CHAPTER 46

In the woods above Caerleon, the first green shoots were bringing hope of spring. A misty green veiled all the hills and valleys, and a pale sun warmed the raw, damp air. High on its hilly bluff, the old castle rejoiced with the orest at the promise of new life. But there was no joy in Caerleon as Guenevere was led out of the castle and down through the town to her trial on the plain below.

The white and gold figure was dwarfed by marching men. A heavy guard of soldiers accompanied her every step. Stunned and silent, the townsfolk lined the streets to watch them pass. Only one old woman dared to raise her voice. “The curse of the Mother light on you all for this!” she screeched, shaking her fist. “May the Dark One come to take you all home!”

Another witch, thought the Father Abbot dispassionately, as he followed with his monks behind the armed guard. Well, we have made a good start with this trial of the concubine. Sir Mador must win the challenge and prove that witchcraft is rife in the land. Then the stake and faggots lie waiting for Guenevere. And when the Great Whore of Avalon is overthrown too, we shall have all these women under our control. Then the witches among them will learn to fear the fire.

He frowned, and pressed a finger to his aching head. So much to do, Lord God, so much to be done. His thoughts returned to the letter on his desk, whose contents had troubled his sleep since it arrived. “With the love of God, we struggle on,” the Father Confessor had written in a faltering hand, “but I fear the sickness will consume us all.”

Now of all the convent, only a handful remain alive. This week I can take no food, and my bowels are melting in a bloody flux. Soon Our Lord will take me to Himself. My death is nothing, but God’s work must go on. There must be a new leader here, and a fresh body of young nuns, if the House of the Little Sisters of Mercy is to survive.

The letter petered out into a faint scrawl.

But for Sister Ganmor, we should have lost the battle long ago. She has been my right hand throughout, and her piety has been an inspiration to us all. She is a true believer and a child of God. Pray think of her as a worthy successor to me, abbess in her own right. She has my dying voice.

Sister Ganmor, eh? The Abbot frowned again. That was the name he could not remember when talking to Arthur about the convent before all this came up. What was it about Sister Ganmor that had seemed so important then? Faint wisps of memory chased through his brain, and he recalled a tall, thin, pale-faced nun, humble and devout. She had been young then, but time passed so quickly now. And she might indeed have the spiritual power to become abbess, if the fire in her deep black eyes was any guide. He warmed to the thought. A new leader, a new start. Let us get this witch Guenevere burned and her bones cast away, dear Lord, he prayed, then give me Your guidance on this holy house.

The procession wound on, with the townsfolk trailing behind. At the foot of the hill, the river valley opened out onto a wide green plain. There the stewards had fenced off a jousting arena on the level ground. Another fence ran down the center of the grassy square, to keep the horses apart as they charged. On either side, at the point where the chargers would meet, were viewing platforms for the King and Queen.

ENTERING THE FIELD, Guenevere felt a vast nothingness suffuse her soul. Till the last moment, Arthur had never ceased to promise her safety, rescue, and release. Sir Mador would give up the challenge; he would accept blood-gelt for his brother; he would not fight. Arthur would forbid the contest; he would fight for her himself. The more frantic his protestations, the calmer she grew. Arthur had betrayed her to her enemies. He had to see that now.

Surrounded by her guard, Guenevere was escorted to her place on the high wooden dais. Facing her across the lists with all his knights, Arthur leaped to his feet as she appeared, and saluted her with a deep, extravagant bow. She nodded a cold acknowledgment, and turned her head away. Seating herself, she cursed him in her heart. It was all she could do not to wish him dead.

The heralds were circling attentively around the field, keeping a watchful eye on the people of the town, who pressed eagerly against the rails. At one end of the lists, Mador stood mounted and waiting for the trial to begin. His somber armor was the same mourning shade he had worn since Patrise died. Decked out in black plumes, black harness, and black trappings, his heavy charger seemed in mourning too. Black bells at its neck and knees rang out plaintively as a wind off the river lifted and died.

At the opposite end of the lists, outlined against the sun, armed and mounted, Bors waited too. Behind him stood Lionel with a group of men. Lionel had done all he could to prepare his brother for the fight. But the presence of so many doctors, bone setters, and healers showed how he feared it would end.

Perched on his great charger, Bors had equipped himself in the Queen’s colors, and his white and gold armor blazed like spring itself against the greening grass. But nothing could conceal the stiffness of the figure in the saddle, or the tension of dread revealed in his every move. At the other end of the field, Mador seemed to feel little, if any, of the excitement around. He turned a cold eye on Guenevere, and she looked away. Well, let it end.

She watched without emotion as the monks of the Father Abbot followed their leader to the far end of the lists. They came to a halt behind Mador, and broke into a chant. The thin wisps of sound came purling up the field. “Dies irae, Domine, dies peccati”—the day of God’s anger is here, when all sins shall be revealed, and the wretched shall be cast into misery—

Sin and misery, the eternal cry of the Christians—

But the thought reached Guenevere from another sphere. She was in limbo, floating beyond feeling, without fear, without hope. Bors and Lionel had sent messengers far and wide, and Sir Lancelot was not to be found. Bors could not beat Mador, everyone knew that. When he lost, her life would lie in Mador’s hands. And even Arthur would find it hard to suspend the law.

The wind was rising again, a sharp northeaster with more winter in its kiss than spring. But Guenevere was oblivious to the cold. A vast indifference held her in its grip. What does it matter? The sooner it ends, the sooner I shall go down to the house of darkness, and there I may find some peace.

Hovering beside Guenevere, Ina scanned the marble face and wondered anxiously when her mistress would break. Sir Lancelot lost and now a grief like this, the little maid fretted. Why doesn’t she howl, break down, run screaming from her fate? Goddess, Mother, she prayed, hear me, be with the Queen.

Across the arena, crows and ravens were circling the viewing platform where the King sat with his knights. Arthur looked over at Guenevere and clutched his head. He still found it hard to believe that he had not prevailed. How had he been so wrong, when his heart was right?

“Gods above,” he groaned, “why has it come to this? I am the King! Why couldn’t I spare the Queen?”

There was a silence among the knights. Sir Bedivere hesitated. “You are the King, sire, but not above the law.”

“If it had to happen, why wasn’t Gawain here?” Arthur swept on. “He would have beaten Mador hands down.” He clenched his fists. “And where’s Lancelot?” He turned to Sir Kay. “Do you know why she sent him away?”

Kay did not move. “Why, my lord?” The familiar bilious rage curdled his soul. He writhed inside. I could tell you, Arthur, but you do not want to know.

He took a breath. “Sire—” he began.

“Hear ye!”

A shudder ran through the crowd. The Knight Marshal was entering the arena, with his heralds and trumpeters marching behind.

Arthur waved a wretched hand at the brightly colored pageant entering below.

“So,” he sighed, “events must take their course.” Then the great bearlike body stirred, and the strong fair head went back with unconscious nobility. “Yet I am King here still. The Queen will not suffer, if I have to take to the lists myself!”

“Draw near!” The heralds were calling the combatants into the field. The cry of trumpets split the noonday air. “Where is the challenger?”

“Here!” Mador raised his lance and rode onto the field. “I accuse Guenevere the Queen of witchcraft and murder, practicing to take my poor brother’s life. I challenge her knight champion to the death!”

“To the death?” The Knight Marshal stepped forward. “No quarter given, Sir Mador?”

“None given, and none taken! To the death.”

The Knight Marshal coughed. “The King begs you to be merciful.”

Mador slammed down his visor and shook his helmeted head from side to side. “No!” came the howling cry. “Let the loser die!”

The Knight Marshal bowed. “As you will.”

He raised his hand, and the trumpets rang out again. “Who answers this challenge in the name of the Queen?”

Bors lowered his visor and rode to the center of the field. He raised his lance to the Marshal and bowed to Mador.

“I do,” came his voice, muffled and faint.

Sorrow swept Guenevere like a weeping cloud. You will die, Bors, she thought, and so will I. Well, I shall see you in the Otherworld.

“The contestants will vie for the best of three falls!” the Knight Marshal proclaimed. “Then each knight must give battle on the ground. Sir Mador has called for combat à l’outrance, battle to the death. Only one man may leave the field alive.”

Among the crowd lining the arena, not a soul moved. The Knight Marshal raised both arms to the midday sun. “Let the contest begin!”

The contestants withdrew to either end of the field. Turning, they urged their horses into a canter, and then to the charge. Already Mador had the advantage of speed as he thundered down the lists. Guenevere turned her head away. A joust was often over with the first heavy fall. The first encounter might break Bors’ neck outright.

With a hideous crash, Mador’s lance met the center of Bors’ armored breast. The impact tossed him almost contemptuously out of the saddle, and sent him spinning backward to the ground. Bors crashed to the earth and lay still as Lionel and his helpers ran onto the field.

“He’s down! Sir Bors is down!”

Lionel knelt and tried to raise his brother’s head. Others pulled off his helmet, and worked frantically to bring him around. But the small figure spread-eagled on the grass showed no signs of life. At the side of the field, the bearers were already preparing the stretcher to lift him away. Mador still held his place at the head of the lists, ready for the second charge. Guenevere shook her head. It was over, as she knew it would be.

“Sir Mador! On guard, on guard!” the Knight Marshal cried.

A mounted figure was galloping out of the sun and into the lists.

Instantly Mador put his horse into a charge. “Have at you!” he cried.

The two knights met in the center of the field. Mador’s lance was aimed straight at the newcomer’s breast. But with a lithe twist, the stranger knight evaded the weapon’s point, and planted his own squarely on Mador’s chest. The whole arena resounded as Mador’s heavily armored body flew backward out of the saddle and hit the ground.

Ina pointed to the new knight in the lists, sobbing with relief. “Who is it, lady?” she wept.

Guenevere stared, unable to move or speak. The stranger knight was armored from head to foot in red. A red helmet hid his face from sight, and the whole of his torso was sheathed in flame-red mail. He rode a big red roan, cunning and bold, a charger Guenevere had never seen before. Guenevere shook her head. She dared not hope. Lancelot?

Mador staggered to his feet, furiously gesticulating to his squire to help him remount. The red knight wheeled away for the second charge. Guenevere felt herself breaking inside. Lancelot, is it you?

“Make ready!”

The heralds were trumpeting the second charge. From the set of Mador’s lean body, this time he would not miss. He spurred his horse to a gallop at the start of the course. The stranger knight was slower to reach full tilt.

This time as the red knight feinted, Mador did too. His sharp lance tracked his enemy’s every move, and its glinting point caught the red breastplate full on. But the red knight slipped backward in the saddle and deflected the lance’s thrust. Mador’s scream of fury could be heard around the field.

“No fall!” proclaimed the Knight Marshal. “Let the combatants prepare for the last charge of the three.”

Once more the two knights charged down the field. Mador rode with all the fury at his command. You are mine now, his vengeful posture said. Try all your tricks; my lance will find you out.

But the red knight anticipated Mador’s approach. Almost reluctantly he threw himself forward along his horse’s neck, dipped the point of his lance under Mador’s guard, and hooked Mador lightly out of the saddle, sparing his opponent the full force of the charge. Guenevere held her breath. It’s Lancelot. She closed her eyes to hold back a storm of tears. Oh, my love, speak to me. Give me a sign.

Mador fell to the ground.

“Prepare to give combat on foot!” the Knight Marshal cried. “Sir Mador, you may breathe for a while, if you wish.”

But already Mador was on his feet, and reaching for his sword. The red knight dismounted to face his attack. They circled each other three times, then Mador struck.

“Oh, madam, it’s to the death—spare them, Great One, spare the Queen!”

Beside her, Guenevere could hear Ina’s fervent prayers.

“Never fear, Ina,” she told her through dry lips. “Our fates were all decided long ago. What will be is written in the stars.”

On the field the two knights struck and parried and struck again. Mador fought with the fury of a cornered boar, and the red knight matched his onslaught step by step. Taller than Mador, and stronger, his skill left Mador baffled at every turn. Yet he seemed reluctant to press his advantage home. Time and again he stepped back from the fray and withheld the blow that would have had Mador down.

The day wore on. As noon passed, a primrose-colored sun danced briefly in the sky, then faded behind banks of cloud. Both knights were tiring now, but Mador’s armor was marked with his own blood. Bright red seeped from his helmet, and ran from a wound in his side, staining the grass. The young knight was staggering now every time he swung his sword. Yet still the stranger would not strike him down.

At last Mador stopped dead, swaying in his tracks. Feebly he swung his head from side to side, then shook his fist at Guenevere.

“Lord God of Hosts, ride on the point of my sword!” he howled. “Grant me vengeance for my brother against this witch!”

Gripping his sword with both hands, he lifted it above his head and ran at the red knight with tottering steps. The red knight stood his ground, then at the last moment lightly ducked aside. Mador pitched forward onto his face, and did not rise.

“He’s down!” A fury of excitement swept the crowd.

“Arise, Sir Mador!” called the Knight Marshal. “Arise and give battle, or your opponent wins the day!”

Three times the trumpets echoed his command. There was no response from the motionless figure on the ground. At last the stewards ran onto the field and dragged the beaten knight to his knees.

Mador swayed in their grasp as the chief steward pulled his helmet off his head. He was bleeding from his mouth and nose, his face and forehead thick with clotted blood. Black shadows veiled his eyes, and he wore a dull vacant stare.

“I’m coming, brother,” the men beside him heard him mutter thickly. “Patrise, are you there?”

“Prepare yourself, Sir Mador, to meet your end,” the Knight Marshal cried somberly. “As the challenger, you chose combat to the death. And the Queen’s champion has the victory.”

The heralds thrust forward Mador’s kneeling body, offering his neck to the red knight’s sword.

“Strike, sir!” the Knight Marshal called.

The stranger stepped forward, raised his sword in both hands, and swung it around his head. Then he brought the blade to his lips in salute of his fallen foe, and sheathed it in his belt. One mailed hand called up the attendant holding his horse. The other hovered briefly over Mador’s bent head. “Live, sir,” those nearest heard him say. “Your mother still has one son left alive. Go back to your country, and cheer her heart.”

No one moved save the red knight, who stiffly mounted the red roan. Circling, he pointed its head at Guenevere.

“Madam, he’s coming to see us!” Ina thrilled.

Guenevere wrung her hands. Goddess, Mother, let it be my love—

The rough roan gathered pace toward the dais. As it drew near, something left the rider’s hand in a slow shining arc. It fell from the sky in a glittering curve, and thudded into the rough boards before Guenevere’s throne.

It was the sword with which the red knight had defeated Mador, still dripping with blood. Point down, it stuck in the platform close to her, quivering and bleeding like a living thing. Passing by at speed, its owner swept off at a gallop into the setting sun.

“The champion!” shouted the people. “He has saved the Queen!”

“He has come to lay his victory at your feet!” Ina cried.

“The champion, the Queen’s champion!” The crowd howled its approval again and again.

On the King’s platform, Arthur was weeping for joy among his cheering knights. “Guenevere!” he cried.

Sir Kay signaled urgently to the stewards below. “Bring the Queen to the King!”

Guenevere said nothing as the Knight Marshal came to escort her from the dais.

“Guenevere!” Arthur wept as she approached. “You’re safe, thank God!” He clasped his hands in prayer, and raised his eyes. “God spared you, as we knew He would all along.”

Guenevere dropped a frozen curtsy. “Thank you, my lord.”

She nodded and even smiled as Arthur crushed her to his chest, then, still weeping, took her hand and led her back up the hill through the ranks of cheering townsfolk to the castle.

But she knew in her breaking heart what the sword meant. A weapon drawn and thrown down, covered in blood, spelled undying enmity. Lancelot had saved her, but he would not forgive.

THAT NIGHT, ARTHUR and all Caerleon feasted her in the Great Hall. A mood of solemn joy possessed them all. She sat at his side as knights and ladies, courtiers and councillors came to kiss her hand and call down all the blessings of the Great One on her head. The servants were weeping openly, and the chamberlain gave up all hope of a normal, orderly service at the table, for tonight at least. Even the Father Abbot bowed before her throne, though she saw his hopes for her death still twitching in his eyes.

“God is with us, Guenevere,” Arthur proclaimed, weeping with delight. “He has shown that there was no witchcraft, and proved you are free from sin. Sir Mador must accept God’s verdict on his brother’s death. No man can trouble you now. It all turned out exactly as I planned. Oh, Guenevere!”

At the end of the evening he folded her hand in his arm, and led her to his bed. There he laughed and wept and took her in his arms, expending every ounce of his great bearlike body to give her joy. She held him and let him kiss her and do what he wanted to do. But the sword thrown by the red knight stayed lodged in her heart.

Later, as the moon shed the last dark wreaths of cloud and drifted toward day, she slipped to her chamber and found herself alone.

Huddled in her window, she lit the candle that she knew he would not see. Falling to her knees, she kissed the ice-cold glass. And she wept then as she had never wept before.

EIGHT HUNDRED MILES to the north, another woman was weeping her heart out too. Prostrate over Lamorak’s body, Morgause was howling and tearing her hair, while Agravain ran through the palace proclaiming that he had killed a traitor in his mother’s defense.