CHAPTER 12

How long, O Lord, how long?

The Abbess Placida sat in her inner sanctum turning the pages of the great Bible on her knee, but not seeing one of the large black-lettered words. Where was the King? Why did he not return? And how long must she ndure the torment of these thoughts?

There were no such things as ghosts, she told herself. Devils, yes, but they could never enter a house of holy women such as hers. And she had no fear of “fetches,” as the pagans called them, spirit shapes who could walk in human form. So the nun she had seen in her chamber, the woman who had vanished in the corridor as soon as she walked through the door, could not have been Sister Ann. That thing of evil was a bad memory now, no more.

Yet why was she sweating and shaking all the time? We have worked so hard to put all that away, her furious soul complained, how can it return? Yet in spite of herself her mind kept drifting back, Sister Ann, Sister Ann—

The bitter refrain was broken by a knock on the door. A white-gowned novice came tumbling into the room. “Word from the Sister Gatekeeper, Reverend Mother!” she gasped. “Will you come at once?”

The Sister Gatekeeper had been watching toiling figures from afar. So the Abbess was called outside in time to see a tall queenly woman in a bloodstained riding robe entering the courtyard on foot, leading a horse. Tied to the saddle, barely conscious but still upright, swayed the heavy body of a man covered in wounds. An empty scabbard was thrust through his sword belt, and his sword hung from his side. Behind them came a smaller woman leading another horse with a wounded knight. Facedown across the saddle, he was bleeding heavily, his lifeblood leaving a telltale trail of red.

Already the nuns were streaming out of their cloisters to cluster around the newcomers like a flock of crows. The Abbess saw the gold coronet around the helmet of the rider on the leading horse, and let out a piercing cry. “The King has had a hunting accident,” she declaimed, rolling her eyes skyward. “Jesus preserve him, let us pray God for his life!”

Goddess, Mother, preserve me from this!

“No indeed,” Guenevere said furiously, gesturing to the unconscious figure behind. “This treacherous knight attacked the King in the forest, and gravely wounded him. We followed the sound of your bell to seek your help.”

The Abbess gaped. “His own knight attacked the King? What happened? Did he—”

“No, not his own knight. King Ursien’s knight.” Guenevere clenched her fists. “Forgive me, but these men are dying while we stand here. Will you order them some help?”

“Of course!” The Abbess swelled with rage at the implied rebuke. “Sisters!” she shrilled. “Two litters at once, to carry these men to the infirmary. Send to warn the Sister Almoner that they are on their way.”

Guenevere turned to her maid. “Ina, ride back to Camelot as fast as you can,” she said urgently. “Bring the best of the Druid healers, whoever is versed in sword wounds such as this.”

A white-faced Ina nodded and swung herself up on her horse. “Rely on me, lady. And may the Gods be with the King!”

“And with you!” Guenevere raised a hand in farewell as horse and rider clattered out through the gate.

“Come, sisters.”

The Sister Gatekeeper moved forward to take charge. Under her direction, two groups of nuns struggled to lift the men down from their horses, lay them on stretchers, and carry them to the nearby infirmary. Guenevere followed with the rest of the sisterhood. As they entered the low, cool building, the tall, spare figure of the Sister Almoner came forward to greet them.

“Take the King to the private chamber at the end,” she commanded, waving them on down the room. “And for the other, let me have him here.”

“No!” Arthur groaned. “Set me down with him!” He struggled to sit up. “Where is Accolon? I must speak with the traitor. Let me see his face!”

Guenevere flew to his side. “Dismiss these women!” she commanded the Sister Almoner. “The King must have privacy now.”

“Come, sisters!” The Sister Almoner shooed the nuns away.

“Guenevere!” Arthur rasped.

“Here.” Guenevere leaned in to help him, and gave him her arm. With a superhuman effort he swung his feet to the ground and staggered up. Two paces brought them to the stretcher where Accolon lay.

“So, Accolon!” For a moment Arthur stood in angry contemplation of the man at his feet. Accolon’s face was a gray mask of pain, and his nose and lips wore the bluish hue of death. His hand was on his side, where the bright ooze of arterial blood pulsed through his fingers with every beat of his heart. His eyes were closed and sunken in his head.

“Why, Accolon?” cried Arthur. There was no reply. Leaning heavily on Guenevere, Arthur drew back his boot and kicked the motionless figure violently. “Why, man? Why did you want to kill me? Tell me that if nothing else with your last breath on earth.”

Guenevere drew back shuddering. “Arthur, you know why.”

“Yes, I do!” Arthur clenched his teeth, and once more drove his boot into Accolon’s ribs. “But I want to hear it from him.”

Accolon opened his eyes. The blood lust had ebbed away, and now his gaze was washed clean of anything but impending death. He tried for a shrug, but the effort was too great.

“I meant to kill you, Arthur,” he breathed out, “for my lady Morgan’s sake. She hated you more than life itself.”

Arthur nodded, and bared his teeth. “Morgan Le Fay.”

A shaft of joy warmed Accolon’s pale face. “Queen Morgan of Gore. My lady and my love.”

“You poor fool!” Arthur ground out. “Morgan never loved anyone but herself.”

His words reached Guenevere through a haze of pain. She shook her head. No, Arthur. She loved you. She loved you too much.

But Accolon was unperturbed. “She loved me,” he said with an unnatural calm. “She took me for her champion and chosen one. She gave me the scabbard to keep me safe from you. She was going to make me her king.”

Arthur gasped. “What?”

“She planned to kill you and King Ursien, so that we could rule.”

“Kill Ursien?” said Arthur wildly. “But Ursien lives!”

Guenevere reached for his hand. “No, Arthur,” she said sorrowfully. The torn body in the grass rose again before her eyes. “Morgan waylaid him in the shape of a great cat. But he’s beyond her malice now.”

“And I married him to her—to that death!” Arthur threw back his head in pain, and closed his eyes. “Forgive me, Ursien!”

Accolon gave a wan smile. “I can take word of your remorse to him myself, King Arthur. Soon I shall meet him in the Otherworld.” His gaze drifted off to another time and place. “Yet she loved me. Queen Morgan loved me, and took me for her knight.”

Guenevere could have cried aloud with pain. As I loved Lancelot, and took him for my knight. A terrible envy of Accolon gripped her heart. At least this knight was able to enjoy his love.

“And I loved her when all men hated her.” A flicker of fierce pride shone in the dying face. “You took her, Arthur, but you cast her off. King Ursien never loved her, he only wanted to marry the sister of the King. She bore your child with never a word from you, and I was the only man in the world who cared if she lived or died.”

He paused, gasping for breath. “I loved her then and watched her without hope. But when the child was born, she regained her power. One day I saw her look at me and smile. The next day she touched my hand, and took me to her bed.” A look of transcendent joy spread across his face. “And I knew then that the love she gave me would be worth my life, and more.”

His breath escaped him in a long-drawn-out sigh. His eyelids fluttered and closed, and his face relaxed.

“Die, then, traitor!” Arthur spat in fury, clutching Guenevere as he reeled away. “Oh Guenevere, bring me to my bed, for I fear that like Accolon, I shall never rise again!”

“Arthur, don’t say that!” Guenevere cried in anguish. “I’ll take care of you. As long as you’re wearing the scabbard you won’t lose any more blood. Just let me call the sisters to take care of Accolon.”

“No need, my lady. We are here.”

A nun materialized behind them on silent feet, her hands in her sleeves, her face hidden by her wimple as she bent over Accolon.

“Thank you, sister,” Guenevere said distractedly. Adjusting herself once more to Arthur’s weight, she gave all her attention to helping him down the room.

At last they gained the sanctuary of the small private apartment at the end. The last of the sun was filling the air with gold, but the whitewashed cell was cool and welcoming. Arthur collapsed on the bed with a groan, and Guenevere straightened his limbs and loosened his bloodstained clothes. His body was cut in too many places to count, and all his wounds were gaping like hungry mouths.

But one, she could see, was worse than all the rest. Below his tunic, there was a deep slash to his groin. It was still bleeding freely, and his legs and even the insides of his boots were sticky with fresh blood. Carefully Guenevere lifted his sword from his side, and laid it on his chest, clasping both hands around the massive hilt. Then she tightened the belt holding the scabbard against his torn body, and prayed that help had not come too late. Arthur slipped out of consciousness as she worked.

Through the door to the outer chamber she could see the black-clad nun on her knees beside Accolon’s body, her face no more than a shadow inside her wimple, her hands joined in prayer. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the sister cross herself, rise to her feet, and make her way down the long room toward her to hover outside the door of Arthur’s cell.

“The Mother Abbess begs a word with you, my lady,” she called softly, dipping her head. “Will you go?”

Guenevere glanced distractedly in the direction of the voice. The Mother Abbess? Gods above, what could that woman want? Irritation seized her as she looked at the nun waiting humbly in the shadows outside the door. What kind of religion forced women to bend their heads like this, be ashamed to show their faces, even their hands?

“Tell the Mother Abbess that I can’t leave the King.”

“The Sister Almoner is coming to take care of the King. I will stay with him till she arrives.”

Guenevere gave a heartfelt inner groan. That dreadful woman now? But maybe it’s best to get it over with. I needn’t be long; I can hurry back.

She turned back to the bed. Arthur was deeply unconscious, sleeping peacefully. She bent over the figure on the bed.

“I have to leave you for a while, Arthur,” she said softly. “This good nun will look after you till I return.”

She dropped a kiss on his forehead, and left the room.

“I shall not be gone long,” she threw over her shoulder as she hastened away. “I beg you, take your best care of the King.”

The nun bobbed a curtsy and bowed her head. “I shall, my lady.” The heavy wimple turned as she watched Guenevere’s every step down the length of the room. At last the tall, hurrying form passed through the door, and disappeared from sight.

Silently the nun entered the cell where Arthur slept. With skillful hands she straightened the pillow under his head. Tenderly she brushed the hair back from his forehead, and lightly touched his hurts. Her long thin fingers wandered down over his body till they reached the scabbard at his waist. With great care she unbuckled the broad leather belt, and lifted the scabbard away.

At once all Arthur’s wounds began to bleed, weeping great red tears. Intently the nun stood watching every one. Her hands were shaking as she clutched the scabbard to her chest, and her eyes burned like mulberries in her white face.

“So, brother!” she whispered savagely. “Where is your safety now?”

A silent prayer poured through the anguish of her mind. Hear me, Accolon, wherever your spirit walks! And wait a while, my love, in the world between the worlds. Wait, and I shall send you Arthur’s soul. I swear by all the powers, he will not last the night!