CHAPTER 11

Goddess, Mother, what has got into the Queen? With her eyes fixed firmly on Guenevere, Ina urged on her unwilling horse, and stifled a sigh. After all her years with the Queen, her mistress could still surprise her as she had today.

But what a day, the little maid groaned to herself. First of all the Queen of the Orkneys had come flaunting her lover, and painfully reminding Queen Guenevere of her love that had gone. Then a dirty tavern maid had dragged herself in off the road, half dead from traveling, pleading to see the Queen. The guards had only brought her in because she said she came from Sir Lancelot.

“From Lancelot?” the Queen had asked, in a voice halfway between music and tears. The girl had stood there swaying, on the verge of passing out. Her eyes were bruised with exhaustion, and runnels of dried blood stained the filthy rags she wore around her feet.

The girl nodded, joy spreading like water over her plain face. “Sir Lancelot.”

“He sent you to me?” Guenevere persisted. “All the way from your village by the coast?”

“He told me to come to the Queen,” the girl fumbled out. Her voice had the soft round sound of the deep shires. “He said you were the best lady in the world.”

“He said that?” There was a long pause before Guenevere spoke again. “How was he—?”

The girl groped for words, her forehead knitted with effort like a child’s. “Pale, like you are, lady. And just as sickly and sad.”

A small sound escaped Guenevere, and she turned away.

Whatever made the wretched girl say that? Ina frowned crossly at the memory. She might have known it would upset the Queen. Of course a village girl could have no knowledge of court ways. And it was the first word the Queen had had from Sir Lancelot, so of course she would take it hard. But when Guenevere suffered like this, who was it who had to revive her and comfort her? Ina could have strung the girl up by her thumbs for giving the Queen such pain.

Yet after reducing the Queen to helpless tears, Ina marveled, see if the girl hadn’t redeemed herself, after all. Reaching into the soiled bosom of her dress, she had drawn out a gold coin.

“He gave me this,” she pronounced in her slow country burr, “to pay my way here. But I thought he meant it for you. So I walked here, an’ begged all the way, so’s not to break into it.”

She reached out, and pressed it in Guenevere’s hand. “Here, lady. From Sir Lancelot. May the Mother in Her mercy bring him safe back to you.”

Was it really a love token, Lancelot, that you could not send me any other way? I want to think it was. I have so little of you that I can keep.

Standing in her chamber, Guenevere did not try to check the flowing tears. She had held on while the tavern maid was handed over to the women of the bedchamber to be washed and tended and clothed, and tried to take pleasure in the knowledge that the poor wretch would sleep in a bed for the first time in her life. Tomorrow she would be a maid in the Queen’s service, and start life anew.

Whereas I—

I am a bleeding hollow, resounding to the cry of “Lancelot”—

Enough!

“Ina, the rosewater, if you please?”

Guenevere roamed into the window, dabbing at her inflamed eyes and face. She had to compose herself before she could go out riding to meet up with Arthur, Ursien, and Accolon.

But the three men might already have left the rendezvous. And she did not want to see anyone now. She turned her head. “Send to the stables, Ina, tell them we won’t go. The men won’t miss us.” She gave an unhappy laugh. “They’ll probably have a better time alone.”

But as she spoke, a cloud of dusky images came beating around like bats inside her head. She saw a hare in a dark wood beside a narrow track. Black trees overhead were hanging their branches down, their twigs dripping blood like severed fingers’ ends. A thick haze hung over the grass, casting a pall of gloom. And in the heart of the forest was something she could not see, a yawning blackness, an evil stench.

“What—?” she cried.

Faintly she heard Arthur’s voice calling, “Guenevere—”

She came to herself with a shuddering start. “Ina, Ina!” she called. “Send for the horses, we ride at once.”

SHE KNEW THEY had to reach Arthur without delay. But when they came to the wood, there was no sign of the men at the appointed meeting place. They forged on under the canopy of the trees as the evening drew in. Before long it would be night, and they would have to turn back.

Ahead of them, a movement caught her eye. A dark cloud of flies was hovering to the side of the path. Beneath it in the grass lay a long dark shape, like the trunk of a tree. As they drew nearer, the whole surface seemed to move, rippling as if it were alive. But the life belonged only to the maggots already invading the body beneath. The dead thing was a man.

“Ina, come!” Guenevere cried hoarsely. “Quick, hold my horse!” She threw the reins to her maid, and vaulted to the ground. A few steps brought her to the figure lying facedown in the grass. Not Arthur, Goddess, Mother, I beg you—

Frenziedly she pushed and tugged at the heavy weight. The dead man rolled over with a flaccid thud. His body looked as if it had been mauled by a great cat. His leather hunting garments had been slashed from neck to hem, and a gaping hole marked the place where his throat had been. The gray hair was plastered to the head with blood, and the face was disfigured with long open scars.

Moved by a sorrow beyond words, Guenevere touched the ruined face and tried to close the staring eyes. But there was no escaping the message in their frozen depths. King Ursien had seen the thing at the heart of the wood. He had met the darkness made flesh, and it had eaten him alive.

“TRAITOR!”

Arthur gasped for breath. Then, instinctively, he sidestepped Accolon’s attack, and the upraised sword swept past him without harm. But the young knight turned on him again with the same pallid lips and eyes of blood, the look of death.

“Think, Accolon, and stop, while I can still forgive!” Arthur cried, raising his hand. Anger pulsed through his veins. “Some madness has seized you, to attack your lord and offer treachery to your King. But throw down your sword, and I need not take your life.”

Accolon did not hear. He began to move toward Arthur again, smiling like a man in a pleasant dream. Once more he swung the great sword around his head. “Accolon!” Arthur cried in anguish. “Stop, or I must kill you—there is no middle way.”

“No middle way,” the young knight repeated, with the same glassy grin. “No indeed, my lord, for you must die!”

His weapon was poised at the midpoint of its swing. Arthur leaped back toward his horse, and ducked under its neck. In one desperate move he plucked his sword from its sheath, and snatched his shield from his horse’s flank. Excalibur sang in his hand like a bird released from a cage.

“Come, then, my one true friend,” Arthur whispered under his breath.

Armored, he turned to face his enemy. “Lay on, traitor,” he snarled, “and prepare to die! You have thrown away all hope of mercy now.”

Accolon responded with a crashing blow. Fury lent Arthur strength as he counterattacked, parrying its fall and turning its force back on Accolon. His blood rose to the challenge, as it had done so many times before. He was stronger than his opponent and harder too, blooded in battles that the younger man could not know.

But Accolon had the scabbard, and only one hand could have given him that. A burning grief ran through Arthur’s every joint. Was ever a man so betrayed? With it, Accolon had all the ancient power of the Fair Ones on his side. And either that, or some poisonous magic of the mind, was lending him strength beyond his mortal skill. Enraged, Arthur thrust, and drove, and parried with more than his normal force. But Accolon had the advantage at every turn.

The first cut was nothing, a mere nick on the side. Another blow glanced off Arthur’s shoulder, doing little harm. But it must have pierced the fine links of his silver chain mail. Soon he could feel the blood running down his arm.

Accolon danced in and out of Arthur’s sword range, grinning like one possessed. He scarcely bothered to ward off Arthur’s blows. The heaviest strokes left him unscathed, and drew no blood.

Arthur ground his teeth and communed with Excalibur again.

“Come!” he whispered. “Come, my dear, to work.” He turned on his opponent with renewed force. “Remember the call, à l’outrance, to the death!” he threatened Accolon.

But again and again the charm that Accolon bore turned aside Excalibur’s shining edge. And all the time Arthur’s blood seeped from a dozen cuts, and then a dozen more.

How long they fought, Arthur did not know. But he knew he was losing strength with every step. His grasp on Excalibur was weakening, and his head was beginning to swim. All he had now was the dogged courage of the damned.

“Yield, Arthur!” sang Accolon, with the same deranged glare. “Bare your neck for my sword, save yourself further pain. One kiss of iron, and your soul will be free! You will walk with the Shining Ones on the Plain of Delight.”

Arthur turned up his eyes and looked into his soul. He knew he was bleeding from a hundred wounds. Is this the end? he wondered, then dismissed the thought. He propelled himself forward with the last of his flagging force, Excalibur cutting a silver swathe in his hand.

“Defend yourself, devil!” he bellowed at Accolon. “And may God have mercy on your spotted soul!”

BLESS YOU, URSIEN. May the Mother take your soul—

Guenevere rose to her feet and stepped back to the woodland track. Ina sat on her horse clutching Guenevere’s reins, her fist to her mouth, her eyes round with dread.

“Do not fear, Ina,” Guenevere said steadily. “King Ursien is beyond pain and sorrow now. We must find the King.” She swung herself up into the saddle. “They can’t be far.”

As she spoke, the mist seeping from the ground began to weave its way toward them between the trees. She could feel its clammy fingers stroking her flesh. And there, shrouded in its depths, she could feel the seething hatred she had known from so long ago, the stirring of evil from the time before time.

“Arthur!” she screamed. “Arthur, where are you?”

She thought she heard something deep in the forest, far off the track. From Ina’s face, the maid had heard it too.

“Over there, madam!” she cried.

“Where?” Guenevere felt the mist choking her throat. “Arthur!” she cried.

There was no reply. She called again, putting her heart and soul into her voice. The silence deepened. For all they could hear, they might have been underground.

Guenevere closed her eyes and summoned all her strength. Arthur, she called silently. I can help you, but you must tell me how. Send me a sign, to show me the way. Send your spirit forth to bring me to your aid.

Furiously she poured her spirit into the void.

Goddess, Mother, help me, speed my prayer!

She opened her eyes.

Nothing.

Not a creature was stirring in the darkening depths. The rolling, oncoming fog ignored her appeal. Mockingly the white wisps wrapped themselves around her, and she felt herself yielding to their soft embrace. To sleep now, came the drowsy, sensual thought, to give myself to the arms of this sweet white sleep, how pleasant that would be.

Her eyelids, her body were very heavy now. At the edge of her vision she could see Ina drooping too, her small head hanging down like a wild violet. To sleep, to forget sorrow and pain—to leave this world and go to walk the stars—Goddess, Mother, be with me now as I die—

Her fading gaze dropped down to the ground. Crouched by the wayside hovered a hare, its large brown eyes turned urgently up to hers. With a shock she saw that the creature was weeping great tears, and its anguish reached her through her fatal lethargy. As she struggled to sit up in the saddle, the hare hopped away. “Ina, follow!” she said thickly. “The hare knows the way!”

Unbidden, the horses began to follow the hare. Slowly they tracked it off the woodland ride, pressing into the forest by paths almost too narrow to pass. The going was hard in the gloom, and the dense undergrowth tore at their clothes and flesh. And all the time the mist never left them alone. Ebbing and flowing, writhing and hissing, it mocked and tormented their every step.

Yet all the time, Guenevere knew they were drawing near. At last they espied a clearing through the haze ahead. With a last look the hare vanished into the long grass. Guenevere and Ina spurred forward into the dusk.

A clash of arms greeted them as they drew near. In the center of the clearing staggered Arthur, covered in blood. Guenevere’s own blood rose, and her power sang in her ears.

She reached for the short sword slung by her horse’s neck.

“Accolon!” she cried. “Beware the battle raven who comes to drink your blood! Beware! Beware!”

Howling the ancient war cry of the Queens of the Summer Country, she drove her horse into a charge. Accolon turned and tensed in terror, but made no attempt to turn his weapon against the huge beast now thundering toward him across the grass. Gripped with a mortal dread, he stood motionless as Guenevere rode him down.

Her sword caught Accolon full on the head. Neighing with fury, the great charger knocked him flying, and trampled him as it passed. Guenevere dragged in the reins, heaved the horse around, and stood ready for another charge.

“Surrender, Sir Accolon!” she cried.

Accolon was slowly pushing himself up on his hands and knees. He staggered to his feet, his eyes glazed with pain. A great slicing wound lay open on his forehead, and he clutched his side, as if nursing broken ribs. As he stood reeling, Arthur lunged forward and tore the scabbard from Accolon’s side. At once the bright blood spurted from his wound and ran down his face.

Arthur cried out in triumph. “So, Accolon, the odds are even now!” Excalibur floated eagerly in his hand. “Turn and defend yourself,” he growled. “À l’outrance! On guard! To the death!”

He struck straight and true. Accolon raised his sword in a feeble attempt at defense, but Excalibur found its aim. Accolon took the blow deep in his left side, staggered, and fell bleeding to one knee. His face was a mask of sick bewilderment. “How?” he roared.

Arthur approached him, leaning on his sword. “Oh, Accolon,” he said heavily, “prepare your soul for your maker, for you must die.” He brushed the clammy hair out of his eyes, and shook the blood from his head. “That was your death wound. I will not strike again.”

Accolon clutched his sword in both hands, and struggled to fight back. But his strength was failing, and the sharp point trailed down to the ground. Without the scabbard, the wound on his head was flowing freely, covering his face.

He raised his eyes to Arthur, blind with blood.

“My lord,” he begged. “Let me crave one last favor at your hands?”

“Of course.”

Painfully Arthur bent to lay down his sword and set the scabbard beside it in the grass. Then he moved across to face the fallen knight. His face deeply marked with sorrow, he stood before Accolon, and leaning forward, laid his hand on the knight’s head.

“What is it, Accolon?” he said gently.

“This! Take this for my lady, Queen Morgan, to avenge her wrongs!”

With a violent effort, Accolon hefted the great broadsword and brought the blade up hard between Arthur’s legs. The knight’s sharp grunt of pain was drowned by Arthur’s scream as he fell to the earth, clasping his groin with both hands.

Guenevere leaped from her horse, and ran to Arthur’s side. Blood was pouring from between his legs, bright red against the glittering silver mail. She knelt beside him, and tried to staunch it with the edge of her gown. “The scabbard, Ina!” she screamed. “Get the scabbard, bring it here!”

Ina jumped from her horse, and raced to obey. Fumbling, Guenevere tried to thrust it in Arthur’s girdle to staunch his bleeding wounds.

But Arthur raised his head from the grass and waved her away. Blood bubbled in his throat as he struggled to speak.

“Let me die, Guenevere!” he gasped. “But find her and kill her! Find Morgan Le Fay!”