The Broken Sword (32 page)

Lot stared at her for a moment. Then he strode toward her and kissed her hard on her mouth. "Indeed, you shall make a fine wife for me, Morgause," he said.

Thus was Lot of Rheged able to lay the final paving stone in his path toward the High King's throne.

H
e made the announcement
at a meeting of the council of kings two years after the jackals had taken his land in exchange for the troops he had desperately needed to fight the Saxons. At that last meeting Lot had come as a beggar, humiliated and starved out by war; but this time was different. Morgause was with him, and so was the boy named Mordred. Although the child was only twelve years old, he had been well schooled by his mother, and stood with the bearing of a king. In fact—and no one was more surprised by this than Morgause—he rather strongly resembled King Arthur.

It will not be a mortal hand that kills him,
Thanatos had said, and over the years the queen had come to believe his words had been more than mere talk. The boy had never behaved like her other sons. He had never acted like a child at all.

With all of her other sons dead, she had felt especially tender toward the last of her brood, this child born of unearthly passion. But Mordred had never welcomed his mother's caresses. As he grew, he learned his lessons perfectly, spoke with eloquence, and grasped the arts of war with a cold intelligence that even Lot found admirable. Indeed, the king of Rheged came to look upon his wife's bastard, who shared not a drop of his own blood, as the most promising of his sons, although he was careful never to address Mordred as such.

"I am his guardian," Lot told the council, "nothing more. His father is Arthur Pendragon, High King of Britain."

The gasps in the council chamber could be heard outside the castle walls. A bastard son of Arthur's! The two members who had approached Lot with offers of alliance sighed with relief. The others stiffened in fear. With a claimant to the throne in his pocket, nothing would stop Lot from declaring war on any kingdom he wanted.

Queen Morgause followed her husband by confessing— as only she could—her indiscretions with King Arthur during the last years of Cheneus' life.

"He said that Cheneus was too old to service any but the worms in the graveyard," she said, her lips quivering just enough to betray her emotion, but not her dignity, ''and that, as a servant of the High King, I was bound to do his will."

Arthur laughed at her histrionics. "Lady, please do these nobles, whom you have seen fit to regale with tales of my lust upon you, the honor of describing the marks I have upon my body."

Morgause blushed and lowered her eyes.

"What? Are you silent, Queen Morgause? But I have fought in many battles, and carry the enemy's scars in places you would doubtless have noticed had I been your lover, as you insist I was." He drummed his fingers on the table.

"I can think of none, your Majesty," she said quietly.

The petty kings shifted in their seats.

"Except for the large sword wound on your left shoulder."

Every eye turned toward Arthur.

"And the half moon upon your right thigh. And the bright red mark near your armpit."

Lot tried to cover a smile.

"Over your ribs, on the left side, there is a long, flat scar, colored white."

Arthur realized he had walked into a trap. A hundred soldiers had seen him in various states of undress on campaign, and not one of them would have hesitated to answer questions about their king's scars, which they considered badges of honor.

"Upon your belly, my lord, is one which you told me was inflicted by a dagger—"

"Enough. It is clear you have come well prepared to this meeting."

"I did not wish to come at all, Majesty," Morgause said in her clear, lovely voice. "It was my intention to raise my son as Cheneus' child, as there is no other to carry on his name. Also, I wished to spare this young boy the shame of learning about the circumstances of his conception. However, since the country is besieged by rumors of civil war owing to the lack of a legitimate heir…”

"How kind of you to show such concern," Arthur said through clenched teeth.

"... and since you yourself have told me of Queen Guenevere's infidelity with her champion, Launcelot du Lac, in order to get you a son by any means..."

"What!" The King leaped to his feet, reaching for his sword. Had he not been restrained, Arthur might have run both Lot and his wife through. "You are a liar, madam! And you, Lot, have broken your oath to this council by allowing this filth to be spoken here! The sight of you both is an offense against every honest man here!"

"Then we shall respectfully withdraw," Lot said smoothly.

But the damage was already done. Although Arthur tried to bring the meeting back to some semblance of order, the council members made their excuses, one by one, to leave so that they could discuss the matter among themselves and their advisors.

"The boy looks like him," they said.

"Lot will rule, one way or the other."

"If the queen does bear a child, it will be Launcelot's."

By nightfall, the news had travelled to every village in the countryside. Within a week it had spread throughout Britain.

L
auncelot knelt before the
King red-eyed and nearly numb from lack of sleep. He had heard the rumor about himself and Queen Guenevere on the day of the council meeting. Since then, he had spent every night in constant prayer, ceasing only at dawn to train and perform his other duties.

"My lord..."

"Don't," Arthur said quietly. "We won't dignify this outrage with denials."

The knight lowered his head to his knee and wept.

"Come on, Lance, get up. We'll have a glass of wine." He drained the goblet already in his hand, then refilled it unsteadily and poured another, offering it to Launcelot.

"No, my lord."

"You won't drink? Very well. It won't go to waste." He set the cup down, spilling its contents over some documents scattered on his work table. "Well, isn't that a pretty mess." He looked around the room. "This place needs a woman's touch. That's it, I shall have to find a woman." He laughed mirthlessly.

"I believe I should leave your service," Launcelot said. "That would be best, in view of... circumstances."

"There's no need, not any longer." He took a drink. "The queen has consented to enter a convent."

Launcelot was stricken. "But she has done nothing."

"I know." He drank the rest of his wine in one draught. "I know." From the outer bailey came the clanging of the armorer's hammers. "There will be war. The council members are already choosing sides."

"Then—Sire—why give in to them by putting aside the queen?"

"To fend off the fighting for as long as I can!" Arthur said with more vehemence than he had intended.

He missed Merlin and the old man's calm judgment. Launcelot was intelligent and loyal, but he possessed a soldier's clear-cut sense of right and wrong. He would never understand the necessity of discarding an innocent woman in order to fend off an inevitable civil war for a year or two.

He wished he didn't understand it himself.

"It was the queen's suggestion." He picked up the second goblet. "I suppose you find this all very unchristian."

"A man's vow to his wife is sacred," Launcelot said.

"And to his country?"

"You should not have to choose."

"But I do, don't I," Arthur said waspishly. "I do have to choose, and I choose to betray my woman so that a pack of treasonous old men won't go snatching one another's land. Isn't that what you're thinking?"

Launcelot was silent for a long moment. "Yes, that is what I think," he said finally.

Arthur drank his wine. “Your show of respect for the King is touching."

Launcelot closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "I would die for the King. It is the man I cannot respect."

"Then get out." Arthur threw the empty goblet at him. "Get out, I said! I suppose you'll go next to offer Guenevere your consolation.
Consolation
—is that the term for what you do with other men's wives, Launcelot?"

The knight's eyes widened. He felt himself trembling.

"I didn't mean that," Arthur said. "It was the drink. Or the events of the week." He slumped into a chair. "Or my disgust at my own stench." He lay his head into his hand. "Go, Launcelot. We'll talk another time."

T
he king was not
in attendance at the Round Table, but the other knights were in a state of high agitation.

An invasion, Launcelot thought.
Please, merciful Father, let the Saxons have come.

More than anything, he longed for the mindless ecstasy of battle. Even if he were killed, hacked to pieces by a Saxon ax, it would be better than the slow death he was suffering now, waiting for the queen to be locked away in a nunnery like an adulteress.

He loved her. With every drop of blood in his body, he had loved her from the moment he first saw her.

It was Guenevere's face he had pictured every time he took the widow named Elaine in his arms; it was to Guenevere that he had written so diligently, though he had addressed the letters to another. When he travelled to the provinces for his trysts of passion, he had pretended that it was to Guenevere's secret house that he was journeying. Guenevere was the center of his life, and he thought of her constantly, with the devotion of a barbarian to a stone idol.

He became the queen's champion and protector. He dedicated all of his tournament wins to her. His courage in battle had been for her. His service to the King, even the duties of his religion, had been born of his love for Guenevere.

And so, when he foreswore his passionate liaison with Elaine of Parsifal after the resurrection of Sir Naw, Launcelot had only sacrificed the physical satisfaction of his love. But he had still possessed Guenevere herself, if only the sight of her.

Because he could never give her up entirely. Not even for God.

And so he had not. He lay with Guenevere once, only once. But that had been enough to change everything.

And that, he knew, not his dalliance with Elaine, had been his true wickedness.

At court, the ladies spoke of him in sighs, praising his pure devotion to his queen. But had they guessed how many nights he awoke from dreams of her, shamed and tortured and nearly willing to sell his soul for an hour in her bed?

Probably, he thought. They were all talking now, accusing him of the things he'd wanted to do for a lifetime, the passion he had tried so hard to disguise.

But God knew. God had known all along that Launcelot's sacrifice had been less than perfect, and now He was exacting His due.

Launcelot would never see Guenevere again.

Yes, he would welcome the butchering Saxon hordes.

C
uroi MacDaire spoke first
. "Launcelot, we wish... that is, the time has come, we think..."

Lugh Loinnbeimionach grunted and smacked MacDaire's ribs. MacDaire sat down.

Bedwyr tried next. "What MacDaire was saying is that we've been thinking about... well, about Sir Bors."

"What about Sir Bors?" Launcelot asked flatly.

"First off, we all knew him. That is to say, some knew him better than others. Tristan and Fairhands, I guess they didn't know him as well as some, seeing as how they were so young..."

"Get to it, boy," Kay grumbled.

Bedwyr fidgeted uncomfortably. "Get to it, yes..."

Gawain rose suddenly. "We want to fill Bors' place at the Round Table," he blurted, then immediately sat down again.

Launcelot looked around the table and had to smile despite himself. Of the hundreds of people at Camelot, these men were probably the only ones who were not consumed with Launcelot's supposed love affair with the queen.

They were the old fighters, Kay and Gawain and Dry Lips; stocky Bedwyr, who understood cavalry better than most men twice his age; Geraint the swift runner; Tristan, with a face as beautiful as a girl's, and Lugh, ugly as a winter boar. Agravaine, who lost a hand last year and then fitted it with a dagger and practiced until it was as much a part of him as his own flesh. MacDaire, who could charm a man out of his last piece of bread, and young Fairhands, who gave the others their souls. These were his brothers. Nothing Launcelot could do would ever make them turn their backs on him.

"Really," he said. "You don't like the idea of a Siege Perilous?"

"No, we don't," Dry Lips said, with a thump on the table for emphasis. "We need a full complement, and a chair with a fancy name isn't the same as a man with a sword."

"By the saints' blue peckers, he's right," Kay said. "Now, no one had more respect for Bors than me. No one." He shook his jowls. "He was a fine man and a fine soldier. But he's dead now for two long years, and we're not going to bring him back."

Launcelot leaned back in his chair. "I see. And who has spoken with the King about this?"

There was a silence.

"We were hoping you would," Fairhands said at last.

Launcelot sighed.

"We'd come with you," Tristan offered.

"Thanks," Launcelot said. "But to tell the truth, I don't think that will be too difficult. I doubt if the King has even thought about the empty chair for a while. Do you have a candidate to fill it?"

"We do," MacDaire said. "A fine lad, the best of the young knights."

"And we've seen 'em all," Dry Lips added wearily.

Fairhands nodded. "We wanted you to look them over with us, but you were... well, busy." He lowered his eyes. Kay sniffed and gave Launcelot a hearty slap on the back, a gesture that brought the great knight close to tears with its crude eloquence.

"Very well," he said hoarsely. "If you like him—"

"You have to like him, too, or we'll kick the blackguard out on his arse," Kay said. "He's waiting outside."

"Out—" Launcelot laughed. "You blighters! Suppose I'd refused to fill the chair? We all have a vote at this table, you know."

"Oh, we'd have talked you into it," MacDaire said with a wink.

"Well, bring him in, then. That is, if he's not afraid the Perilous Seat will swallow him up."

"We'll tell him God picked him," Dry Lips said. "That's part of the story, isn't it? If God picks you, you're all right."

"Fine. Which of you is going to say he's God?"

"Lugh," MacDaire answered casually on his way to the door. "The devil himself wouldn't argue with him." He showed the young man in. "Sir Launcelot, may I present Sir Galahad," he announced.

The knight bowed. Launcelot squinted at him. There was something familiar about the fellow. More than familiar.

Then he rose and their eyes met. "Merciful Lord," Launcelot whispered.

Galahad was the very image of Elaine, the woman he had loved with his body while his heart had longed for the Queen. The eyes were Elaine's, serene, almost saintly eyes that had wept with gratitude when Launcelot prevented her husband from beating her to death. Eyes that shone with love for him whenever he came to her, filled to bursting with guilty passion for another woman. Eyes that he often suspected had known the truth without being told.

She had never accused him, never shown him anything but courtesy and kindness. When he came to her house without warning, Elaine had always greeted him as if she had been expecting him all day. And when he left again, after using her for an hour, she would say good-bye with a smile, never asking when he would come again. Even when he forsook her forever without a word, she had offered no recriminations—no letters, no gossip designed to reach his ears.

He saw her once again, several years after the incident with Sir Naw. She was picking wildflowers in a field with a small boy by her side. Her hair was bound by a kerchief, and she wore a long white apron that billowed like a sail in the summer breeze. She had looked beautiful.

Launcelot had hoped to ride past without being recognized, but the boy shouted, "Look, a knight!" and began to run toward him. Feeling like a thief who'd been caught, Launcelot halted his horse and waited for the terrible moment when he would have to speak with her, but Elaine called the child back with a word. Then she smiled at the lover who had betrayed her with such callousness and waved to him in farewell.

That was the image he had kept of Elaine from that day: a woman surrounded by flowers, waving farewell.

Of course she had not told him about the boy—this boy, now grown into a man and standing before him in the armor of a knight. Launcelot had never given the child in the field a second thought, but he knew now. Galahad's face was Elaine's, but his coloring and height were Launcelot's own.

"What is your surname?" he asked thickly.

"Parsifal," the young man answered. "Though my father died before I knew him."

"And your mother?"

"She died, too, Sire. Last year."

Launcelot lowered his head in shame and regret. "I am sorry to hear it. She was a fine lady whom I had the honor of knowing."

Galahad's eyes shone. "Yes, Sire. She told me that once you chanced upon our lands, and slew a wicked man who was about to kill us."

"A wicked man," he murmured.
But not so wicked as myself.

"And once again we saw you, riding past a fallow field. I was not yet seven years old, and had never before seen a real knight. My mother told me that you were Launcelot of the Round Table, and beloved by God." He blushed crimson. "It has been my prayer ever since to serve the King by your side."

Launcelot tried to speak, but could not. At last he cleared his throat and rose slowly to his feet. "And so you shall, young Galahad of Parsifal. Take the seat that none except he whom the hand of God shall place there may occupy."

The other knights got to their feet as well, drawing their swords from their scabbards.

"By the grace of God," Kay said, holding his sword over the table.

The others touched the tip of his weapon with their own. "By the grace of God."

At the precise moment when Galahad sat in the long-unoccupied chair, a ray of sunlight appeared through the narrow window and beamed directly onto the young man. In the glare of the sudden light, the dust motes in the room seemed to swirl around him like moondust. A horn sounded—a call to some courtiers' hunt, no doubt, but for Launcelot, filled with memories of lost chances and broken dreams, it was the trumpet call of heaven itself. It heralded a new hope—not for himself, for his time was past, but for the world.

"Sir Galahad," he said.

"Sir Galahad!" the others shouted in approval.

Tears streamed down the young man's face. The mission of his life had begun, and though he did not yet know what that mission was, he would serve it to the end of his days.

I was once the queen's champion, but he will be the King's,
Launcelot thought with pride
. God be with you, my son.

T
he queen left the
next day. It was done without ceremony: Guenevere came out of the castle dressed in a plain black gown, like a widow. A serving woman walked behind her carrying a satchel in which a few of the queen's personal things had been packed. The woman was weeping; after the satchel was given to the equerry, Guenevere kissed her upon both cheeks, then ordered her back inside.