CHAPTER 43

“Oh my lady, it’s Sir Mador—he’s petitioned the King!”

Guenevere had heard of the meeting at once, as soon as Ina hurried back wide-eyed and trembling from the lower court. She went straight to the King’s apartments, sent out a bevy of messengers to track him down, nd by the time Arthur returned, she was ready for him.

“Why did you agree to this without consulting me?” she began without preamble. She could barely speak for rage.

Arthur’s head went back. “I am King in my own kingdom, Guenevere,” he said stiffly. “I don’t need your agreement every time my Council meets.”

She ground her nails in her palms. “If not as my husband, then as King, why?”

Arthur did not want to admit that he had been asking himself that question ever since he had agreed to the Father Abbot’s smooth suggestion a few hours ago. “Sir Mador demanded a hearing about his brother’s death,” he said stubbornly. “It’s every subject’s right.”

“But you know that the Christians have been working on Mador. They’re only using him; he’s half mad with grief.”

Arthur essayed a laugh. “Come now, Guenevere, using him for what? Mador’s a grown man. He knows what he thinks.”

If only grown men did, Guenevere thought with a bitter surge. With a furious effort, she held to her argument. “They’re using him to push forward this vicious nonsense about witchcraft. You know that isn’t true. So that must mean”—she tried to calm herself—“that we have a murderer among us, someone who wanted one of our knights to die.”

“I can’t believe that,” Arthur said with confidence. He cocked his head knowingly to one side. “There are many forces of evil beyond our ken. Witchcraft is only the name the Christians have for it, after all.”

“But, Arthur, if you give in to this, don’t you see where it will lead?”

Arthur’s honest face showed his bewilderment. “No, I don’t,” he said irritably. “You mustn’t forget that the Christians are men of God. They don’t want to hurt you, or anyone.”

If only, Arthur—

She waved a hopeless hand. She wanted to scream.

“Guenevere—” Arthur moved toward her and tried to take her hand. “You’re taking all this too seriously, my dear,” he said in reassuring tones. “Can’t you see that it’s better to let young Mador have his say? It won’t be for weeks in any case. I’ve set the date well ahead so things can cool down. But we have to let him have his moment in court. Then honor will be satisfied, and it’ll all die down.”

Arthur, you’re wrong.

Guenevere turned away and began to pace the floor. “What if he demands the right of challenge for his brother’s death?”

Arthur smiled. “He won’t,” he said confidently. “He only wants this hearing to lay it all to rest.”

Guenevere ground her teeth. “But if he does, you’ll have to agree to it.”

Arthur stared. “You don’t understand, Guenevere. I’m still the King.”

Guenevere could have wept. “But even as King, if a challenge takes place and I’m found guilty, you won’t be able to stop the course of law.”

Arthur burst out laughing. “You can’t be found guilty—you’re innocent! So it won’t arise.” He gave a contented beam.

How to make him see, to understand?

Her control broke. “You don’t know!” she howled. “The Christians hate the Mother. They’re calling me a witch, and they want me dead.” She flew at him, and beat him on the chest. “And you won’t listen to a word I say!”

Arthur flushed with anger and drew himself away. “Guenevere, you’re hysterical,” he said coldly. “This is utter nonsense, and I won’t hear any more.”

“Arthur, I beg you—”

“No, Guenevere.” He held up his hand. Never had he looked more self-righteous and aloof. “Leave this to me,” he said with chilling emphasis. “You’ll soon see I’m right. And I think you’ll be sorry for this afterward.”

“LET US HONOR the Old Ones at our feast tonight! And may the Great Ones in their mercy bless us all!”

Morgause raised her goblet in salute to the crowded hall, and resumed her seat on her throne. All around them now, the granite walls were swagged with deep woven tapestries against the cold. In the body of the long chamber, a forest of trestles had been rigged for all who came. On the dais a long table held the queen, her knight companions, and her kin. She sat with Gawain and Gaheris on her right and Agravain and Gareth on her left, turning from one side to the other in nervous joy. And Lamorak sat with his knights to his right and his left across the table facing her, profoundly wishing that it was not so. I should have been at your side, my love, he mourned, at your side, not here.

The servants were bringing the food into the hall, each struggling with a trencher as big as himself.

“Serve yourselves, my lords!” Morgause cried.

Gawain lifted his head and savored the smell of roast boar, roots, and wild thyme.

“By the Gods, my lady,” he cried, raising the curious wooden pitcher that held his wine, “I know I speak for all your sons when I say, a toast to our mother, the queen, and may the Old Ones bless our return to our native isles!”

Gawain, Gawain, threatened Agravain in his ugly heart, don’t speak for me. There are no blessings here for a second son. My Gods have deserted me, or you would not be carousing here, you would not be alive!

Frenziedly he reviewed the night of Guenevere’s feast. How could the apple have missed its mark? To waste the precious death juice at a stroke, and miss both Gawain and Mador too! Gawain should have died, there was no question of that. But failing Gawain, Mador’s death would have done. Instead, he raged, I had to watch as that fool Patrise walked away with it unharmed, and who knows if Mador ever tasted it at all? I am cursed, he wailed inside, I am cursed and abandoned, while others live to rejoice.

Seated next to Morgause, he watched moodily as she accepted Gawain’s toast. His mother had lost her stony pallor now, and a drowsy flush bathed her face and empurpled her heavy-lidded eyes. She was thickly perfumed in a rich heathery scent, but above it there was something else, high, thin, and sour. With a stab of recognition, he knew it for the tang of a mare in season, overlaid by the sharp trace of mingled bodies, the smell of sex. A sick rage seized him, and he could not look at her. He jerked his head away.

“Thank you, Prince Gawain. And may the Mother herself bless you, my sons.”

Morgause smiled on Gawain and felt a surge of warm contentment sweep over her. The old year was ending, and the new year would bring joy. Her sons and her lover were at peace, feasting together around a groaning board. Gawain and the others would come to accept Lamorak as her chosen one. Life was blessed here; they could all live in accord. Whereas at Arthur’s court—

“My sons!” She leaned forward. “You’ve been on the road so long, you won’t have heard.”

“Heard what, madam?” demanded Gawain.

Morgause sighed, and her face grew grave. “One of Arthur’s knights has met a terrible death. His brother blames the Queen. The Christians are crying witchcraft against Guenevere, and demanding a hearing against her, even a trial.”

Agravain twitched as if he had been stung. So Mador had eaten the apple, after all? A flame of joy ignited in his heart. His Gods had not betrayed him. Mador was dead!

“One of the knights?” Gawain gasped. “Madam, tell us who?”

“Sir Patrise, the brother of Sir Mador.”

Patrise! Agravain started, and could have screamed. So his Gods had been mocking him all along!

“Patrise?” cried Gaheris. “How did he die?”

Morgause shook her head. “No one knows. He was found dead on his bed the night after a feast.”

“It was the feast the Queen gave us before we left! We were all there!” Gawain stuttered. “And Patrise was in fine form that night. Gods above, what a terrible thing!” He brought his hand to his eyes.

“But how’s the Queen to blame?” Gareth cried.

“She gave him an apple with poison inside,” Morgause replied. “It turned him black, and rotted the flesh off his bones. The Christians are calling it witchcraft. They say Guenevere made him an offering to the Dark Mother.”

There was a general laugh of sharp contempt.

“As if the Great One craves such offerings,” said Gareth hotly.

“But no one there would have wanted to kill Patrise,” Gaheris put in. “So it can’t have been a human hand at work.”

A momentary chill passed between them all. Gawain was the first to recover. “Whatever it was,” he declared, “surely they can’t call the Queen to account for it?”

“In Camelot, never,” Morgause agreed. “But they were in Caerleon, where the rule of the Mother passed away long ago.” Her face darkened with old memories. “Uther Pendragon destroyed the Mother-right. And Arthur is influenced by his wretched monks.”

Gaheris groaned. “Christians see evil everywhere.”

Gawain frowned. “And they burn witches,” he said grimly. “It’s one of their foul beliefs. So the Queen stands in danger then, it seems?”

Morgause sighed. “Indeed, she must.”

Lamorak stirred. “But surely not of her life?” He gestured to the knight companions all around. “Sir Lancelot must defend her, just as we would fight to the death for our queen.” He bowed his head in homage, and smiled with transparent reverence at Morgause.

He is her lover! The knowledge came to Agravain like the slice of a dagger. He felt something tearing and splitting inside his head, but he forced himself to speak. “So you think a queen is above the law, Sir Lamorak, always beyond reproach?”

Lamorak looked at Morgause again. “She is,” he said simply.

“Whatever she does?”

Lamorak turned his gaze to stare at Agravain uncomprehendingly. “She is the queen.”

“And a queen can do no wrong?”

“I do not follow you.”

Agravain bared his teeth in a dreadful smile. “What of murder, say, like Queen Guenevere? Or cruelty or lechery, or any foul conduct not fitting for a queen?”

“Sir Agravain.” Lamorak drew a breath. “You are my lady’s son, and a prince of these isles. I am bound to honor you, as I do her. But while I defend her, no other man would sit at the queen’s left hand and question her royal right as you have done.”

“Well said, Sir Lamorak!” Gawain burst out laughing. “That’s one in the eye for you, Agravain.”

There was a general outbreak of mirth at Agravain’s expense.

Agravain flushed with rage. “Let me tell you, Gawain—”

Morgause raised a hand. “Enough.” She turned to Lamorak. “I thank you, sir.”

The smile she gave Lamorak scorched Agravain’s sight. He saw his mother naked on a bed, her soft white flesh spilling into Lamorak’s hands. He saw the young knight’s body entering hers, rising and plunging in the act of love. He saw the languid longing in her eyes, the look that she wore now. And it came to him again, the smell of sex.

“What, sulking, Agravain?” cried Gareth boisterously.

Agravain’s head was bursting. He surged to his feet and caught up the wooden goblet at his place, sending it smashing into the opposite wall. The red wine trickled down the pale stone like blood. Then the torches on the walls flared up with the wind of his passage as he broke away.

Morgause rose to her feet. “Agravain!”

Agravain raced on down the room without a pause.

“Agravain!” Morgause howled in fury. “Return to your seat! No man may leave the royal presence without consent.”

Agravain stormed through the door without a backward glance. In an instant Sir Lamorak was at the queen’s side, the knight companions rallying around him to a man.

“Your son defied you, madam,” he said urgently. “Shall I pursue him, and force him to return?”

He finished speaking and looked deep into Morgause’s eyes. Charge me with this, he besought her silently, and I will bring the young whelp to heel. Give me the power to do what must be done, or he will hurt us all.

There was an aching silence. Lamorak felt his fate hanging suspended above his head. He heard a great crying from the astral plane, where stars and tears are one. Then a blanket of dark foreboding covered his sight and he knew without knowing the answer that Morgause would make.

Morgause’s anger had drained away like an ebb tide. She shook her head. Lamorak bowed, and returned to his seat. Reluctantly the knight companions sheathed their swords, and silently hushed their weapons’ blood-hungry hiss.

Morgause composed herself. “So, my sons, more wine?”

Around the table, the party made valiant efforts to restore the vanished cheer. After a while, some warmth and comfort returned to gladden them all, as the love they shared revived and did its work.

But outside the hall, all was dark and cold. And ranging murderously through the chill of a winter night, maddened and alone, Agravain counted his injuries and dreamed of a great revenge, something faster and bloodier than even his precious poison could give him now.