CHAPTER 44

“Understand this, all of you.” Arthur’s voice echoed around the low paneled room. “There will be no blood shed.”

Sir Mador drew in his breath in a hiss of dismay. A ectic flush rose to his pallid face. “Sire—”

Arthur leaned forward, his finger jabbing the air.

“Agree to this, Sir Mador, or these proceedings are at an end.”

Mador’s eyes were unnaturally bright. “You are the King. I must agree.”

“Very well, then.” Arthur directed a troubled gaze around the Council board. Already he was beginning to fear that Guenevere was right, and the meeting could prove him wrong. “We are all here, I think. Let us begin.”

Mador stepped toward the long table, trembling in every limb. His black mourning clothes lent an unnatural pallor to his wasted face. But when he spoke, his voice was clear and cold.

“Your Majesty, lords of the Council, and knights of the King, I come before you to seek justice and my right—”

Arthur held his head. Would nothing stop the boy? In the weeks that had passed since the death of Patrise, nothing had taken the edge off Mador’s grief. Time had only hardened his resolve to seek revenge. Mador, Mador, Arthur almost groaned aloud, let it be.

Outside the window, a leaden winter day was slipping into a frozen, windswept night. Icicles clung to the mullions, and flurries of snowflakes lightened the brooding sky. A dull fire sputtered on the hearth and gave little warmth. Arthur drew his furred gown more tightly around him, and tried to pay attention to Mador’s speech.

All around the timeworn green baize, the members of the King’s Privy Council were doing the same. To Arthur’s right sat his most trusted knights, and to his left were Caerleon’s wisest and most ancient lords. Farther down the table, the Father Abbot formed a single column of black surrounded by black-clad monks. The faint smell of incense seeping from their robes mingled with the stale air of old furs and velvet.

“My lord!” Mador’s rising stridency assailed Arthur’s ears. “Twenty knights saw what happened at the feast. The Queen killed my brother. I ask for justice, justice, justice!”

“Sir Mador, you do not know what you ask.” It was old Sir Niamh, a knight who remembered the days of the Mother-right. “A queen cannot be brought to trial.”

Mador swept the councilors with his glittering gaze. “Tell me then, how may I have redress? Or must my brother’s death go unpunished here?”

“No evil goes unpunished where Pendragon reigns,” came the quiet voice of old Sir Baudwin, one of King Uther’s former councilors, seated at Arthur’s side. “I was your age, young sir, when King Uther restored the rule of law in a kingdom ravaged by lawless men.”

He turned earnestly to Arthur. “As you did yourself, sire, when you reclaimed your right. Pendragon means justice and truth for all.” He paused, stroking the forks of his iron gray beard. “It is true that a great evil has been done. And in the Middle Kingdom, no man must be beyond the reach of the law.”

The Father Abbot leaned forward. “Or woman, sire.”

“Gods above, man!” Sir Niamh’s beetle brows swiveled down the table in alarm. “What d’you mean?”

The Abbot fixed his pale gaze on Arthur and composed his long face. God speed my words, he prayed. “With your permission, sire,” he began smoothly, “there is another issue for us here, not merely the death of Sir Patrise, but the way he died. No human hand brought him to his grave. The apple he ate, the unseen poison inside, the blackening of his flesh, all show the hand of a witch at work.”

Arthur started in horror. “A witch?” he cried. “Not Guenevere!”

The Abbot paused. Lord, Lord, give me the concubine. With Your aid now, her life lies in my hands. He reached for his softest, most reasonable voice. “Sire, all women are daughters of Eve. It is their birthright from the Mother of our sin.”

Sir Niamh felt his old blood boil in his veins. “In your faith, Christian, not in ours!”

The Abbott shrugged his shoulders. “Eve was the first betrayer of mankind. She was doomed to be the destroyer of men. Likewise her daughters are born to turn men from their destiny, and draw them down to dust. For that reason, Our Lord Himself shunned women, and held aloof from their carnal embrace.” He turned to Arthur and spread his thin white hands. “Sire, no man on earth would accuse your Queen. But we cannot escape the fact that a knight lies dead.”

“Yes!” cried Mador.

“So evil is at work. And we must root it out.”

“Your Majesty.” Mador clenched his fists and sent his voice ringing around the room. “I beg no more than the law of this land allows. Let the Queen be brought to the field of trial, to face the challenge I make. Let her champion appear, and meet me, man to man. I will make good my claim against any who comes. Whoever wins, the truth will then be known.”

Arthur closed his eyes. How had it come to this? He shifted his great bulk on his throne. “I am the Queen’s champion, Mador, do you know that?” he growled. “And I shall meet your challenge, as you demand.”

“You?” Mador’s mouth gaped. “Oh, sire—”

Sir Baudwin shook his head. “My lord, you may not fight against our laws. The King must be impartial.”

“And the Queen’s knight is Lancelot,” Sir Niamh put in.

“But Lancelot is away,” Arthur ground out. “And no man knows where he is.”

The Abbot smiled. “The Queen will not go undefended,” he said confidently. “And innocence is its own best defense.”

“Give me my right!” Mador cried. “A trial by combat, à l’outrance, to the death!”

“Sir Mador—” Arthur sat torn in an agony of doubt.

Sir Baudwin leaned in to speak into Arthur’s ear. “My lord, you may not refuse Sir Mador’s request. Trial by combat is a knight’s ancient right. Moreover, your father gave it the force of law when he was ordaining justice in this land. Will you overthrow all this to protect your Queen?”

Arthur groaned and gripped the arms of his throne. “It seems I must grant you your right, Sir Mador,” he cried at last. “But the Queen will be defended, if I have to break the law to fight for her myself.” He bunched his fist and pounded on the board, wagging a warning finger at Mador and the Abbot alike. “And however the verdict goes, remember one thing. You have sworn to shed no blood!”

He rose to his feet, and the Council followed him. The voice of the Abbot fell softly amid the bustle of departure, and none could have said who heard and who did not. But those nearest to Arthur saw what passed over his face.

“Shed no blood?” the Abbot mused conversationally as he gathered up his robes to leave. “No, indeed. Yet witches may be burned. And if we have such a witch among us, who would spare her from the fire?”