CHAPTER 21

Guenevere my lady, Guenevere the Queen—

Mador dropped his visor and settled himself in the saddle as he drew up his horse to stand at the head of the lists. Absently, he acknowledged the cheering crowds. Walking beside his brother, Patrise waved away Mador’s quire and page, and methodically ran through all the last checks himself.

“Girth, stirrups, breastplate, martingale, crupper—all well, Mador.” He raised his head to look up, shading his eyes with his hand as he squinted into the sun. “God go with you, brother,” he said quietly.

“Thanks, brother,” Mador returned with feeling, as Patrise backed away. He turned his eyes to the field. Before him lay the long corridor of the lists, with their stout wooden palings down the middle to keep the combatants apart. At the far end, on his own side of the fence, Mador’s opponent was likewise preparing for the charge.

“Lord God, merciful God, that takest away the sins of the world, have mercy on me, a miserable sinner,” Mador breathed lightly, and gave his soul to God. After his father’s mortal fall at a tournament, Mador had sworn never to die unprepared.

He raised his eyes to the viewing gallery. There, enthroned in the wide wooden tower at the side of the field, the Queen sat among her ladies, glowing in white and gold. Seen through the black slits of his visor, her radiance made Mador catch his breath. From the first, he had worshiped her without reserve. But now she looked even lovelier, he thought, softer, happier and more luminous, like a woman in love. It must be the King, Mador thought. Any wife, any queen, would rejoice to bring her husband back from the edge of death, and have him beside her, smiling and full of health, as the King was now.

A King like Arthur, and a Queen like Guenevere, the sun in the sky and the green field ahead—what more could a man want? Today he would do well, Mador felt it in his bones. He would win for the Queen, and cast his victory in triumph at her feet. Then one day he would be the best knight in the world, chosen to wear the Queen’s favor and to fight for her. His spirit soared. To fight? To die for her! His blood thrummed in his veins, and the familiar chant sang in his ears: Guenevere my lady, Guenevere the Queen—

Even seen from far away, Mador’s rapt pose facing the gallery left no doubt as to the focus of his thoughts. Sir Gaheris struggled with Agravain’s girth strap, and jerked his head with grim amusement down the lists.

“Let’s hope Mador’s mind’s not on jousting today,” he grunted to his brother as he tightened the stubborn leather and thrust the tongue of the buckle firmly into place. “He’d be hard enough to beat, even if you didn’t have the sun in your eyes.” He adjusted the flap and watched as Agravain settled himself in the saddle, making sure it was firm. Well, Agravain looked fine enough in a new suit of black armor, gleaming from head to foot. “May the Gods be with you today.”

Agravain gathered up his reins, and wheeled away from Gaheris without a word. At the head of the lists, he closed his visor with a snap and let out a contemptuous breath. Sheer weight and bulk always won the day at the joust. It would take more than young Mador’s incessant practice in the yard to unseat him.

“Sir Agravain!” bayed the crowd all around. Agravain ignored them all. Through the slits of his helmet he watched the herald’s flag fall, and heard the cry, “Set on!” At this distance, his opponent looked a mere stripling, too young to fight. No reason to spare him for that, Agravain told himself, as he teased his horse’s sides with his spurs and broke into a trot.

And Gaheris thought that he might take a fall? Agravain grinned, and pushed his horse into a steady canter down the lists. Lads like Mador were too weak to unseat an Orkneyan, a son of Lot. Only Lancelot was good enough to make skill take the place of weight, was the thought that came to him with the final charge. It was still drifting aimlessly through his head as he took Mador’s lance low and hard on his chest, and felt himself tossed backward out of the saddle to crash heavily to the ground.

The fall knocked the breath from his body, and his head sang. As he staggered to his feet, he could hear the thud of Mador’s hooves coming back down the lists even above the ringing in his ears. His heart was pounding violently, though with fury or with shock, he could not tell. He groped for the shield strapped on his back, and fumbled for his sword in an ecstasy of haste. And all the time his mind was blackly forming the vow, Not me, Mador—no man does this to me—

“Sir Mador! Sir Mador!” screamed the crowd in delight.

Rot you, Mador, cursed Agravain, may you perish from your center, wounded in your core like the King—

Then Mador was on him again, and Agravain found himself flailing the air. The sun overhead blinded him, and all he could see was the huge shape of horse and rider darkening the sky. The fear of defeat ran like a fever through his veins. Mounted, Mador had an advantage no man could lose. He had only to play with his grounded opponent by the old tactics of strike and retreat, till Agravain was beaten by pain and loss of blood.

A cry from Mador cut through the air. “Here, sir!” Mador raised his arm, and brandished his sword in the air.

Agravain gripped his sword and shield, and braced himself for the blow. Already he could feel the pain, hear the clash of metal as Mador’s heavy weapon caught him unprepared. Then he saw Mador vaulting from his horse to throw the reins to a waiting page. The boy heaved around the head of the great charger, and led it away at a run.

The crowd released its breath in one approving roar.

“Mador! Sir Mador! He’s given the vantage away!”

Vomit rose in Agravain’s throat and filled his mouth. Mador despised him so much that he meant to beat him on the ground? Unhorsing him was not enough; he had to humiliate him too?

A red mist filled Agravain’s eyes, and he threw away his shield.

Prepare to die, Mador.

Gripping his broadsword with both hands, he made for Mador with murder in his heart.

“Have at you, Mador!” he screamed.

“Come on, then!”

Mador stood his ground as Agravain charged, then neatly dodged the weight of the Orkneyan’s bulk. Through the thin black slits before his eyes, Agravain hardly saw Mador’s sword swinging around behind. But the stinging blow across his shoulders pitched him forward onto the ground.

The crowd was in ecstasy. “Sir Mador!” they sang. “Mador of the Meads!”

Mador—

Raging out of his mind, Agravain pushed himself up to his knees. As he scrambled for his sword, all he could see was one ironclad boot. Mador was standing with his foot on the blade, his own sword pointing straight at his kneeling opponent’s throat.

“D’you yield?” cried the crowd, in delirious anticipation of the ritual demand. But Mador stepped back from the sword, bowed to his opponent where he knelt like a dog on all fours, and opened both his arms in the gesture that said, “Begin again.”

May every pain, every pox wither your vitals, Mador, and blast your dearest hope—

“You are gracious, sir!” Agravain bellowed falsely as he picked up his sword and slowly regained his feet. He took a moment to settle his seething soul. “Well, then—set on!”

Mador came at him with a speed Agravain could not have believed. A blinding pain shot through his head as a swinging blow caught his helmet on the side. As he reeled from that, Mador slipped to the side and struck him hard across the shoulders, sending him once again sprawling onto his knees.

Agravain stumbled and sweated, wrong-footed at every turn. May the Gods deform your progeny, blight your life—

He could not prevail. Mador darted and danced around his taller, more ungainly opponent, beating him down.

Watching from the side, Gaheris shared a furious glance with his brother Gareth.

“The sun was in Agravain’s eyes—he never had a chance!” he cried angrily. “If he’d drawn the other end of the lists, that country clod would never have had him down!”

In the viewing gallery, Sir Gawain was not so partisan.

“Agravain asked for that,” he remarked to Arthur, leaning over the King’s throne. He laughed cheerfully, relishing his brother’s drubbing at Mador’s hands. “They’ll be good knights to you, sire, Mador and his brother, Patrise.”

“True.” A shadow crossed Arthur’s face. “But I’d rather be down there on the field myself.”

“Oh, Arthur, you will.” Seated at his side, Guenevere reached out a protective hand. “Don’t think about it—you’re doing so well.”

“True again, dearest.” Arthur gave a crooked smile. “I’m even sitting a horse, though I can’t yet manage a charger in the field. But that’ll come.”

A roar from the crowd rose above the clash of arms.

“Look at that!” Gawain guffawed, his eyes on the scene down below. Mador was beating Agravain to his knees. With a final stroke, he swept his opponent’s sword from his hand. The tall Orkneyan knelt, defeated and unarmed.

“Yield, knight!” cried Mador, in a voice that carried around the field.

Yield to you, coxcomb? A prince of the Orkneys yield to a yokel from the Meads? Never in the world. The armored head shook slowly from side to side.

“Yield!” called Mador again. “You are at my mercy, beaten in a fair fight. You have no choice. Yield!”

Again the great black shape shook its head.

“Yield!” shrilled Mador, a note of panic in his voice. Nothing in the tilting yard had prepared him for this. “Yield, knight, or die!”

In answer, Agravain threw off his gauntlets, then fumbled with the laces at his neck. A moment later he tore his helmet from his head, and cast it spinning through the air. Stunned into silence, the crowd watched its flight till it crashed to the ground. Then all attention switched back to the glaring Agravain, grinning in mad defiance as he swept his hair off his face and taunted Mador to deliver the fatal blow.

“Strike, knight!” he howled. “I do not yield!”

A terrible silence gripped all the field. Mador stood rooted to the ground, riven with fear. Standing on the side, Patrise groaned for Mador. His brother had never killed a man in his life, still less a beaten man kneeling at his feet—still less the King’s nephew, a fellow knight of the Round Table, and the son of a king. Oh, Mador, Mador, God help you now.

In the lists, Mador braced himself and gripped his sword. Then he seized the blade, turned the hilt toward the gallery, and fell to one knee. He bowed his head as he offered up his sword. I give this knight to the King, the gesture said. Shall he live or die?

“Sire!” Gawain gripped the arm of King Arthur’s throne, and knelt at his side. His great beefy face dissolved, and he wept like a boy. “Sire!” he cried. “I beg you, spare my brother’s life!”

Arthur, hear me.

At Arthur’s side, Guenevere sat unmoving in her chair. The laws of chivalry demand Agravain’s death. Three times he has refused quarter at Mador’s hands. He has chosen to die.

In the deep silence, a mist rose before her eyes. And you should let him, if the truth be told. Agravain is nothing but blackness to us all. Blackness and fire, darkness and burning death—

She came to herself with a sick taste in her mouth. What is this? Gods above, no man should die for war games like these. She pulled herself together. “Arthur—”

But Arthur was already on his feet. He raised his right arm, and his voice swept the field. “Arise, Sir Agravain, we spare your life,” he cried. “And approach the dais, Sir Mador, for your chivalry today.”

At Arthur’s side, Gawain grabbed his hand and kissed it, his great shoulders heaving with relief. Lovingly Arthur raised him to his feet. “Your brother’s a brave man, Gawain,” he said. “There aren’t many knights so unafraid to die. For that alone, he deserves to live. And I don’t doubt we’ll make him a credit to us after all!”

“Bless you, my lord.”

Gawain turned away to hide his tears. On the grass below, Sir Mador was approaching the gallery with his helmet in the crook of his arm. His face was scored with the dirt of the field, and his young eyes were full of dismay.

Arthur smiled at Guenevere. “He doesn’t know yet whether he’s won or lost,” he said gently. “Tell him, Guenevere.”

Guenevere nodded. She moved to the edge of the gallery, where the waist-high wooden wall was already crowded with lords and ladies craning for a glimpse of the new young knight.

“Sir Knight,” she called. “The King honors you for your chivalry, to spare a fallen knight. And the Queen hails you for your victory.”

The whole of the crowd erupted in wild applause. Mador looked around in dawning wonderment.

Above him, Guenevere was leaning down again. “Sir Mador,” she called to him huskily, out of hearing of the crowd, “you are well worthy to bear the name of knight. Take this as recompense for your goodness today.”

From the balcony, a scrap of white lawn came fluttering down. Tears rushed to Mador’s eyes as he caught it with both hands. Far off he heard faint music from the spheres. My lady Guenevere, I shall wear this for your honor in the lists.

He brought the square of cambric to his lips, and felt its flowery fragrance feed his soul. The Queen is everything, he thought humbly, and I am nothing at all. But I will be among her knights one day. He raised his face to the gallery, blind with love. Guenevere my lady, Guenevere the Queen.

Arthur looked down and smiled. “He loves you, Guenevere,” he said wryly. “They all do.” He reached for her hand, and smiled into her eyes. “How can they help it?”

Guenevere felt fear rising in her soul.

Lancelot.

Did he suspect? “Arthur—”

He stilled her protests with an upraised hand. “Guenevere, I was the man who loved you first of all. I understand.” He signaled to the chamberlain, and looked around. “On with the tournament, sir. Now, where’s Lancelot?”

AT DINNER THAT NIGHT, the Great Hall rang with Sir Lancelot’s name. All there marveled at his chivalry, how he had come in after the others to give the new knights a chance, and then swept all before him, wearing Guenevere’s favor on his sleeve. Now he sat huge-eyed and silent, watching the dais where Guenevere dined with the King. As the compliments flowed, he accepted them as well as he could, picking at his food and drawing sparely on his wine.

One by one, the great candles burned down. At last all the guests had been wined and dined, and all the knights and ladies had gone brimful of cheer to their beds. The last of the servants had finally been sent away, and Guenevere was attending Arthur to bed.

“Lancelot won’t change, will he?” Arthur said fondly as he climbed into bed.

Goddess, Mother, let him Just sleep now, I don’t want to talk—

“What do you mean?”

“What we talked about.” Arthur patted the side of the bed. “Sit down a minute, will you? I know you must have spoken to him by now, and told him what we wanted for him.”

Guenevere perched on the side of the bed. “I told him you wanted him to have a wife.”

“And?”

“It’s still the life of arms he loves best of all.”

“Is that what he said?” Arthur chuckled regretfully. “Well, maybe he’s right.” His voice warmed as he spoke. “Look at what he did today at the tournament. Last into the lists, when the light was at its worst, for the sake of the younger men.”

Guenevere clenched her teeth. “He’s not so old.”

Arthur gave a mild, reproving laugh. “He must be thirty now, Guenevere. And young Mador, for instance, hasn’t seen twenty-one. No, Lancelot’s an old man at the sport.”

Old man? Old man? What does that make me?

“He still does well.”

“The best.” Arthur smiled. “He really is the foremost knight in the world. Today we had kings and champions from as far as you could name.” He raised his fingers, mentally checking off the contestants one by one. “And he beat them all!”

He chuckled with delight. “It must have been your favor on his arm,” he said teasingly. “A tribute to the power of white and gold. But I warn you, Guenevere, when I’m back in harness, I’ll be wearing your rosette again.” His voice thickened, and he reached for her hand. “Lancelot can be your knight, I know a queen must have her knights. But I will be your champion in the field.”

Guenevere looked at him in dread. His eyes had darkened, and he was kneading her hand, crushing the flesh. “God has been good to me,” he said thoughtfully. “With a knight like Lancelot, and a wife like you...”

He looked deep into her eyes, breathing heavily. “You know, I’ve been feeling so much better, I think I might—” He pulled her down on the bed. “I mean if you’ll help me, Guenevere, I think we could—”

He broke off and chuckled low in his throat. “You know what I mean.” His hand reached for her breast. “Come here, Guenevere.”