CHAPTER 45

She could hear Arthur’s voice, booming and overconfident, outside her chamber door. “Tell the Queen I am still her champion. I will not let her die.”

Hopelessness seized her in an iron grip. When Ina eturned with the message, she waved her away. Mador would have his revenge, and Arthur could not overthrow the course of the law. Lancelot was gone; she might as well be dead. What did it matter now?

THE NIGHT WORE ON. High overhead a storm howled in from the Welshlands, and the owls in the bell tower hid their heads in fear. Great blasts of wind beat at the windows, and sleet as sharp as elf-arrows pelted the glass. Again and again she built up the fire on the hearth, but still her blood ran cold. And again and again it came to her like a knife blow: the Christians are setting the fire to burn me now, and Mador wants me dead.

“In Camelot, no man would dare to think such things.”

On a low table by the wall, a gray mouse sat up on her hind legs, looking at Guenevere. Her age-old eyes were smiling yet sorrowful too, and her plump sleek body was composed in an attitude of watchful love.

Guenevere groaned. “Tell me, Lady, why does Mador want me to die?”

“He wants you to pay for the life that he thinks is lost. He does not know that his brother has sweetly sailed the sea of unknowing, and reached the isles of joy. That Patrise will be restored to bodily perfection, and come again as a great hero to win love and renown.”

Guenevere gave a bitter laugh. “But he’s turned to the Christians, and they want to kill me too.”

The little creature inclined her shining head. “Mador takes comfort from the Christians because they flatter his ignorance with their foolish certainties, one way, one truth, one life. Like him, when our spirit leaves us, they see only our body’s death.”

“And they hate the Mother,” Guenevere said somberly, “and want to destroy Her laws.”

The small messenger nodded again. “In the country of the Great One, all men know that women are the givers of life, and must never be put to death. But here . . .”

She twitched her nose, and spread her tiny hands. “You are in danger, daughter,” she said sadly. “I have come to warn you to beware.”

Guenevere shuddered. “Of the Christians?”

“Of the Christians, certainly. Their leader will not rest till he has rooted out the Mother from this land.” Her eyes filled with tears. “One day soon the Great One will need your help. Soon you will be summoned back to Avalon. But for now, Guenevere, my word to you is, prepare for your fate.”

Guenevere pressed her hands together and brought them to her lips. “I am ready. Speak.”

A great sigh filled the room, and the voice of the Lady echoed from Avalon. “The dance of life is the rhythm of rise and fall. When we fall, we must rise to live our dance again.”

She leaned forward, her luminous eyes searching Guenevere’s face. “Remember, Guenevere, you are not like other women. Fate spins as it will, and even the Mother cannot turn back the wheel.”

Guenevere felt hopelessness drowning her like a wave. “What can I do?”

The tiny body was changing, dissolving as she spoke. “Embrace your fate. Farewell.”

“Mother,” cried Guenevere, weeping, “don’t leave me—don’t go! They are all against me now, and I can’t fight alone. If you don’t help me, I’m lost, and I shall die!”

“Remember, Guenevere,” came the low, musical tones, “all women are blessed with the strength of the Great One herself. Those who follow the Goddess can always enter the dream. Break free of this night of darkness, and you will become all that you have dreamed.”

The voice died away, and Guenevere was alone. But now the winter-bound midnight chamber was fragrant with apple blossom, and pulsing with the sound of Lake water lapping over stones. A surge of power passed through Guenevere and brought her leaping to her feet, clapping her hands. “Ina! Send for Sir Bors and Sir Lionel. Tell them I need them now!”

BORS SHOOK OFF the snow from his mantle, and handed it to Ina without a word. Beside him, his brother Lionel looked frozen and hopeless too.

“So, my lady,” Bors said, in a voice as cold as the winter night outside. “You sent for us?”

Guenevere steadied her voice. “You know that Sir Mador has won the right of trial by combat to challenge me for causing his brother’s death?”

“We know,” said Bors shortly.

“So I stand within his danger, the law says. Yet if my knight will fight for me, I may be cleared.”

“Your knight?” Bors burst out. “Madam, if you mean Lancelot—?” He broke off, scarcely able to contain himself. Ye Gods, was there no end to this woman’s demands? “He’s not here, madam! You sent him away. Is it your wish to unbanish him now?”

Guenevere nodded. “It is,” she said simply. “I want you to find him, and beg him to return.”

Bors laughed in fury, gesturing to Lionel at his side. “The trial will take place as soon as the hard weather breaks. Can the two of us scour these islands before then?”

“If he’s still here.” Lionel shook his head. “We’ve had no word from him since he went away.”

“We think he went back to France,” said Bors, with savage relish. “And he’d never get back from there in time for the trial.”

Guenevere held him in a level stare. I know you hate me, Bors. But you love Lancelot, and he loves me. She forced a smile. “Nevertheless, Sir Bors, I beg you to try.” She passed him a leather bag, whose heavy contents clinked as it changed hands. “Twenty thousand crowns,” she said evenly. “You may hire many messengers with that.”

Bors recoiled in hot disgust. “We do not need your coin! The sons of Benoic do not serve for hire.”

Guenevere waved a hand. “Then keep it as a gift for Lancelot when he returns.” She stepped toward Bors, and looked him in the eye. “Understand this, sir. I must have a knight to fight for me at my trial. You are the nearest I have to my lord and love. If Lancelot fails, I call on you, Sir Bors, to champion me.”

Lionel gasped in horror. “My lady, Sir Mador is one of the foremost fighters of the court! And you must know that my brother is not Sir Lancelot.” And poor Bors is short and not gifted at arms, he wanted to shout. He’s no horseman, and not strong. Mador will hack him to pieces; Bors will die—Goddess, Mother, no! Gabbling, Lionel rushed on. “I will defend Your Majesty. Take me as your champion. I’m Lancelot’s cousin too—”

“No, Lionel.”

Bors was trembling, and his face had taken on an ashen sheen.

Lionel gripped his arm in a frenzy. “Bors, listen to me—”

“Brother, this fight is mine.” Bors gently pushed him away, and gave a crooked smile. “And this death is mine too, if it has to be.”

He turned back to Guenevere with a wooden bow. “At the trial then, lady, I will fight for you.” He paused, and added, almost like a prayer, “And for Lancelot.”

“GOOD NIGHT, my sons.”

The great bronze moon of the Orkneys looked down and smiled. The palace compound was loud with fond greetings as the night’s festivities drew to a close.

“Sweet sleep to Your Majesty.”

“And to you all.”

One by one Morgause embraced her sons.

Gareth bent his head for another kiss. “Good night, Mother,” he said happily.

“And don’t give Agravain another thought,” added Gawain with a laugh. “Tomorrow I’ll take him down to the tilting yard, and give him the lesson that’s been long overdue. Our brother has disgraced us all tonight. Now we’re all at home, we’ll teach him how to behave.”

“Yes indeed,” Gaheris agreed. Already he could see Gawain thundering down the lists to thwack Agravain soundly to and fro, and Agravain crashing head down from his horse to eat the ground. He gave a wicked grin. “Leave him to us.”

A look of sorrow and regret shadowed Morgause’s face. “Don’t be too hard on him.”

Oh, lady, lady, you were never hard enough. Standing stiffly in the rear, Lamorak felt a chill greater than that of the winter night. A sense of being watched came to him suddenly, and the hairs rose on his neck. He turned back toward the buildings clustering in the darkness around the edge of the compound, then brushed away the fear. Agravain would not be lurking out here in the cold like this. No, he would be sulking in his guest palace, nursing his insults over countless cups of wine.

With a burst of final farewells, the party dispersed.

Morgause turned to Lamorak. “Good night, Sir Lamorak,” she said, with a glance from her heavy-lidded eyes. Come to me as soon as the palace is asleep, her look said as plainly as any words. And again Lamorak felt a chill breeze on his face like the hostile scrutiny of a watcher in the night.

“Good night, my lady,” he said carefully. He stood for a while watching them all depart. Then, dwelling by dwelling, he began to make the rounds of the outlying buildings huddled in the dark.

He had not gone far before he could feel a silent shadow trailing his every step. He drew into the darkness in the angle of a wall.

“Leif?” he breathed.

A soft chuckle reached him, and the leader of the knight companions emerged from the dark. His one eye caught the faint rays of the moon. His cratered face had a death-washed aspect, and his hunting stoop gave him an animal air. But the short sword and dagger he gripped in each hand gleamed with a reassuring light, and his grin was friendly and even sheepish in the depths of his curly beard.

Leif shrugged and looked away. “I was watching for you,” he grunted. “The dark one means you ill.”

Lamorak drew a breath. “He hates us all. And most of all, himself.”

Leif bared his teeth. He studied the edge of his sword, then favored Lamorak with an unblinking stare. “Such men are better dead.”

Lamorak did not move. A nod, a glance, he knew, and Agravain would be no more. Not a sound would disturb the peace of the sleeping court, but tomorrow the queen’s second son would be gone. And no trace of him would ever be found, even if the searchers turned the world upside down.

Life without Agravain—

The urge to nod was almost irresistible.

Goddess, Mother, Lamorak prayed, show me the way.

He waited. Then slowly the image of Morgause swam into his sight, her maternal body decked out to welcome her sons, her large, lupine eyes alight with a mother’s love. Tears started to his eyes, and he stared at the moon. On the pale disk in the sky he saw Morgause’s face. From the world beyond the worlds, he heard her voice, calling him through the music of the stars. And it came to him: I cannot kill her son.

“The queen awaits me,” he said quietly. “Tomorrow her sons will ride in the tilting yard. We must attend them all at dawn.”

Leif grunted. “So be it.” The night air moved very slightly, and he was gone. “Beware the dark one,” floated back to Lamorak through the dank air.

Lamorak stood for a moment, and raised his eyes to the sky. Did I do right? he asked the Old Ones, and waited humbly as the answer came. Above his head the blue-black vault of the heavens blazed with pale fire. The stars danced in their courses, and he heard their soundless cry: What will be is already written here. A vast sense of peace possessed his soul. And again he heard the low music of a woman’s voice, ripe with the love and desire of a thousand years. Come, Lamorak, come—

“I come, my love,” he said softly. With an eager step he strode toward his fate. “Wait for me. I come.”

NIGHT SETTLED OVER the compound. One by one Gawain, Gaheris, and Gareth, aided by the knight companions who had brought them home, reveled themselves into deep and dreamless sleep. In twos and threes, the knight companions staggered back to the knights’ hall, and the hard-pressed servants dropped thankfully into their beds.

High overhead, the moon rode weeping in the sky. Her tears fell to the earth as moonstones, and were taken up by lovers doomed to be parted till the world turns again. And Morgause drowsed in her great bed of state, waiting for Lamorak, who was lying on his back, staring at the moon, with a knife through his heart.