We laid the two of them side by side on Lancelot’s bed while
his squire ran for a maid or two to clean up the vomit.
Gawain groaned, but the color came back to his face. “The witch … poisoned me.”
“It was meant for me,” Arthur said. “She still hates me, despite her smiles.”
Lancelot was unconscious, pale as death.
“Lancelot’s in no shape to fight Ogier,” Bors said. “And if he doesn’t show up, the Dane will claim a forfeit.”
“Then he’ll demand to face
me,” Arthur said. He, too, looked pale, unwell.
I knew what was racing through Arthur’s mind: If Ogier wins his challenge he will bring his army of Danes to Bernicia. From there they will invade southward, bringing a whole new flood of enemies to spread fire and death across Britain.
But I saw a different scene. Morganna had been subtly poisoning the knights’ food for days now. Bors and Gawain
had both been too ill to fight well. Morganna’s poisoned apples were meant to make certain that Lancelot could not even make it to the field of contest. Arthur would be forced to fight Ogier and the Dane was going to kill him. Morganna/Aphrodite had hatched this scheme to assassinate Arthur.
I looked into Arthur’s eyes. “I’ll go in Lancelot’s place, my lord.”
“You?” Bors snapped. “You’re only
a squire. That Dane out there will cleave you in half.”
“I can fight him,” I insisted. “In Lancelot’s armor, so no one will know that Lancelot didn’t show up.”
“It would never work,” Bors grumbled.
But Arthur said, “Can you best Ogier, do you think?”
I realized that Morganna had given the old Dane more than an extended life span. Aphrodite and Aten must have enhanced his body, augmented his
muscular strength, amplified his reflexes. I recalled fighting for Odysseos before the walls of Epeiros, a thousand years before Alexander the Great conquered the Persian Empire. I faced Aten himself, in mortal guise, swifter and stronger than any mere human could be. The best I could do was a draw: we killed each other.
“I will beat him, my lord,” I said firmly. Then I had to add, “Or die trying.”
Arthur nodded, his mouth a grim tight line. “No one could ask you to do more.”
So I put on Lancelot’s coat of chain mail. It was a bit short for me, but we hoped no one would notice. I hefted his heavy shield with the golden eagle painted on it.
“I’ll give you Excalibur…” Arthur began.
“No need, my lord,” I said as Lancelot’s squire buckled his sword around my waist. “Excalibur is meant for
you alone.”
We left Lancelot and Gawain in the tower room with their squires. Arthur commanded the youngsters to open the door to no one except himself. Down the long spiral of stone stairs we went, until we reached the ground level. Then I pulled Lancelot’s helmet over my head. It covered my face completely. The world shrank to what I could see through the narrow eye slit in the steel helm.
Ogier stood waiting at the far end of the courtyard, tall, his shoulders as wide as two axe handles, twirling a two-handed broadsword in his right hand as if it were a toy. The courtyard was thronged with people who had come to watch the match, buzzing and chattering with excitement. Only the center of the packed-earth courtyard was open for our contest. Almost everyone in the castle must have been
there—except, I noticed, for the men-at-arms stationed on the rooftops, armed with stout bows.
Morganna stood beside her husband. Even through the narrow eye slits of the helmet I could see that she was surprised that Lancelot had made it down to the courtyard. She stared hard at me, her incredibly beautiful face twisted into a puzzled frown.
Ogier wore a long coat of chain mail over his tunic,
as did I. A squire stood beside him holding his long shield; it bore the emblem of a stag, in black. Its tapered bottom end rested on the dirt, its square top reached to the lad’s eyes. Ogier handed his sword to another squire, and took his helmet from a third. The helmet bore steel prongs, like a stag’s antlers, and a gold circlet of a crown affixed to it. Ogier would do battle with a king’s
crown on his head—or at least, on his helmet.
“He is very fast and very strong,” Arthur warned me. “Be on your guard.”
I nodded inside my helmet. “Wish me luck, my lord.”
“May the gods be with you,” Arthur said, lapsing back to his Roman heritage. Probably he unconsciously thought that the Christian God was too meek to be of help in battle.
I stepped out into the open space as the crowd hushed
expectantly. Ogier’s helmet covered his cheeks and had a flat piece between the eyes to protect his nose. The bottom half of his face was uncovered; his snow-white beard fell halfway down his chest.
“So, lad, you, too, have come to feel the bite of my blade,” he said in a loud, strong voice.
I said nothing as I advanced slowly, warily toward him.
“Come then,” Ogier said cheerfully. “Let us
see who is the better man.”
My senses went into overdrive again. Everything around me slowed down, as if time itself was stretching out into a languid, sluggish flow. A good thing, too, for Ogier was every bit as swift as a lightning bolt.
He swung a mighty overhand blow, meant to cleave my skull, helmet and all. I jumped backward and his swing cut empty air, instead. Without an instant’s pause
he swung backhand at me, advancing swiftly as I backed away.
“Stand and fight,” he growled. “This isn’t a dancing contest.”
I was content to dance, at least until I could gauge the speed of his reflexes. I circled around the courtyard, Ogier pursuing me, as the crowd shifted and melted away from us. For several minutes the only sounds were the hissing swishes of his blade cutting through the
air and the crowd’s gasps as I backpedaled lithely. Not once did our swords clash.
He showed no signs of slowing, only a growing impatience with my retreating tactic.
“Coward!” he snapped. “Face me like a man, you spineless cur.”
I had no intention of walking into that buzz saw he was wielding. Not until I was ready.
Around the courtyard we went, Ogier charging and me retreating. I nearly
stumbled once, when I got close to where Morganna was standing. Did she somehow trip me? I couldn’t tell. But I could see Arthur’s face as he watched the match. He looked aghast, ashamed of what I was doing. Better to wade in manfully and be chopped to bloody bits, in his eyes, than to appear to be afraid of your enemy.
Ogier showed no sign of slowing down or becoming winded. If anything, he
pursued me harder, swinging his blade so fast it was a blur against the clear blue sky even to my hypersensitized eyes.
After three times around the courtyard I thought I had his swing timed well enough. I suddenly stopped my retreat, and lunged toward Ogier, raising my shield to take his thrust while I swung at his midsection.
His blow shattered my shield. It simply cracked apart, half of it
flying off into the crowd, the other half hanging useless from my arm. The force of the blow staggered me; my whole arm went numb. My own swing bounced harmlessly off his shield.
“Ha!” he roared, rushing toward me as I stumbled back.
I ducked beneath his swing and wedged my sword against the inside of his shield. Then I jabbed the point of the blade into his ribs. There was little force in my
thrust, and the blade slid harmlessly against his chain mail.
But for the first time in our fight, Ogier backed up. The crowd went “Ooh!”
For a moment we stood facing each other, chests heaving, arms heavy. I tossed away the remnant of my shield. Past Ogier’s imposing form I could see Morganna smiling.
“So you’re ready to fight now?” he taunted me.
I said nothing, waiting for his next attack.
He sprang at me with another powerful overhand swing. I gripped my sword in both hands and parried his blade with a mighty clang that rang off the courtyard walls. The force of his blow buckled my knees, but I managed to back away and regain my balance.
Ogier came forward with still another overhand cut. This time I dodged it and swung two-handed at the haft of his blade, close to the hilt. My
blow ripped the sword from his hand; it went spinning through the air and landed on the ground a good ten feet from where we stood.
The courtyard fell absolutely silent. Ogier stood for an instant, staring down at his sword on the dusty ground. Then he looked at me. I saw what was in his eyes. He realized that I could have just as easily taken off his hand, severed it at the wrist.
I stepped
back and allowed him to pick up his sword. He hefted it, as if testing to see if it were still whole and sharp. Then he advanced upon me again, but not so wildly this time. Now he was grimly determined to finish me off.
Holding his shield before him, Ogier moved warily toward me, swishing his sword in swift circles over his head. The shield covered him from knees to eyes. He was taking no chances
against me now.
I backed away for several steps, thinking rapidly, trying to find a weakness, an opening. From another life I remembered a martial arts instructor urging me, “Your enemy cannot strike without exposing himself to a counterstrike. Be alert. Be prepared. Use your enemy’s strength to conquer him.”
Suddenly Ogier roared like a bull and charged at me, ready to use his shield as a battering
ram. I dropped to the ground and took his legs out from under him with a rolling block. He fell like a giant oak tree, landing facedown on his shield.
I planted one foot on his sword arm and knelt my other leg on the small of his back. Ripping off his golden-crowned helmet, I pointed my sword at the nape of his neck.
“Yield, my lord,” I shouted, “or I shall be obliged to cut off your head.”
Ogier had no desire to lose his head. “I yield,” he said, his voice quavering.
7
We were not completely out of danger. That night Ogier feasted us, and Lancelot had to accept the plaudits of one and all as an invincible champion. He looked embarrassed, which everyone took to be humility, the kind of modesty that becomes a true knight.
We dared not eat anything except the sizzling meat of the
boar that we saw being roasted on a huge spit in the great hall’s fireplace. Nor would any of Arthur’s men drink anything except water, by his command. He’d had enough of poison.
Ogier ate and drank mightily, but he seemed to have aged twenty years since the morning. He looked thinner, slower, his eyes red-rimmed and watery. Have Aten and Aphrodite already removed whatever it was that made the
old Dane so youthful? I wondered.
He agreed good-naturedly that he would return to Denmark and never darken Britain’s shores again.
“If you have knights like young Lancelot in your service,” he said to Arthur as they sat side by side at the long dining table, “then I will keep my army in Denmark and harry the Frisians and Saxons there.”
Arthur smiled graciously. I thought that Ogier’s harrying
would only lead to more Frisians and Saxons crossing the sea to Britain, but I was satisfied that the Danes would not invade.
Morganna sat at Ogier’s other side, smiling mysteriously through the entire evening. That worried me. She did not appear to be angry or frustrated that her plot to kill Arthur had failed. She smiled like the Sphinx, like someone who is willing to wait for long ages to
accomplish her goal.
The next morning, as we were ready to saddle up and leave Bernicia for the long trek back to Cadbury castle, Morganna came into the sun-drenched courtyard to say farewell to Arthur. Several of her ladies accompanied her.
“Will you go to Denmark with your husband?” Arthur asked bluntly.
Again that Sphinx-like smile. “No, I will stay here. This is my home, not some rude swamp
across the sea.”
“But what of Ogier, then?”
“What of him?” she replied carelessly. “He is old and will die soon. He serves me no purpose anymore.”
Arthur shook his head. Then he fixed Morganna with a hard stare. “You wanted to see me killed.”
“I will dance on your grave one day, Arthur.”
He seemed more saddened than alarmed. “What have I done to earn such hatred?”
Morganna smiled again and
beckoned to one of her waiting ladies. The woman bore an infant, asleep in a bundle of swaddling clothes.
“This is what you’ve done,” said Morganna, taking the baby in her arms.
Arthur gaped at the child.
“He is your son, Arthur. I will raise him to hate you as much as I do.”
“But Morganna,” he pleaded, “you mustn’t—”
“I will, Arthur. He will know that you are his father and he will hate
you with every fiber of his being.”
Arthur simply stared at her, uncomprehending, bewildered.
“I’ve named him Modred,” she said, her smile turning truly evil. “He will be the instrument of your doom.”
Yes, I thought. Aphrodite and Aten and the other Creators would not rest until they had destroyed Arthur. They had all the time they needed to put their hateful plans into action. Could I protect
Arthur all through those long years?
I vowed that I would.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Wroxeter and Cameliard
1
As we left Bernicia and threaded our way back through Hadrian’s Wall, a messenger from Cadbury castle galloped breathlessly to us. The news from the south was not good. The High King, Ambrosius Aurelianus, had fallen ill. And Merlin had disappeared.
After trouncing the wild tribes of the north and staving off an invasion threatened by the Danes in
Bernicia, we were heading south again, seeking to escape the worst of the long, cold, wet, and dreary northern winter.
Arthur seemed more upset about Merlin’s disappearance than Ambrosius’ illness.
“He told me in my dream that he was leaving me,” Arthur muttered as the two of us clopped along the Roman road, well ahead of all the others.
I rode alongside him, and saw the worry that etched his
youthful face.
“I need him, Orion,” he said. “How can I get along without his advice, his guidance?”
Knowing that Merlin was actually one of the Creators, meddling in the affairs of mortals in this placetime, I replied, “Perhaps, my lord, he knows that you are now able to make your own decisions, that you no longer need his guidance.”