A sudden tremor ran through Guenevere. The piping voice was not young, nor old, nor like anything that she knew. The sound seemed to worm itself inside her mind, and she shook her head in an attempt to silence it. Then a black premonition seized her. The sunlight faded, and from nowhere she heard her own voice raised in a mad inner cry: Kill him! Kill the boy!
The next second she was gripped with scalding shame. How could she think that way about a child? A little boy, no older than Amir? She groaned. Amir. Was that why this boy unnerved her so?
Below her Arthur was sagely nodding his head. “Sir Ganmor, eh? Well, we are honored to welcome any stranger knight. I accept your lord’s challenge for the opening bout. Let him approach.”
“Thank you, sire.”
The boy turned away from Arthur and began to walk back up the field. He moved with an eerie poise far beyond his years, calmly looking this way and that. As he drew level with the viewing gallery, his gaze swept up to meet Guenevere’s.
His eyes were a hyacinthine blue, and their unwavering stare was unnaturally old. Under the birdlike plume of blue-black hair his pale face was immobile, and Guenevere felt a cold rash of terror dew her skin. Then he was past her, stepping out sturdily on his short legs. As he came toward the knights’ enclosure at the far end, he raised one arm in salute, and bowed.
“Approach, Sir Ganmor!” he cried. “The King awaits you now!”
A huge black horse bearing a rider armored all in black cantered out from behind the wooden walls and loped down the field. Twenty paces from Arthur, the rider drew to a halt and bowed his helmeted head. A black lance rose in salute, and Arthur nodded, intrigued as he scanned the banner depicting a misty terrain. “A knight of the Lost Lands, eh?” He gestured toward the distant figure of the child. “You are well served in your small squire, sir. He’s a fine, well-spoken lad.” He smiled, and Guenevere could see the shadow on his face. “Your son, by any chance?”
The stranger knight inclined his heavy head.
“He shall sit at my right hand when we feast you afterward,” said Arthur, a shade too heartily. “And you, sir? May we see your face?”
Slowly the black helmet shook from side to side.
“No?” Arthur smiled. “Perhaps you have sworn an oath?”
The black knight made a gesture of assent. Arthur gripped his lance. “Well, sir, a knight will always honor another’s vow. You are welcome to our tournament, and most welcome to take the opening bout with me.”
Arthur raised his lance and brandished it over his head. “Sound, heralds, for the honor of the fairest lady in the land!” he cried. “And let the tournament begin!” He lifted his eyes to the gallery, searching for her gaze, and for the first time Guenevere noticed what he wore on his sleeve.
It was the silk rosette he had sported the first time he fought under her colors as her champion. The old favor was crumpled now, but in the depths of its creased and battered folds she could still see the same cornflower blue as the day it was made. The iron hand of memory crushed her heart. I loved you so much then. And you loved me.
“À vous!”
“Have at you!”
Afterward Guenevere felt that she must have known all along. She heard the words of the challenge, as she had done a thousand times before, and then events began to drift sideways as in a dream.
“Prenez garde!”
“On guard!”
“At your will, sir!”
“Come on!”
The stranger knight began to move forward at an easy pace. Then, without warning, he jabbed his spurs into his horse’s side, and in a second the creature was charging down the field. Now the black rider was spurring his mount on till the huge beast was screaming in agony.
The stranger was thundering down on Arthur twice as fast as any normal knight, faster than any man could safely feint or stop. Arthur came on toward him as steadily as if he could not see the furious pace, or the glittering spear-point driving toward his heart. As the horses drew level, Arthur feinted and raised his lance in a knightly salute. At the same moment his opponent couched his own weapon in its rest, and drove the iron point squarely into Arthur’s chest.
As lightly as a doll, Arthur flew backward off his horse. The hole in his breastplate was already seeping blood as he thudded to the earth with enough force to kill him. More blood was running now between the joints of his ruined armor, and oozing from his helmet. A silence fell like night upon the field. Then the cry began. “He’s dead! The King is dead!”
CHAPTER 62
He could hear the roar of the crowd from a mile away. The distant sound only added to his despair. The tournament had begun, just as he feared. Gods above, would he ruin himself for this woman, betray all his knightly vows for this enchanting queen?
Lancelot groaned and urged his horse on toward the jousting field. The whole town had been deserted when he galloped through, and out here too not a soul was to be seen. All the world was at the tournament except himself!
Even the breakneck pace he was setting could not lift his sense of shame. He should be there now; he should have been there an hour ago. Never before had he failed to appear along with his lord and his fellow knights for the start of a tournament, to ride in the procession under the banner of the King. And now—Gods above!—and now—
He dared not think of now—still less of then, when he should have gone, and had not been able to leave the Queen.
The roar of the crowd sounded louder as he drew near.
“The King! The King!”
What were they howling for? Seized with a sudden dread, Lancelot spurred his horse over the last half mile, and galloped through the outlying tents toward the jousting field.
Another rising cry assailed his ears. What was going on? Standing up in his stirrups, he craned over the heads of the screaming masses pressing against the rails. And then he saw it. Far off the body of Arthur lay on the grass, while a black knight on a black horse stood triumphing over him.
Without conscious thought, Lancelot thundered through the knights’ enclosure and straight out onto the field, plowing through the figures already running to Arthur’s aid. As he passed the viewing gallery he had a brief glimpse of Guenevere’s white face, her mouth open in horror for a scream that did not come. He spurred forward over the endless expanse of grass. He saw the black knight at the far end lift his head from gloating over the body at his feet, and turn his horse to meet Lancelot as he came.
A black lust for revenge filled Lancelot’s heart. “À vous!” he howled. “Have at you, stranger knight! Prepare to defend yourself!”
Ahead of him the black helmeted head shook slowly from side to side, in amusement or in disbelief, he could not tell. Blind fury drove him on. “À vous! À l’outrance! To the death, sir knight!”
The black knight gathered up the reins, set his lance in battle readiness, and urged his horse into action again. The black beast screamed and leaped straight into a gallop, eager for the kill. The furious drumming of its hooves reached Lancelot through a mist. Transported by the thundering of his own charge, crouched above his horse’s withers, poised for the attack, he was exalted, transcendent, with only one purpose now: Kill—kill—kill—
They came together with a clash mightier than human power. Feinting sideways, then dropping low over his horse’s neck, Lancelot dodged below the stranger’s spear and brought his lance up under the black knight’s guard to catch him squarely in the chest. The next second he was almost out of the saddle, falling forward with the force of his own blow. For his thrust encountered no resistance, passing straight through his enemy’s armor as if it were thin air.
The body of the black knight flew backward off his horse and floated lightly to the ground. Overhead the sky darkened, the clouds convulsed, and a clap of thunder split the air. Tossing its head, the riderless mount ran screaming down the field. As the foaming beast neared the knights’ enclosure, a squire ran forward to catch its trailing reins. The black stallion broke its stride for a brief momen
t to recoil into its steaming haunches, then rear up in the air and strike the youth down as it dropped back to earth. Then it was out of the field and away before any of the bystanders saw where it went.
“The King! Attend the King!”
Already Guenevere was out of the viewing gallery and halfway down the field. Sir Gawain and the other knights were clustering round Arthur now too. Lancelot checked his own horse’s mad forward charge, slowed to a walk, and hastened back to join the group gathering in the center of the field. There would be time enough to see how his enemy had fared. Lancelot’s only thought was for Arthur now.
Arthur still lay as he had fallen, covered in blood. Twenty yards away the armored body of the black knight lay unmoving on the grass. Guenevere knelt beside Arthur on the ground, careless of the mud and blood staining her light silk gown, cradling his helmeted head in her lap. Her face was stained with tears, and a smudge of blood already darkened one cheekbone where she had pushed back her veil.
To Lancelot she had never looked more beautiful, not even the first time she had given herself to him, when she lay in his arms tender with desire. Her fingers were struggling with the metal fastenings as she vainly tried to get Arthur’s helmet off. “Oh, my love, my love,” she was sobbing. “Arthur, don’t leave me, don’t go!”
Lancelot knelt stiffly at her side, almost winded with pain. “Allow me, Majesty,” he muttered, reaching past.
Freed from the heavy headpiece, Arthur’s face was pale but unmarked. There was no sign of any wound, and the blood that covered the visor had not come from within.
“Not a wound to be seen, for all this show of blood?” Gawain started forward, his eyes almost leaving his head. “May the Gods preserve us!” he muttered superstitiously. “There’s been some witchcraft here!”
“What, man?” cried Kay sharply as he came limping up. “Witchcraft? Let me see!”
“Here, go easy now!” Behind Kay a squad of soldiers under Lucan’s command was arriving at a run, carrying a square wooden pallet to bear Arthur away. Roughly Lucan ordered Kay and the others aside. “Out of the way! We must get the King back to the castle and into the doctors’ hands. And then—”
Lancelot rose blindly to his feet and took a few wild paces to and fro. Guenevere was crooning to Arthur, wordless cries of entreaty and desperate love.
Lucan stepped forward. “Your Majesty, forgive me—we must move the King.”
Guenevere raised her stricken gaze to his. As she looked up, Lucan found himself back on another long-ago jousting field, with Guenevere cradling another unconscious body in her arms while he wept for the Queen and cursed the day he was born. The droop of Guenevere’s body and the grief in her ruined face were the same as they had been then. Again? her eyes asked him. Again?
The soldiers lifted Arthur onto the stretcher and turned to go. Lancelot moved forward to where Guenevere still knelt in the dirt, her head bent, her arms cradling her empty lap.
“Majesty?” He reached down with a formal bow to offer her his hand. An hour ago I had you in my arms, he tried to tell her without words, half frantic with grief and love. But the look she gave him in return was as wild and strange as that of a deer in a snare. He drew back and bowed again. “Will it please Your Majesty to return to the palace with the King?” he said, and waited without hope.
Guenevere turned her head oddly, as if she had not heard. Tears were running unchecked down her face. She sank down in the dirt, her dress bright with blood. “The King,” she said, weeping. “The King—”
“Come, my lady.” It was Bedivere, with a white-faced Ina on his heels. “See, your gentlewoman is here. We will take you to the King.”
Guenevere did not hear. She reached out, plucking at Bedivere’s arm. “The child—what happened to the child? He came with the black knight; what became of him?” Her voice was trembling, and she cast a wild glance around. “He must be frightened, and there’s no one to look after him.” She was flooding with tears. “We must help him; I must take him in. He’s lost—he’s alone—” The unspoken name took shape in all their minds: Amir, Amir, Amir …
Bedivere shook his head. His soft brown eyes burned with pain. “He’s not lost, Your Majesty, that little boy. He disappeared in the confusion when the black knight fell. The child came with him, and vanished with him too. Come, now, come.”
Between them, Bedivere and Ina raised Guenevere to her feet. Bedivere’s soft voice carried no conviction at all. “All will be well—let us bring you to the King.”
LANCELOT STOOD UNMOVING and watched them go. Oh, my love, she had said, and she had not meant him. Arthur was her love, as he had been all along. In an instant Lancelot saw the peril and the pity of it all, the true darkness at the heart of love. Too late, he knew, to understand this now. He had chosen this path. There was no way back.
“Lancelot?” Lucan called. He was standing by the body of the black knight. Feeling the sick stirring that always assailed him at the fall of an enemy, Lancelot moved over to the still form of his opponent.
Lucan gestured to the dead knight on the ground. “Who was he, anyway?”
Lancelot shook his head. With a brief word of prayer, he knelt to remove the black helmet to see the black knight’s face.
“Aagh!”
The battle-hardened Lucan leaped back with a scream of fear. Lancelot rose to his feet and set the stranger’s helmet down on the ground. Steadily he gazed at the thing lying at his feet, as if his eyes could make sense of what he saw. Where the head should have been, there was nothing. The armor was empty of whatever had animated it before.
Lucan looked at Lancelot. The blood drained from his face, and his body began to quake. He brought one finger to his lips, and shook his head wildly from side to side. “It can’t be—” he gasped hoarsely. “Not after so long—?”
A raucous cawing filled the air. Perched on the top of the viewing gallery, a black raven stretched its wings and performed a little preening dance. Then it took wing and began a wide, low circuit of the jousting field. As it came near, Lucan grabbed for his sword. “Damn you, you thing of evil!” he screamed. “I cursed you once, and I curse you again! Come to me now, and see what you get for your love. Only come to me, damn you, come to me, come to me!”
With a mocking laugh, the raven sailed easily through the flashing movements of Lucan’s circling sword. Evading his wild rage, it flapped and beat at his head till he ducked and fell to his knees, screaming in fear. Then it rose to the sky, still cawing in triumph, and flew straight into the sun.
Gently Lancelot crossed to the weeping Lucan and helped the stumbling knight to his feet. “It could be, brother,” he sighed, wishing to the depths of his soul that he did not have to say this, “and indeed, I think it was.”
CHAPTER 63
Arthur lay on his great bed of state, slumbering as if he would wake at any time. The baffled doctors had come and gone, professing their bewilderment just as they had with her mother so many years ago. Watching them handle Arthur’s big body, lifting the muscular arms and flexing the well-shaped legs, filled Guenevere with feelings she could not name. Once she had loved to see him naked like this. And he was still as good as ever to look on, only her feelings had changed.
Oh, Arthur …
She turned her eyes away from the figure on the bed and felt her guilt again like a living thing. It was inside her now, eating her up, a gnawing, exquisite pain. She clasped her arms across her stomach and leaned forward to hold the grief down. How did it happen, this madness, this cruel love? Cruel to me, cruel to Lancelot, but most of all to this man?
Arthur, you were my husband, my first love, the father of my child. You were the man who came to me in the white and gold glory of our early days; you were my partner in the springtime of our love. How did that fail? How did our love grow cold? And why did I punish you by taking another man?
She could not weep. Dry-eyed, she rose to her feet and walked the chamber as she had done ever since the accident, night after night
. Sooner or later, she knew, her body would succumb, and she would drop like a mayfly at the end of its one brief day.
But not yet.
Forgive me, Arthur, she implored the silent form. Forgive me and love me again. Can you renew the love you had for me? Lancelot loves you as I do; he will give you this gift from his heart. He will want nothing so much as to see you live again.
Her wanderings had brought her to the window within sight of the setting sun. The day was dying in fiery pink and gold, and the first soft dews of evening were weeping from the trees. She fell to her knees at the open casement, drinking in the sweet-scented air.
Goddess, Mother, hear my prayer, grant me this, I beg you on my knees. Give Arthur back his life; let him wake and live again as he used to do. Help him shake off the sickness in his soul. Heal his wounds now, both within and without, and make him whole again.
She took a breath, and nerved her soul for the last leap.
And in return, I will send Lancelot away, and lie with him no more. I will forget the dream I dreamed, and the joy I had with him. I will kill that love for him, if you give Arthur life.
Now her whole body was melting into fathomless pain. She held her breath as her prayer left her and took its flight. Hear me, Mother. She willed it on its way. Hear me, and grant my prayer.
On the far horizon, a white moon sailed up into the sky, bathing the earth with light. She could hear an owl calling from the nearby wood, and the soft cooing as the doves nestled down for the night. The clouds parted, and she saw her mother walking lightly through the world between the worlds. She turned and smiled at Guenevere, and when she smiled, she had the Lady’s face.
May you awaken from your dream, the Lady said, and be that which you have dreamed.
Guenevere buried her face in her hands. Long ago I dreamed of a knight all in gold who came to rescue me from the peril I was in then. And with him I dreamed a greater dream than that. We shared a vision of these beloved islands all at peace. I dreamed of a man to rule with me in my kingdom, and he came to me. He is my dream, and he must be so again.
Guenevere, Queen of the Summer Country Page 49
