Chapter 14
Before the sun had a chance to set on the rucked battle arena and the crown of All Britain had settled uneasily back on Guinevere’s head, heralds were dispatched into the streets to make several royal declarations.
First came confirmation of the trial by combat: Guinevere was innocent of treason and had been restored to her throne.
Secondly, the Royal Court had been temporarily dismissed, its members told to keep to their lodgings or chambers.
Lastly, the castle was closed, its public halls shut for a brief but unspecified time.
A gesture of peace, the King’s messengers were at pains to impart, to let the city’s loyal subjects rest after the rigours of the trial—a generous act from their benevolent High King and Queen, now devoted once again.
It meant nothing to me. I wasn’t finished with Camelot.
After a wakeful night, I rose at dawn’s first gleam, dressing surreptitiously as Alys slept. I was donning the previous day’s glamour when her drowsy voice came.
“Must you do this now?” she asked. “The castle is locked down.”
“Not enough to keep me out,” I replied.
“Cariad.” She sat up a little, taking me in with her steady amber gaze, then said nothing more. She knew better than anyone that nothing held the power to change my mind.
“I need to see, Alys,” I said quietly. “Alone.”
Reluctantly, she nodded. “I know.”
Leaving her and our lodgings, I walked the periphery of the slumbering city until the outer walls met those of the castle.
As expected, muted bells soon rang for the guard change, and I slipped easily through an unmanned side gate, tracing a labyrinth of paths to a cloistered courtyard and an unassuming door at the back of St. Stephen’s Cathedral.
So many years since I had lived in Camelot, and I had forgotten not a single shadowy corner.
I entered silently, hurrying past the Lady’s Chapel and into the large, stained-glass apse that stretched cavernously behind the central altar.
The mausoleum of fallen knights held a place of prominence opposite the King’s private chapel, guarded by railings twined with golden laurel leaves.
Inside, tombs of white lined the edges, pale effigies slumbering atop marble plinths, armour-clad, gripping swords that would never more be drawn.
A pause on the threshold was all I allowed myself.
Sir Manassen had told me the tomb was cut into the cathedral’s north wall, the most prestigious position, at the head of the shrine.
I saw it immediately, under an ornately carved arch, bracketed by lit candelabras.
Marble angels flew above, their heads tilted in reverence towards the long sarcophagus.
It felt as though I walked for an hour, every footstep faltering. When I could go no farther, I exhaled long and let the glamour fall away. Before him, I would only be Morgan.
I looked down, and my gaze landed on Accolon’s white, dead face.
Horror jolted me back. I had not expected the effigy to look like him.
Icy panic flooded my body, snatching at my breath. I shut my eyes tight, hand reaching automatically for the Gaulish coin, squeezing it in my fist until its solidity marshalled my bodily reactions enough to let my mind resume control.
This block of stone was not Accolon. He wasn’t here, in this cold tomb, in any way that mattered. His presence, his soul, was safe in Belle Garde.
Holding his coin to my pounding heart, I looked again.
On a second glance, the effigy did not resemble him.
It had shades of his bone structure, his handsomeness, the style of hair he had let me cut for Camelot.
The sculptor was a near-Grecian master of the art—probably the most expensive Arthur could find—but he had not known his subject in life, and therefore could never capture him with any accuracy.
Accolon embodied vitality and grace, his beauty illuminated by joy, humour and the pleasure he took in living.
What lay before me was a lump of stone in the approximation of a man.
Becalmed, I studied the rest of the pure white marble.
The effigy lay, as they all did, on its back, dressed in a tunic bearing the Royal Standard over full mail, hands laced across a sword hilt.
An image flashed before me: Accolon’s body in the same position on the altar just beyond, before I had snatched his sword and spurs away and left my slim mark on his chest, where I had liberated his heart.
Nothing of my love and pain was written here.
Instead, I read the words others had bestowed upon him. Sir Accolon of Gaul, it said on the side of the tomb, beneath the date of his death; harsh, stone-cut confirmation that such a thing had happened. No shield of arms, because he had never been given one.
Then above, within the host of attending angels: Fell valiantly in an honourable duel of swords.
The first lie.
Beneath, more lazy epithets, grandiose and empty, related only to what he was within the world of kings and men.
Knight. Warrior. Joust champion. Brother-in-arms. Nothing to say how adored he was by those who knew him best; how good a man he had become through his own efforts; the unfailing honour with which he lived, faced his troubles and cared for others.
How tender, strong and dedicated a partner he was, in life and in love.
Robin’s carnedd, Manassen’s eldest son carrying his name, fond tales the household told at the feasts they held to celebrate him; the fact that we called my valley Belle Garde because he had made it our home.
Our lake, where he and I had lain beneath the willow tree.
Even the endless tides of my grief were more of a monument to Sir Accolon of Gaul than this tomb could ever be.
Still, I put my hands over his stone fingers, and found myself speaking to the barren edifice.
“I haven’t given up,” I said. “I can fix this—all of it. I will bring you back, find a way. I will cut those who wronged us to the bone, seek their weaknesses and rain down true vengeance. I will not stop, even if the world ends. Or the Devil take me.”
The words echoed back: artificial, dishonest as the facade I had worn to find my way to his tomb. Again and again I had failed him.
The thought drove into me and I folded until my forehead touched the hard chill of the effigy’s chest. Against my skin, I felt the upraised relief of Arthur’s dragon, all claws, teeth and boundless power.
A long, deep cry tore from my lungs: my own dragon roar of fury and defiance against the world, the past; against myself. The sound brought me strength and I lifted my head, forcing my shoulders back and my entire body upright, refusing my own prostration.
“No,” I declared to the cathedral’s bonelike arches, the indifferent God who I was long past praying to. “Never again.”
This place, Arthur’s great creation, had broken me once, so badly I thought I would never find my shattered pieces. Camelot would not defeat me this time.
I took one more look at Accolon’s insufficient marble face. Whatever lay here, it wasn’t my Gaul. His essence was where it belonged, at our home, where I should be.
I stood up, preparing to restore the glamour and leave this forsaken place.
“Is someone there?”
The voice was low, church-hushed, but I knew it well. Through the gold railings, I saw a figure emerge from the southern transept, patrolling in his impatient way. Quickly, I drew the glamour down and my hood up, and hurried towards the gilded gateway.
There, I came face to face with Sir Kay.
He stood several feet away, hands on his hips, trying not to show his irritation. His face was livid with bruises.
“Madam,” he said. “There is no court today, nor is outside business being dealt with. The castle is closed under Royal Order, to afford a period of quiet reflection.”
“As it should be, after yesterday,” I replied. “I’m well aware.”
He bridled slightly at such a retort from what appeared to be a genteel elder lady. “Perhaps I’m not being clear,” he said. “I am the Seneschal, in charge of the High King’s household, and you cannot be here.”
He sounded so officious, I couldn’t resist the opportunity to rattle his world-weary attitude. Lifting my hand, I drew off the veil of glamour, revealing my own face.
Sir Kay’s eyes widened for a heartbeat, then his expression relaxed into its usual sardonic resting place.
“I knew it,” he said.