CHAPTER 23

The Audience Chamber was full, and stifling. At the far end, the twin thrones and their heavy canopies glowed red in the August heat. Her hand clasped in Arthur’s, Guenevere processed beside him down the long oom. The lofty space was crowded with knights and adies, courtiers, lords, all rubbing shoulders with countless petitioners who had traveled to Camelot to seek justice from the King and Queen. A sea of faces met Guenevere on all sides. She smiled back warmly, schooling herself not to look for Lancelot.

From the dais, she could see the petitioners already in place. On the left, a block of armed warriors stood glowering protectively around their king. On the right, a fierce huddle of monks offered their leader the same mute support. And between them, Guenevere saw bleakly as she took her seat, lay nothing but hatred and the lust for blood.

“Silence for the King of Gore!” cried the chamberlain.

But the young knight who stepped forward shook his head. “Call me Sir Yvain, as I was before,” he cried bitterly. “I never wanted to inherit my father’s crown. But now I must, I want vengeance for his blood!”

Arthur leaned forward, resting his hands on his knees. “King Ursien died in the forest, by means unknown. Who can you call to account for this wicked deed?”

A flurry of tension ran through the monks standing across from Sir Yvain on the other side of the aisle. Their leader drew a breath. Jesu grant me patience, who indeed? thought the Father Abbot furiously. The spirit of darkness does not stand and fight.

Sir Yvain’s clear young voice rang around the room. “Who but Queen Morgan of Gore? My cursed stepmother. Your sister, sire.”

Guenevere closed her eyes. Morgan, Morgan—will we never be free of her?

No—not while she can invade our marriage bed.

Her mind twisted and turned with last night’s pain.

“Come here, Guenevere,” Arthur had said. And “Kiss me,” and “Help me!” and a hundred other things. So she had kissed him and stroked him and caressed his poor body, and tried to help him in any way she could. But every one of his wounds was still tender to her touch. And the dread of his greatest wound hung over them both.

So she had unlaced her gown for his eager hands, slipping off her shift to let him adore her body by candlelight as he used to do. She could feel the blood coursing through him, see the veins pulsing at his temples, hear his breath coming short and fast. But again and again as she reached out for him, he held back and pulled away.

At last he rolled away with a desperate laugh.

“It’s no good, Guenevere. I can’t make love to you.” His face was gleaming with a sickly light, and his body convulsed with a sudden shuddering fear. “Dear God, you don’t think she’s used her power to destroy me for life?” His teeth were chattering. “It can’t be, can it, Guenevere? Say it isn’t her!”

Then he wept, and she had held him, and kissed him, and promised him it was nothing, it would pass. At last he had slept, and she lay in his arms all night, thinking of Lancelot.

And of Morgan. For surely she was with us in bed last night.

“Queen Morgan, yes!” Sir Yvain was insisting furiously. “She should pay for this!”

Only Guenevere saw Arthur’s hands tighten on the arms of his throne. “Queen Morgan?” he asked calmly. “Why do you blame her?”

“Why?” Sir Yvain’s fair skin took on a livid flush. “Because she hated my father, ever since you forced him to marry her. And I demand vengeance, vengeance for his blood!”

Arthur’s voice hardened. “And I ask again, what vengeance can you seek?”

Sir Yvain took a step forward and gestured toward his knights, twenty or so solid, ferocious men clustered at his back. Each glared out balefully through a tangle of coarse, thick hair, and gripped his short stabbing sword, hungry for blood.

“They will not rest till they have blood for blood. They have taken an oath to hunt down this treacherous queen. Let them take the nunnery she lived in, and root out the witch’s coven with fire and the sword!” He gave a tormented laugh. “Let all who helped her feel the rule of war!”

There was a harsh rumble of agreement from the knights. In the stifling heat of the packed chamber, Guenevere felt herself grow cold. In every one of their dull, stonelike eyes she could see nuns hacked and bleeding, the white of their collars and headdresses drenched with red. She saw the convent in flames, bodies heaped up for the fire, and women stripped and screaming as blood-soaked blades pried their thighs apart.

No. Whatever happened there, no!

She touched Arthur’s arm. “Arthur—” she began softly in his ear. But a shout from the body of the hall cut her off.

“Arthur Pendragon, you are a Christian king!”

The Father Abbot was surging forward with fire in his eyes. “In the name of God, will you permit torture, murder, rape? Will you allow blood vengeance against His will? Armed knights against old women, and brute soldiers against pure virgins who never saw a man?”

Sir Yvain threw both arms into the air. “Your innocent virgins took my father’s life!”

The Abbot turned to Arthur, folding his hands inside his black sleeves. “Sire, hear the truth. One spirit of evil dwelt there for a while. But since she left, the convent has been purged. The nuns are already paying for what she has done.” His forefinger stabbed the wilting air. “We have set a new regime of spiritual discipline. Their hours of prayer have been increased, as have the penitential services they offer to the Lord. And on four days of the week, they live on bread alone.”

His austere features eased into a smile. “No female will ever hold sway there again. I have installed a Father Confessor in the Mother Abbess’s place. He has orders to confine all unruly spirits, and bring them to the knowledge of their faults. He has the power to wall them up for life in solitary contemplation, if need be.” He spread his hands, and essayed a confident laugh. “We shall bring down these women so completely, sire, that there will be no call to take their lives.”

Spiritual discipline, sin and punishment—Guenevere’s stomach turned. A violent death, or a death in life? What hope for these women, caught between men like this?

“Arthur—”

Arthur’s upraised hand was brushing her aside. “Sir Yvain,” he said harshly, “whatever killed King Ursien, there is no proof that Queen Morgan took your father’s life. Your vengeance must lie elsewhere. I forbid the destruction of the nunnery.”

The Abbot closed his eyes. A thousand praises on Your name, O God.

Yvain smashed the hilt of his sword against his forehead, and screamed as the bright blood flowed. “My father’s spirit wanders in the Otherworld. He can have no peace till his murder is avenged. Do not deny my right!”

Arthur shook his head. “No slaughter, sir. No blood. That is my word. But your father must be honored with his due.” He raised his hand. “If you please!” he called out.

Four servants struggled down the hall with a massive chest, and threw back the lid. In its dark wooden depths lay heavy plates and goblets of gold, and a king’s ransom in gold coins, rings, and chains burned in the afternoon sun.

Arthur extended his hand. “Yours, sir,” he said.

Sir Yvain drew back, turning white. “Blood-gelt!”

“No.” Arthur’s face was calm. “There is no gold to buy your father’s life. Take this in his memory, and do good with it. Then King Ursien will not have died in vain.”

Sir Yvain turned in silent question to his knights. The eldest of them gave a long, appraising stare before his hairy head dropped down in a grudging nod. Sir Yvain bowed to Arthur, and sheathed his sword.

“So!” Arthur raised a smile. “We are all reconciled, it seems.”

The Abbot bowed. Resolutely he kept his eyes on the ground, to hold back the seething triumph in his soul.

“And let me hear no more.” Arthur went on, “No more of—” His color turned, and he closed his eyes. A line of tears began to form between the lids.

Arthur, Arthur, not here—

Guenevere rose to her feet and addressed the silent court. “The King is still recovering from his wounds. Forgive him, this great heat has been too much. I beg your indulgence to excuse us now.”

She raised her hand to bring the audience to an end. Knights, lords, and ladies took a hurried leave.

The chamberlain bustled forward with concern in his eyes. “Your Majesty, there are other petitioners, some in urgent need.”

“Tell them I shall see them all later on.”

The group at the rear of the hall brightened at her words, and bowed themselves out. Standing rigid on the dais, Guenevere bade a slow and careful farewell to each one.

She could not bring herself to look at Arthur, still huddled on the throne at her side. I want to hear no more of Morgan, had he said? She could have laughed out loud.

Impossible, Arthur.

For she has not left us, and she never will.

THREE SISTERS NOW on water only, bread withdrawn. Two ordered to stand all night, and chant the hours. And one, God forgive us, walled up in her cell, to receive only bread and water and confession till the day she died.

Lord, Lord, is this Your will?

The Father Confessor of the House of the Little Sisters of Mercy finished his report to the Father Abbot, and sealed it with his tears. Then he turned away from his desk, and fell to his knees. The Abbot had told him he had been called to a fine, a noble, task, to return a convent of women to the love of God. He had not told him how hard it would be.

He clasped his hands in prayer and grief combined. Lord God, shine Your light upon me, show me the way. So much pain to bring these women down. You have taught us that women were ordained to be subject to men, O Lord, why then do they resist? Help their stubborn souls to the light of understanding, and soon, Lord, let it be soon.

Yet there were some here who were purely good. Young Sister Ganmor, now, the tall thin nun who tried so hard to please. The Father Confessor gave a watery smile. Sister Ganmor, yes. At first he had been unnerved by her long pale face and watchful sloe-black eyes. But now her devotion delighted him, her true humility, her simple faith in God.

There was a knock at the door. “Who’s there?” he called.

“It’s Sister Ganmor, sir,” came a soft voice as, head bent and eyes fixed devoutly on the ground, Morgan Le Fay stepped quietly into the room.