Most of the white-robed acolytes ignored my presence, though I paused to peer more closely at one of the women who reminded me of the matron at Maelgwn’s. When she looked up and nodded civilly, I decided she was not the same.
Summer thunder rumbled across the sky, but it was no more likely to cool the air than a cuckoo is to raise the offspring it lays in another bird’s nest. Staring out the window, I found nothing but the pale blue of a hot summer day and a cluster of clouds too far off on the horizon to promise much relief.
I stretched out on my bed, weary and cranky and full of oppressive gloom.
***
If only I’d wake to find Arthur returned, hale and happy and full of his usual energy…
The Ordeal
Now see here, you heathen, you can’t go in there!”
Vinnie’s indignant cry brought me awake as a flash of lightning lit the storm-dark room. A white-robed figure burst through the door along with a clap of thunder, followed by the matron’s compact form.
“Your Highness, I must speak with you in private,” the druid croaked, panting heavily. I jumped to my feet and after looking closely at the person hidden beneath the hood, motioned for Vinnie to withdraw and turned to face Nimue.
The mistress of disguises slipped back her hood and sank down on the edge of the bed. “He’s alive, but just barely. It was a trap, only no one realized it until he was wounded.”
Her words came out in a jumble and I sagged down next to her, my mind going numb as I realized she was speaking of Arthur. Beyond the window the storm clouds began spitting fire and sheets of lightning clashed in the sky like Merlin’s dragons battling for the destiny of Britain. Gradually Nimue regained her breath, and the story unfolded.
“I was uneasy about this new ceremony, so when Arthur’s party left I followed them, unseen. They turned into the dark woods of Windsor beyond the chalk ridge that overlooks the river, and made camp beneath an enormous oak—by the time I got there the men had put down their shields and settled in a circle.”
Nimue watched as the Champions’ shields were hung amid the branches of that spreading tree. They swayed in the moonlight like a crop of sinister fruit—and well out of reach. Then the Master of Druids collected all swords and daggers because the most ancient of Goddesses cannot be approached by anyone wearing iron. Only then could the ritual begin.
“They held a ceremony that night,” the doire sighed, “keeping Arthur and his men up all through the dark with prayers and chants of purification. No food for anyone, but a dozen different potions for the High King. It’s a wonder they didn’t just poison him outright!”
Nimue stayed hidden in the shadows, trying to follow what was happening. Shortly before sunrise Arthur was taken aside and the witnesses made their way to the Sacred Grove, passing through woods grown dense with beech and elm, holly and yew. Gnarled oaks hung over the path, their rough bark showing the twisted faces of spirits imprisoned long ago.
The Grove encircled a clearing in which stood a single, waist-high stone. Old as time, it had served as an altar for untold Gods—sides caked with the blood of ancient rites, top worn to a cradle from centuries of heads being laid there in the final act of sacrifice.
But grisly as the altar was, it was the tall wooden column beside it that made Nimue shudder. The post was solid and firmly rooted and so big around that two men could barely encompass it. The wood was old and weathered to a silver gray except where it too had been stained with dripping blood.
“Niches had been carved in it—niches to hold skulls. There must have been half a dozen in all, the upper ones filled with the toothless remains of long-ago victims.” Nimue’s voice dropped to a whisper, and I shivered, for as a child I had come across Morgan worshiping at such a shrine, using a goblet made from a skull.
“The bottom spaces held a pair of recently severed heads, bedecked with ribbons and dried flowers. The flesh had rotted from the bone, but judging by the long blond hair, they were probably Saxons. It was the middle niche that caught my attention, however—it stood empty, save for an ivy wreath waiting to crown its occupant. For a symbolic rite, it seemed excessive.”
In the gloom Nimue mixed silently with the men. As long as she stayed away from the actual druids she could pass for just another acolyte, and when the ceremony started she moved to the edge of the clearing where she could see everything unhindered.
“There was much chanting and clapping beforehand, but as the first ray of the sun struck the stone altar a hush fell on the gathering. It felt as though Death had come to watch the ordeal,” she said, her words shaping the picture before my eyes.
The opponents emerged from the shadows of the woodland in absolute silence. Each wore a special set of armor, complete with helmets that served as masks so that one couldn’t tell who was fighting whom. Arthur’s was black with a red crest and a picture of the Red Dragon worked on the cheek flaps, and the same insignia was worked on the black bull-hide shield. His opponent was covered with identical armor, though his crest and dragons were white in color. Both swords, which were the shape and length of Excalibur, had been covered with some kind of sap and smeared with soot. Like all the rest of the armor, they appeared to be identical.
The two men met at the altar, each bowing formally to the other. The warrior Morgan had found to be the Unknown Opponent was a little younger and not as adroit as Arthur—but close enough a match to be the image of the High King three years ago.
“As the ritual battle began, a druid came to stand next to me,” Nimue continued. “He peered under my hood just long enough to determine who I was…and for me to recognize Cathbad, the druid who was your tutor when you were a child in Rheged.”
I caught my breath; ever since Cathbad had gone to live and work with the Lady, I’d wondered where his loyalty lay.
“His hood was up, and under cover of the cowling he whispered, ‘Beware the real Excalibur.’” Nimue looked into my face with an anguished frown. “Gwen, I didn’t know what he meant, or if he was to be trusted…and he vanished as silently as he had appeared. I dared not interrupt the rite without knowing more, so I turned my attention back to the combatants, keeping a close eye on the swords.”
***
Like dancers the two men move about the altar—thrust, parry…feint, sidestep…lunge. Graceful and elegant, mirrors of each other, self fighting self.
The stage broadens—beyond the altar, across the greensward, back slowly toward the column with its haunting of heads. Avoid the altar—dance around it, keep it always in mind as the pace quickens.
Time enough—the point is made, and Arthur is weary after his nightlong vigil. Yet the Unknown draws the contest out, makes no move to surrender, refuses to capitulate. Impatient, Arthur brings his sword around full sweep, knocking the Opponent off balance…and the blade of the ceremonial sword snaps.
The Unknown rushes forward in a frenzy. Blood everywhere, running down Arthur’s arms and legs, oozing from under his armor in a dozen places.
Aghast, the Companions reach for swords that are not there; Geraint swears at the memory of weapons collected the night before. Arthur’s men look quickly from one to another, uncertain if they should charge across the sacred ground to the King’s aid.
The deadly Opponent is driving Arthur back, relentlessly. The King crouches, pivots, attempts to spin away. Bumping into the unyielding stone of the altar, he trips, struggles for his balance, and falls backward across the sacrificial table. Death rises above him, the blade poised for the final stroke.
Out of nowhere and everywhere comes the sound—a whispered growl, a growing roar that rushes finally into the high, piercing howl of the Morrigan—the battle-cry issues from Nimue’s mouth. Unnerved, the Opponent pauses, looking around warily for the War Goddess, in that moment of distraction the High King wraps both fists around the pommel of his broken weapon and smashes it directly into the face of his adversary.
Stunned, the Unknown goes down, his weapon dropping from his hand. Arthur lunges for it, feels it fly to his grasp like a trusted friend returned at last—the High King recognizes the heft and weight of Excalibur coming home to his hand.
Blind rage rips through him as Arthur turns to savage his Opponent.
***
“It was all over within minutes,” Nimue concluded. “When the Unknown refused to surrender, the High King smote him at the base of the neck and opened a fatal gash.”
“Who was it?” I cried.
“Morgan’s lover, Accolon. She had promised to make him High King once he killed Arthur.”
I groaned aloud, and Nimue nodded grimly.
“Accolon confessed everything as he lay dying, begging forgiveness from his King. Arthur let out an anguished wail and slumped unconscious beside the dying Gaul. I threw off my disguise and calling up Arthur’s men, raced across the field as both the druids and Accolon’s followers disappeared into the woods.
“There was nothing to be done for the Opponent—his fate was sealed when he let Morgan seduce him with her dreams of power. I gave Arthur all my attention, for though he had no shattered bones, he had lost a great deal of blood…from wounds inflicted by his own sword.”
I stared at the doire with horror as her last words registered. Memory of King Pellam and the wound that would not heal floated before me.
“Griflet knew of a deserted hermit’s hut not far away, so we carried Arthur there as quickly as possible. I’ve begged the Mother for help in healing him—he’s well sedated and watched over by his men at this point. I dare not bring him back by horse or litter for fear of opening the wounds again. I’ll need a sizable troop to take back to the hermitage: some to keep a guard around him until he recovers enough to be moved and some to bring Accolon’s body back to Court.”
She paused finally and sighed. “Arthur’s last wish before he lost consciousness was that the warrior’s corpse be presented to Morgan here, in the Court she had herself expected to rule.”
Slowly, I began to see the pieces of the puzzle come together. Morgan hadn’t cared if Urien became Regent of Rheged because she was going to replace him with Accolon. And she had insisted on a feast fit for a coronation because she expected her lover to take over Britain as the “victorious King”—by which time she would have disposed of Urien. Morgan must have been planning this treachery for years, and even I had been too blind to see it.
“What do we do with her?” I asked, my palms going damp at the notion of confronting the Sorceress with news of her darling’s death.
“Put her in irons before you tell her what has happened. Or better yet,” said the doire, showing a streak of vengefulness I didn’t know she had, “lead her unprepared to the Palace entrance tomorrow to see firsthand that her ambition has cost her love his life. That was, I think, what Arthur had in mind.”
I nodded morosely, seeing once more the shadow of Arthur’s darker, Celtic side.
“Where is Morgan?” Nimue asked, and when I told her, the doire pulled me to my feet. “Call up Pellinore and that strapping son of his, and we’ll go shackle her immediately.”
It was not to be that easy. When we reached the anteroom to where the High Priestess slept, her women rushed to surround us, praying solemnly against the tattoo of the raindrops that pounded on the window. But Morgan’s bed was empty, and when I demanded an accounting, her acolytes stared at me in silence, refusing to explain what had happened or how.
“You cannot go against the will of the Goddess,” their leader intoned as I fumed over this new development.
I was certain my sister-in-law had not departed by herself; the brew we gave her would have her still asleep, wherever she was. Her rescuer had to be someone strong enough to carry her away, and though several of her ladies might have succeeded in such a task, none were missing. Both Urien and Uwain were accounted for, though I hardly thought they would have been involved.
“Have you found her lieutenant?” Urien asked, then nodded sourly as I shook my head. “Fanatical little man, you know. Adores Morgan and is as jealous of her as any lover…though knowing her tastes, I doubt she considers him more than a pawn. But if you find him, I wager you’ll find her as well.”
I tried to imagine the dwarf hauling Morgan, drugged and trussed, into the night by himself. It made me marvel at the power even a hopeless love can call up.
We had to leave it at that. A search of the Palace failed to find either of them, and there were two horses missing from the pasture. At dawn I sent Pellinore and Lamorak out after them, for the men of the Wrekin were followers of the Goddess who would try to capture Morgan without doing her any harm; the last thing I wanted was to give the druids reason for claims of brutality.
But I had little hope they’d be successful; the rain had washed away the most obvious signs for tracking, and the country people revered her. No doubt some would hide Morgan and her lieutenant as they made their way back to the Sanctuary at the Black Lake. At least, I comforted myself, Arthur must finally see the true nature of his sister.