. He stood like a rock, like a stone, while her heart bled for his touch, and her body cried out. She could not restrain herself. “Why are you angry with me?”
Wordlessly he shook his head. She tried to take his hand, and he thrust her away, closing his eyes. His face was a mask of grief. Her fingers reached out to touch him, and his eyelids were wet with tears.
Fear clutched her heart. “What is it?”
He tossed his head and his whole body moved like a goaded bull. “I have lost my honor.”
“How?”
“In loving you!”
A panic so violent gripped her that she could hardly speak. “But a knight is meant to have a lady—you said you chose me—you said I would inspire you to great deeds—”
He groaned and turned away. “Loving you as my lady is permitted in chivalry—but lying with my lord’s wife is a forbidden sin! It is as bad as killing him—it is killing and castration, too. To take his love is to take his manhood, and threaten his life!”
She was weeping with fear. “Will you give me up?”
“Give you up?” His voice was raw. “As soon give up my heart, my soul. Oh, lady! I have no life without you.”
She heard him with a surge of savage pride. His answer echoed in her heart’s deep core.
He loves me more than his honor, more than his sworn allegiance to his oath.
Here for once is a man whose woman is more to him than all the bonds of men, even the love of a king.
All women dream of this.
It is the dream that few ever attain.
It is the bliss, the joy, the love I was born to find.
“Lancelot.” She moved forward to take him in her arms.
But he flinched from her touch and pulled away, pressing his hand to his eyes. “I am shamed!” he wept. “Shamed forever in the fellowship of knights! Gawain and the others would die for King Arthur, and I? I take his wife!”
“Arthur—and his knights?” Guenevere could scarcely contain her rage. She wanted to beat his face bloody with her fists, take his arms and shake him till his eyes fell out of his head. “I do not belong to Arthur!” she hissed. “In the country of the Mother, my body is my own!”
“And so is mine, and so is any man’s! But I owe faithful service to my lord.”
“The love of a man and woman cancels such debts!”
“How can it, in all honor?”
Honor …
He dare say that to me?
“Understand this, Lancelot,” she cried, “or you understand nothing at all! Honor is a code between men! Love has its own honor, above that of war. Love lifts us to a better place, burning away the killing and cruelty. True lovers will risk everything for love. So they gain more than they lose, by becoming better than they were.”
“You think so?”
Lancelot’s gaze took in Guenevere’s flushed face, her angry stare and parted lips. Below her gown her breasts heaved with strong feeling, and his desire leaped in response.
He whipped around toward her and took her by the hips. “Burn me then. Teach me, lady!” he ordered, lifting her off her feet and carrying her to the bed. As he tore off his clothes, she could see he was already erect. He followed her gaze, and laughed at himself as he stripped off her gown. “For you see I am ready to learn!”
IT WAS THE longest day of all her life. Yet afterward it seemed the shortest too. The hours slipped by her like pearls on a chain, and though each was different and precio
us, she did not feel them go. All day, and the night that followed, she had no desire to eat or sleep. Instead they lay on cushions filled with lavender, picking at quail’s eggs and drinking sweet honeyed wine. She could not account for what they did with the time. But the day was not long enough for love, and the night, they both knew, would end all too soon.
Never with Arthur had she loved like this. As a queen, her life had been ruled by the cares of her own kingdom. As Arthur’s wife, it had been dominated by the demands of his. Now she saw for the first time why her mother always chose consorts who had no other life but to love and serve her. Now she had a lover who would love her so too.
“MADAME.”
He would not say the simple words of love, and sharply showed he did not like to hear them too often from her. But she could see it whenever he turned to look into her eyes, feel it each time he lifted her hands and pressed every fingertip to his lips.
When he touched her, she passed in an instant through all the stages of the Goddess, from trembling maiden to the radiant fullness of a woman in her prime. The next moment she would be filled with fears, darkness, and death, a hateful, shriveled crone. She could be vibrant with love and cold as the distant hills all in the same breath, green as springtime, blazing with a golden harvest, and then stiff, white and black as the Death Weaver herself.
And he was so young! He had not caught the manly knack of ignoring his feelings, or cutting himself off from her. As they lay on the bed she looked up to see him watching her, his eyes glistening with tears. She turned to him in alarm. “What has made you sad?”
“Your sorrow,” he said simply. Gently he traced the line between her brows, and the tiny creases at the corners of her eyes. “And your loss.”
That was the only time they spoke of Amir. But Guenevere smiled and wept afterward when she pondered it in her heart.
They say that a woman with a younger lover is looking for a son.
They never knew Amir—or Lancelot.
He even loved things about her that he could not have known. “What were you like when you were a little girl?” he asked abruptly as evening drew in and they drowsed by the fire. The servants who brought them refreshments had long gone, and she had not rung for candles, so only the firelight lit his thoughtful face.
Guenevere, Queen of the Summer Country Page 45
