CHAPTER 25

Wake up, sleepyhead!”

The servant awoke to a boisterous box on the ears. Standing over him was the head chamberer with a grin on his face and a candle in his hand.

“What is it?”

“Look lively, it’s the King. He’s calling for all his knights to make a dawn party to greet the Queen. He wants to go Maying, as they always did.”

“But the blossom’s not out yet.”

“I know that, clodpoll, it’s still in the bud! But who cares what chamber servants think? Our orders are to attend the King.”

The boy stumbled to his feet. “And wake up the knights?”

“Yes, he won’t go without them; call them all, Sir Lancelot, Sir Gawain, you know who.”

“And send to the Queen?”

“Gods above, man, not the Queen! The King wants to take her by surprise.”

“She’ll be surprised all right.”

“You’re right there, lad. There won’t be a more startled woman in Camelot when the King walks through the door!”

“SIR!”

Bors came to himself, in the throes of a bad dream. Someone had been beating on the chamber door, demanding Lancelot. And Lancelot was not there; he was with the Queen. In another second he knew the nightmare was true. There was no imagining the pounding fist, the echoing cry.

“Sir! Sir Lancelot!”

Across the chamber he could see Lionel, still half asleep, dazed and terrified. As always, the sight of his younger brother brought out the best in Bors.

“Lay off that noise, and wait!” he shouted, in commanding tones. “Allow your betters to cover themselves before they open the door.” He leaped up off his rough pallet, reached for a robe, and threw open the door. In the corridor outside stood a servant of the King.

“So, dimwit,” Bors began dangerously, “what’s the news that disturbs Sir Lancelot in his bed?”

The servant hung his head. “No offense, sir,” he mumbled nervously, “but the King has a fancy to go dawn-courting of the Queen, and surprise her in her bed. All his knights must attend him before the cock crows. He specially called for Sir Lancelot. Oh, and you too, sir, of course.”

Bors did not move. His mind stood still. Arthur wanting Lancelot, who was with Guenevere. Arthur calling on Guenevere, who was with Lancelot. He forced himself to speak. “When the cock crows, you say, we must meet the King?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And what’s the time now?”

“The monks are singing matins.”

Bors nodded. They had half an hour, maybe more. “Tell the King that Sir Lancelot sends his loyal greetings, and we’ll attend him as soon as may be.”

He turned back into the chamber, and slammed the door with unaccustomed force. “Goddess, Mother, what are we to do?”

Across the room Lionel was wide awake and trembling. “The Queen,” he said wildly. “Lancelot’s with the Queen.”

“As the King will be.” Bors gave a bitter laugh. “Within the hour.”

Lionel’s face collapsed. “We’re lost, brother,” he said frantically. “There’s nothing we can do. We can’t get word to them in there, past the guards. Lancelot will be caught with the Queen, and it’ll all come out.” His eyes widened as a new horror came into his mind. “The Christians call it sin, and their wretched monks are all around the King now. She’ll go to the fire, and we’ll all burn for it too!”

He let out his breath in a low wail of despair.

Bors brought his fingers to his temples. “What did you say?”

“I said we’ll all die! They’re both trapped in her chamber when he should be here. We can’t get word—”

“No—after that.”

“It’s a sin! The Christians call it sin! They burn women for—”

“That’s it.”

Bors cut him off. He dropped his sweating head between his hands, and when he lifted it again, his face had a marble calm.

“Thank you, brother, for your helpful words,” he murmured, through a sick half-smile. “It’s good to have a brother. And the spirit of brotherhood is our only hope, I think.”

“MY LADY! My lady!”

The low voice was like a wave on Avalon’s shore. Guenevere swam up to consciousness from a deep pool of sleep. Her hand moved sleepily to the body by her side. Lancelot here, loving her, again and again all night, what could be wrong in this best of all wonderful worlds?

“My lady!” Ina’s voice throbbed with panic now. “Lady, wake up, I beg of you!”

Guenevere opened her eyes. The flame of a candle danced before her sight. By its faint light she could see Ina hovering at the bedside, holding out her chamber gown. She glanced down at the sleeping figure in the bed. Lancelot slept like a boy, tangled up in the sheets, spreading his lordly length. She gazed at him, and almost lost herself in love.

“Lady—”

“Hush! Don’t wake Sir Lancelot.”

She slipped naked from the bed. Ina wrapped the gown around her and wept softly, like a child.

“Oh my lady!” she whimpered. “The King’s coming—he’ll soon be here!”

“What?”

“I overheard a message brought to the guard. They were laughing and joking outside the door, and the noise woke me up. ‘The King’s coming,’ they were saying, ‘to surprise the Queen. Just as—’ ”

“—just as he did when we were sweethearts in May.” Guenevere nodded dully. Whatever had put this idea into his head? What did it matter? He was on his way.

Her mind surged on. So, no hope of Lancelot leaving through the window, the way he had come. If the King was on a May adventure and about before dawn, all the castle would be awake. They were trapped in the tower like the guilty souls they were.

“Madame?”

She had not heard him wake. He sat up in bed, saw Ina, and fumbled to draw the sheet across his waist.

“What is it?” he said in confusion, his eyes wide with sleep. “Why is she here?”

“Arthur is coming to surprise me in my bed.”

Lancelot’s eyes flared.

“He knows?” he cried.

“No. He—” The words choked her, but they had to be said. “He’s coming for love. To take me Maying, as we used to do.”

Lancelot caught his breath. “With his knights?”

“Yes. He always used to come with his chosen knights.”

“So the King will have sent for me.” Suddenly he was unnaturally calm. “Bors will have dealt with that,” he said evenly. “But when his knights meet, I will not be there.”

“And he’ll find you here.”

She glanced around the great chamber hopelessly. Chairs, tables, and a comfortable couch, but not a cupboard, not a chest where a man might hide.

She looked at Lancelot, and terror bloomed. “Gawain’ll kill you, Lancelot, or Agravain, one of them will.”

He swung his legs from the bed, winding the sheet around his hips, and reached for his sword. “We shall see.”

“You can’t kill them all!”

He shook his head. “Madame, I hope and pray I shan’t have to kill any of them. But neither shall they kill me.” He gazed at her with a sudden dark regard. “Or you.”

She ran to him and threw herself in his arms. “Don’t talk of killing. I can’t bear it!” she wept.

He pushed her away. “We must.”

“Lancelot—” She tore her hair. “Listen to me!” she howled.

“Lady! My lady!” Ina ran to her weeping, and seized her hand. “Lady, don’t take on so, the King will forgive—”

“Never! He can’t, his monks won’t permit—”

“Listen!”

Lancelot started like a stag, and turned toward the door. “What’s that?”

“Goddess, Mother, save us!” Ina wept.

“No, do not ask for that.” Lancelot raised his hand with a terrible smile. “The Great Ones do with us as they will.” He sighed. “Ours is not the first love to end in fire and blood. Let us prepare ourselves. To the antechamber, Ina, if you will.”

“Lancelot—”

“No, lady, no more tears.” He moved toward Guenevere with a look of mingled love and death, gripping his sword and hefting it in his hand. “One kiss, my Queen, for I hear them. They are here.”