Outside the day grew hot. The steady drone of bees among the wildflowers drowned out the nearer human voice reading interminably from the Sacred Scroll. The voice droned on, the bees droned on, the light-dappled air shimmered with heat. Not far away, lake waters lapped gently against the shore of the little island. His eyes slowly closed, his head fell quietly, in gradual stages, against his shoulder. He never heard the distant, soft splash of oars.
“Galahad, you are not attending.” He jumped. Eerie golden eyes fixed upon him from the shadows.
“I’m sorry, Father Aidan.”
“You were sleeping. Sloth is a deadly sin.”
“Oh, no, Father, I was, um, I was thinking. About my father.”
“Don’t lie. Never lie. You were sleeping.”
Galahad flushed. “Yes, Father.”
The golden eyes sharpened to bronze points. “Why did you say you were thinking about Lancelot? Does he concern you?”
“Uncle Galyn says he is a good king. My mother says he’s wicked.”
The eyes watched him unblinking. “He is good with a sword. Swift killing impresses such men as your uncle Galyn.”
“Uncle Galyn says he is good because he loves honor and fights for Arthur.”
“Ahhh. Arthur Pendragon. The soldier’s god. But you have doubts, Galahad, or you wouldn’t be asking. What are they?”
The boy shrugged, suddenly uncomfortable, but the golden eyes held his gaze and he couldn’t look away. “I don’t know. He hurts Mama sometimes. She yells at him.”
The robed figure came out of the shadows and into a shaft of light. A tall man stood before him, lean-featured, with a full beard and long, cascading curls of light brown hair. He looked down at the child. His rich, vibrant voice filled the small spaces of the hut. “I will tell you a tale about Lancelot. It’s a true tale. It happened in the village where I grew up.” The priest’s long fingers deftly rolled up the scroll and tucked it into his robe. “There was a miller in our hamlet who had the great good fortune to marry the girl he loved. She had no dowry, but the miller did not set great store by earthly goods. He loved her dearly. He loved her more than life itself. Perhaps that was a sin.”
Aidan walked slowly to the single window. Sunlight struck his face and lit his flowing hair. “Every day he thanked God for this great blessing. On the day their son was born, he felt his cup of earthly joy run over and wept aloud in thanksgiving. For three years his life was a wonder of happiness, a daily heaven. He had everything he had ever wanted.” He paused. Galahad waited. Aidan stood so still for so long the boy thought he had forgotten the rest of the tale. But when he finally spoke, the powerful voice struck like a hammer blow.
“Then your father came to our town. On that day, the miller lost it all.”
Galahad gulped. “How?”
“King Ban was dead. Lancelot was just eighteen and back from Britain to take up his crown. He was a great hunter in those days, always galloping headlong about the country in pursuit of one beast or another. That day he and his companions raised a she-boar, wounded her but could not kill her. She went mad with pain.” Aidan paused again, as if gathering strength to go on. “Have you ever seen a boar stuck with spears like a giant hedgehog, bleeding her life away and blind with rage? That day our village saw her. The miller’s wife saw her. She had gone a short way into the Wild Forest of Broceliande to gather acorns along the forest track. Her son was with her. As children will, he wandered from her side—only for a moment—but it was the last moment of his life. The boar broke through the brush, ran him down and gored him, flung him into the air, then fled in her terror toward the town. The woman grabbed the child, screaming, as the king’s horses thundered down the track. They passed by her, every one, without even a second glance. She ran with the child toward the river—who knows why? To clean the blood from his little body? To take him to her husband, though he was not a healer and the boy was past human help? It is too late to ask her. She reached the river, and then she stumbled. She could not swim. The miller watched as his wife and son were swept downstream beyond his reach. Two days later they surfaced in the Green Pool. Bloated. Unrecognizable.” Aidan’s voice went flat. Galahad shivered. “And the young king killed the boar at sundown on the day this family died, and held a great feast in Benoic in honor of his deed.”
After a long moment Aidan turned back to face the boy. His eyes were veiled. “The miller went mad, they say, and never returned to the village. Three lives wasted on a summer’s day and all for nothing.” Aidan moved toward him. “From that day to this, Lancelot has not passed a happy day in Lanascol. The miller’s curse pursues him, though he knows it not.” A long finger pointed right at Galahad’s face. “Goodness in a man is a simple thing. It is obedience to God’s commands. That is why you study here, to learn what the Lord requires of you. For you, Galahad, will do God’s bidding. So it was prophesied while you were still within your mother’s womb.” His voice thrummed in the warm air like a plucked harp string. “You will hear the Lord’s voice one day, and you will obey it.”
Galahad’s throat was dry. He swallowed quickly.
“Christ commanded us to care for our neighbors. Lancelot cared for nothing but the glory of his hunt. The village, the people, his own people he was sworn to protect, meant no more to him than a bar across his way. They meant less than the boar herself.” The golden eyes suddenly blazed and Galahad shrank back. “He will pay for that. Yes, he will pay. For that, and for other sins. For causing your mother pain. For putting Arthur’s service before Christ’s. For sins of the flesh he commits as freely as breathing— a root bearing poison and wormwood, the wicked woman is—she has his soul!” Aidan paused, his fist raised before his face, and let his arm fall slowly to his side.
“What woman?” Galahad whispered.
Aidan shrugged off the question. “Abhor wickedness, Galahad, all the days of your life. Of all these sins and more, Lancelot is guilty. Damnation awaits him if he does not repent. And he will not repent because he loves his sins too well. Remember this, Galahad: Repentance must come from the heart, and not the lips only. God sees into our hearts with the ease and clarity of sunlight through a window. Remember the tenth commandment.”
The boy responded eagerly: “ ‘Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s house, thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s wife, nor his manservant, nor his maidservant, nor his ox, nor his ass, nor anything that is thy neighbor’s.’ ”
“That sounds easy to obey, does it not?”
“Yes, Father.”
A long arm reached out of the dimness; a thin-fingered hand gripped his shoulder. “It is impossible for most mortal men. Because it commands not only your actions, but your will.” The hand withdrew. The hard voice softened. “Attend me carefully. Not only is it sin to lie with another’s wife—that is adultery, clear and simple. It is sin even to desire another’s wife. A man may keep himself as chaste as he will, and yet sin against God if he lusts after what is not his own. Do you understand, Galahad? Your very daydreams may betray you. You may be damned for what you long for. Your thoughts, your aspirations must be trained and guarded and kept pure. It is not just the actions of your flesh that condemn you; it is your thoughts as well, your wishes, your desires. These you can never hide from God. It is the same with repentance. To repent of a sin you must give up what you gain by its commission. You must hate in your heart what you loved before.”
Aidan cocked his head. They both heard the distant scrape of a boat upon the shingle. He leaned down to Galahad, fixing his golden stare on the boy’s uplifted face. “Remember the prophecy: You will raise the sword of righteousness in Britain. To be a righteous man you must abhor evil in your heart. Turn against it wherever it lies. Consort not with abomination. Sin is anathema, and those who commit it. Put them all away. Don’t make excuses for a man because he is your father. If thine own eye offend thee, pluck it out! Cruelty may be kindness in disguise. A good man is like a white robe, clean of dirt. Remember that.”
&n
bsp; The resonant voice rang in Galahad’s ears. Aidan turned, releasing Galahad from his gaze. Quick, firm steps approached up the pathway. The boy slid quietly off the stool and waited. He, too, recognized the steps.
A woman’s silhouette appeared in the bright rectangle of the open door.
“Aidan? Are you within?” Aidan moved so that a shaft of light fell on him. “Have you finished with Galahad for today? Let him go. I must speak privately with you. Now.”
Aidan bowed with the slow grace of one who is never in a hurry. “As you will, my lady.”
“Mama.” Galahad came forward to embrace her, but she kissed him hurriedly and pushed him toward the door. “Not now, not now. Go see what that oafish son of Dessa’s is doing with the rowboat. He nearly upset me in the middle of the lake. That’s a good boy.” She swept into the hut, throwing off the light shawl that hid her hair. Aidan closed the door behind her.
With a shrug Galahad walked down the footpath toward the shingle, where Renna dozed under a pine tree. The lad who had poled Renna and Galahad across was fishing off the end of his barge, head bent in concentration over the dark lake waters. Nearby Dessa’s son stood beside a rowboat, glancing nervously around the island, making the sign against enchantment with a furtive hand.
“What’s the matter?” Galahad asked him, wondering why Elaine had gotten Dessa’s son to do her rowing and not one of the soldiers. Everyone knew Brith was terrified of water.
The youth rolled his eyes. “Don’t you know about this island? Black Lake’s been a sacred place time out of mind. And here in the center is worst of all—it’s haunted! There are spirits everywhere!”
“I don’t see any spirits.”
“They’re here, though. Folk say there are a thousand of them living here. Spirits of the pagan dead. And I’ve seen one myself.”
“You have?”
“Aye. And I know who it is, too. My father told me.”
“Who, then?”
“It’s Vivienne, who used to be the Lady of the Lake and live in that very hut, although it was nicer then. Full of silks and cushions. Fit for a king’s son.” Brith grinned nervously at him and winked.
“What king’s son?”
“Why, come on, you must have heard that tale. Sir Lancelot—when he was young—used to come here all the time to visit the Lady, even though his father whipped him for it. They say he bore the whippings gladly to be with the Lady Vivienne. She was a magnificent beauty, they say, and a powerful priestess. She’s the spirit I’ve seen, I’m sure of it. Tall and raven-haired and golden-skinned. Come out here on the night of the new moon, and I’ll show her to you.”
“No!”
“Ha ha! You’re frightened now yourself! Serves you right for trying to make me feel a fool.”
“I’m not frightened! You’re making this up! My father didn’t come here. There aren’t any spirits. There’s only Father Aidan.”
“And the queen . . .” Brith winked again, more boldly. “Wonder what they’re doing in there, all this time. Kissing, do you think, like last time?”
“You lie! You lie!” Galahad cried.
“I do not. It’s all over Benoic. You might as well know.”
“It’s not true! Take it back!”
“I won’t!”
With a strangled cry, Galahad threw himself at the older boy.
Elaine stood in the shadows and watched the sunbeams play over the rich riot of Aidan’s curls. “Well, Aidan. Where have you been? I was beginning to think you had tired of Lanascol.”
“You shouldn’t have come.”
“I have a reason.”
“Send your messages through the boy.”
Elaine shrugged and walked slowly around the hut, assessing the mean furnishings, the ramshackle construction, the poverty of possessions.
“It is about the boy I have come.” She stopped and faced him. “Exactly what are you doing to him, Aidan? I want to know.”
The cool golden eyes met hers. “I am teaching him, Beauty. As you instructed. I am preparing him for his future.”
“Hmm.” She looked slowly about. “I see no tablets, no stylus, no scrolls. What exactly are you teaching him?”
From the fastness of his robe he drew forth a thick scroll bound with a ribbon. “I teach him the Word of God. It is all he needs to know. The rest is chaff.”
An eyebrow lifted. “Indeed? Then why are we ruled by kings instead of priests? Government, warfare, lettering, history, star-reading—these are useless pursuits, I suppose. Even for a priest, yours is a limited idea of education.”
Aidan laughed lightly and set down the scroll. “All those things he will learn elsewhere. In Camelot, no doubt. You did not bring him to me for that. You asked me to make him single-minded. To make him pure because his father is corrupt. To teach him righteousness that he might fulfill the Lady’s prophecy. I am doing that.” His voice softened. “What did you really come for, Elaine?”
She clasped her hands in agitation. “I came for help. Lancelot is taking my son to Britain at summer’s end and he still refuses to take me!”
“You’ve had an answer to your latest plea?”
“Yes! The courier rode in this morning. Don’t look so smug, damn you!”
“Surely it was no surprise.”
“You’ve got to help me, Aidan! You once told me everything was within your power but wielding weapons. Were you boasting or can you make Lancelot change his mind?”
“I can get you to Britain, certainly.” He gazed thoughtfully into the distance. “Are you certain that’s what you want? To go to Britain with Galahad? Or would it serve you just as well to keep him here?”
“I want to go to Britain! I want to see my homeland again.” She looked up at him, her round blue eyes enormous with tears. “I want to go home, Aidan. It’s been six long years since I’ve seen the mountains of Gwynedd. I want to see my homeland. I want to see Camelot. And the King.”
The golden eyes flickered. “Ah, yes. Arthur, King of the Britons. Beloved of every man and ruler of every woman’s heart, if half the tales are true.”
“You know nothing about him,” Elaine retorted hotly. “He’s not an ordinary man. You and I are not fit to breathe the air he breathes.”
Aidan turned away and stood by the window. “You are as transparent as shallow water. It is easy to see where your heart lies.”
Elaine colored lightly. “Do not be angry with me, Aidan. Half the world worships Arthur. You would, too, if you but knew him.”
For a long moment Aidan did not reply. Then he turned toward her. “How much do you want to go?”
“It’s life and death to me!” Elaine cried. “Galahad must not go without me! I will lose him, Aidan—she will taint him, my wicked cousin, she will blind him with her charm and spin him lies by the hour—she will malign me; she will cast her spell across him and everything I’ve done with him, everything I am to him, all will be lost!”
The golden eyes held hers in a long, steady stare. “Keep the boy here, then, if you are afraid of the High Queen.”
“Afraid!” Elaine’s chin jutted forward. “Afraid of that skinny, spiteful bitch? Don’t make me laugh! But Galahad must not go near her. I’ve known her from childhood, Aidan. She will do anything to thwart me!”
“Is girlish spite reason enough to steal your child?”
“It is Lancelot’s child she wants. It is Lancelot’s son she wants to make her own—it is Galahad. I know this, Aidan”—she thumped her fist against her breast—“as I live and breathe, I know this. She is barren and cannot bear to Arthur. It is a pain she lives with, day in, day out, and would do anything to ease—she will take my son from me if I am not there to protect him. And Lancelot will let her.”
Aidan regarded her in a long, assessing stare. “It is possible to give you what you wish. But there is a price to pay. Will you do what is required?”
“I will do anything, Aidan! Anything!”
Aidan turned back to the window. “You speak
with passion, but I fear your desire is stronger than your will. You are a woman, after all, and weak.”
“I could have you whipped for that!” Elaine snarled. “How dare you insult me so? Do not forget, sir, who is queen and who is servant!”
Aidan regarded her, unsmiling. “You speak from your husband’s power. But how much strength have you?” He paused. “I will tell you what I find surprising. That in six years Lancelot has not allowed you back even for a visit. I wonder. It’s almost as if he were obeying orders.”
“Orders!” Elaine bristled. “What do you mean? Who would give him such an order?”
“Who indeed?”
“Don’t be a fool, Aidan. When did I ever obey an order of Guinevere’s? High Queen or not, she’s only my cousin. I’m not afraid of her.”
The golden eyes narrowed. “Perhaps it was not the Queen.”
Elaine went still, and paled. “Arthur? Do you mean Arthur himself? But . . . but he wouldn’t. . . .”
“You don’t sound very certain.” Aidan watched her face. “What did you do to him, my dear, that he would banish you for?”
Elaine began to tremble. “Nothing. Nothing. Nothing at all . . . Nothing that a man might not forgive.” His golden stare forced the words from her against her will. “Once, when Guinevere was away, I went to his bed without his knowing—I wanted to show him how much better a wife I could be to him—all the women in my family are great breeders of sons . . . but when he discovered me, he . . . he would not approach, but had me taken out.” Bright color rose in patches to stain her face. “I forgave him, as I am sure he has forgiven me.”
“I see. He preferred to lie alone than to lie with you. And yet you and I are not fit to breathe the air he breathes.” Aidan leaned forward suddenly. His voice went through her like an arrow of ice. “You can go to Britain, Beauty, as soon as your husband dies.”
Elaine gasped. “Death?” She stepped back a pace. “He’s never ill. He’s in the prime of life. The country’s at peace. It won’t happen.”