The King's Wizard (28 page)

“Your Majesty, I wish to vouch for Sir Lancelot of the Lake, who wants to enter the jousts,” Merlin said.

Guinevere darted a look at Arthur. He looked surprised, and the others around them were whispering together, speculating on
where Merlin had been and the identity of this newcomer.

“So be it, Merlin,” Arthur said graciously.

The knight rode off to the side of the field, and Merlin made his way into the royal box. Guinevere hoped she didn’t look
as dismayed as she felt, but she had always feared Merlin’s power.

As a child, her older brothers had enjoyed frightening her with tales of the wizard Merlin, how he had slain Vortigern with
magic and set Prince Uther upon the throne. As Uther had descended deeper into madness, the whole country had suffered. Guinevere’s
Iceni kinsmen had clung to the Old Ways longer than most, but even their gods Lugh and Epona could not save them from the
Dark Times, and the common people had feared the magic that Queen Mab could wield on behalf of her followers.

When Uther died and Arthur was acknowledged by her father as the true king, Guinevere’s people had discovered a king they
could willingly follow, one who replaced the capriciousness of the Old Ways and the demonolatry of Uther with a religion of
peace, light, and love. When Guinevere had sworn to the New Religion, she had been certain that the days of darkness and fear
were over … until she discovered
that the King’s closest adviser was a wizard of the Old Ways.

Gawain had said that Merlin had not prayed with the army that day at Mount Badon, and Guinevere knew that though he was an
enemy of Mab, he still used the magic she had given him. How could the weapons of Darkness be used in the service of the Light?

For questions such as these, the young queen had no answer.

The chivalry of Britain thundered out upon the field, and the air was filled with the sounds of clashing swords and shouting
men. Merlin looked out over the melee, spotting Lancelot without difficulty. The knight which the Lady of the Lake had sent
Merlin to find was holding his own against all foes. His sword flashed in the sun and the coat of his black charger gleamed
like silk.

“Your Majesty,” Merlin said, bowing.

“Oh, don’t be so formal with me, Merlin!” Arthur urged. He reached up his hand to clasp the wizard’s, his eyes intent upon
the tourney field. “You used to be willing to call me Arthur—and much worse, too. Where have you been? You were gone so long—the
others all said you’d left for good, but I knew you would not leave without saying good-bye.”

“And so I would not,” Merlin answered. “But magic is a tricky business. The moment that you think you’re the master of it,
magic will master
you
. But I survived well enough—and brought you Lancelot.”

“He fights like no knight I have ever seen,” Arthur
said, his eyes never leaving the spectacle before him. “Where did he come from?”

“The Lady of the Lake sent him,” Merlin answered, “and so he is known as Lancelot of the Lake.”

There was a crash on the field as Lancelot unhorsed a knight—it was Agravain, one of the Queen’s brothers, and she gasped
and stiffened, seeing him fall. Lancelot rode out of the melee, raising his sword to salute the royal box, then rode back
into battle once more.

Squires and pages ran onto the field to capture riderless horses and help their masters to safety. The assembly rose to its
feet each time a favorite was in trouble, the ladies crying out to the knights who bore their favors into battle.

The fighting continued for hours, and slowly the number of combatants declined. As the field thinned, the melee combat gave
way to the joust, as knights rode to the sides of the field to claim their long ashwood lances, then thundered toward each
other in a brutal contest of strength and nerve. The crack of splintered lances sounded over all the other sounds of the field,
and slowly the number of undefeated knights diminished.

Gawain, on his huge blood-bay destrier, was still in the fight, and so was Bedivere, though Gawain’s three brothers and Bedivere’s
cousin had been unhorsed and defeated earlier. Those knights not under the care of the chirurgeons had gathered upon the sidelines
of the tourney field to watch the contest, for as the day had worn on, it gradually became clear to all those watching that
Sir Lancelot of the Lake was a
knight without equal … unless that equal was Gawain.

At last only the two of them were left.

Gawain rode to the edge of the field, taking a fresh lance from his squire Simnel. He turned into the rays of the westering
sun. At the far side of the field, Lancelot was also accepting a spear. The setting sun gilded his armor, turning its silver
into gold and his black stallion into a horse of blood.

Merlin had left the king’s side hours before to go into the tents where the chirurgeons cared for the wounded. After the first
few minutes, he had no doubt that his champion would defeat all others to become the guardian of the crown, and his healing
skills were needed among the players of this rough sport.

If only he had some art that would turn Arthur from this unwise quest as easily as he had summoned a champion to support it.
Let the king stay here where he was needed—others could waste their time seeking after the Grail.

Merlin’s thoughts were so much an echo of things he’d said to Nimue over the years that he stopped, wondering if he was actually
right or if he’d simply fallen into an unexamined habit. Perhaps Arthur had spoken the truth. Perhaps the spiritual quest
was truly as important a task as the mundane rule of Britain. Perhaps one was not complete without the other.

Merlin shook his head ruefully.

Perhaps I have judged Arthur too harshly. Part of me, I fear, will always see him as the child I took into my care when he
was but a few hours old. But if I have
judged him, I have also helped him to do what he thinks is right. I’ve brought him Lancelot
.

He heard the crowd roar at something that happened upon the field. Bradamante passed him, heading toward the stands. She had
shed her armor for a tunic and breeches, for the woman warrior was under a vow not to assume women’s dress until Jerusalem
had been freed.

“Come on, Wizard! Gawain’s in the lists—he’ll take that Lancelot down a few pegs!” She clapped Merlin on the shoulder as she
strode past him.

Merlin smiled. It was Gawain who was in for a shock, not Lancelot. He headed for the royal box. The moment he had been waiting
for all day had come.

“Look, Guinevere. You’ll get what you wanted after all. Gawain will face the stranger,” Arthur said, taking her hand. “Your
hands are so cold.”

“I’m tired,” Guinevere answered shortly, pulling away. She sat forward in her chair, staring at the field, clenched fists
hidden in the folds of her skirts. All around her, the spectators laughed and cheered, while on the field the fate of Britain’s
queen was being decided.

On one side was her brother Gawain, a giant of a man, laughing and fearless, his gold-washed bronze helmet glinting in the
evening light. On the other side of the field stood the stranger, Merlin’s protégé, faceless and menacing in his shining steel
armor. In a moment they would charge, and one would fall. Guinevere prayed with all the passion in her heart that it would
be Lancelot who fell, and Gawain who would
prevail and lend her his strength, just as he had since she was a small child.

The onlookers began to cheer as both men spurred their horses forward. As the charge began, each held his lance high, but
as they approached one another, they lowered their lances into position, each aiming for the other’s heart.

She could not look. And she could not look away. With helpless anguish, Guinevere stared as the two armored titans pounded
toward each other on an inevitable collision course.

There was a crash, and both lances splintered, the pieces flying across the field to lodge in the turf like a flight of arrows.
Lancelot swayed in his saddle, and for a moment Guinevere thought he would fall, but it was Gawain who fell, cartwheeling
over his horse’s rump to fall, spread-eagled and dazed, to the ground. The black horse neighed as Lancelot reined it in.

No one cheered. There was a long moment of silence, broken by a few groans of disappointment, then some of the spectators
clapped forlornly.

“He’s unhorsed Gawain!” Arthur said in disbelief.

But you knew he would. Merlin brought him here to do just that
, Guinevere thought. She sat very still as the stranger knight on the prancing stallion rode up to the royal box, holding
the stump of his splintered lance in his right hand. How Merlin must be exulting to see all his plans fall so neatly into
place!

“Lancelot of the Lake takes the honors! He is the best—and the noblest—of the knights!” Arthur cried gallantly, rising to
his feet. Guinevere rose with him, but her legs would not hold her. She sank back into her
chair, staring at the stranger as the rabbit stares at the fox. He reached up to raise the visor of his helmet.

And time stopped. Lancelot was no monster, but the most beautiful man she had ever seen … and more. There was a melancholy
in him, a secret sorrow, that tugged at her heartstrings. She felt herself reaching out to him, as if her whole soul could
drown in those storm-blue eyes.

Merlin really makes this too easy
, Mab thought with glee. He made all his plans openly, in the light of day, and trusted them to endure by their own strength.
All she needed to do to thwart him was to wait until he acted, then destroy his hopes. And all the while at Castle Tintagel,
Mordred was growing big and strong, and there was nothing Merlin could do to prevent Mab’s eventual victory.

Invisibly, she appeared beside the Queen’s throne. Merlin was only a few feet away, yet he sensed nothing of her presence.
She watched as Merlin’s chosen protector rode up to the royal box. Her hold on Arthur might be broken with Mordred’s begetting,
but his Queen could still be led astray by fairy arts. When Lancelot lifted his visor, Mab was there to whisper in her ear:
“He’s very handsome, isn’t he?”

And the Queen whispered: “Yes. …”

“What did you say, my lady?” Arthur asked.

“Nothing,” Guinevere answered. She leaned forward, the better to see Sir Lancelot.

“Your Majesty,” Lancelot said, gazing up at the king and queen, “I offer you my sword—and my life.”
Bright pearls of sweat stood out on his forehead, as if his skin were studded with diamonds.

“It is an honor, brave knight,” Arthur answered easily. He raised his voice to be heard by all. “As Champion, Lancelot shall—”

With a moan, Lancelot crashed unconscious to the ground, cutting off the king’s next words.

It was Gawain who reached him first, cradling his fallen opponent in his arms. “He’s wounded,” Gawain cried. “My lance splintered
and took him in the shoulder—a fearful blow.”

Though the tourney lances were deliberately blunt, not tipped with the killing points they would have in war, accidents happened.
A splintered lance could pierce the defenses of even the finest armor.

“Save him!” Guinevere cried. Arthur glanced toward her approvingly, but Guinevere did not see. Gawain’s shout had fetched
attendants from the edges of the field, and under Gawain’s supervision they carried the unconscious Lancelot off to Gawain’s
own arming pavilion. Guinevere watched until they were out of sight.

The tourney was over, and as the sun set the spectators rose from their seats to return to their lodgings.

“What about the feast, Your Majesty?” Sir Boris asked.

“The feast?” Arthur said blankly.

“The feast, Sire, with which you intended to honor the Queen’s Champion,” Merlin explained. He had heard people talking about
it while he had been helping among the healers. “It will be a bit strange to have a feast for a man who isn’t there.”

“Nevertheless,” Arthur said with a sigh, “I can’t just change my mind. All those people would be so disappointed, and the
cooks have been laboring for three days. We’ll just have to hope that Lancelot recovers in time to join us.”

When the others returned to their chambers to prepare for dinner, Guinevere slipped away and went to the tourney field. She
did not think she could rest until she’d seen how Lancelot was. She wrapped her thick wool cloak around herself, hoping no
one would recognize their queen. The knights would only think it was their right to bundle her back off to Camelot as if she
were some unruly child. She was Queen, Guinevere realized, but she did not rule. No one listened to her.

“Jenny! What are you doing here?” a voice demanded from behind her.

She turned around, heart hammering in her throat, but it was only Gawain. He, at least, wouldn’t send her packing.

“I came to see Lancelot. Do you know how he is?” she asked.

“No,” said her brother, “but I know
where
he is. I was just going to see if the others are all right: you know Agravain, nothing can dent his hard head, and Gaheris
was lucky as always, but Gareth’s horse fell on him, poor lad, and he’s broken an ankle. I sent Simnel to him, as he wouldn’t
have the doctors, and now I’m going to see how Lancelot fares. It was a grievous wound that he took, and I’m sorry for him.”

“He can’t die!” Guinevere gasped. Gawain looked at her oddly.

“I mean,” she stumbled on, “that it would be very poor hospitality—to kill him—when he’s only just come to us.”

“You’re right of course,” Gawain said, walking along beside her. “Here we are.”

He pushed open the door-slit of his arming pavilion so that his sister could precede him.

The interior of the pavilion was dark, and reeked of the smoke of herbs burned to clear away the foul humors. Gawain’s armor
and shield were shoved into a corner to make room for the three distinguished physicians who were debating the proper treatment
for their patient.

“How is he?” Guinevere asked.

“Fair to middling,” the Chief Physician said, “considering we haven’t taken the lance out yet.”