Chapter 39 #2
She arrived on a pearl-bright horse, her arms already sweeping through the air, pushing, resisting, and I knew she was holding time at bay. Marshalling her magic in one hand, she dismounted and snatched up Excalibur, rushing over to Arthur.
“My lord,” she said breathlessly. “You will live, but quickly, take this.”
She helped him to his feet, and handed him his famed sword. Arthur staggered under the pain of his injuries.
“What good is it, when God has forsaken me?” he protested. “My opponent has fought well, but I have struck him as much as he has me. Why does he not bleed? ”
Ninianne looked down at the jewelled sheath that Arthur wore, then back to the blue-and-white miracle at Accolon’s belt. I felt realization travel through her body, entire fates contained within a single moment.
“Excalibur’s scabbard,” she said. “Did you ever tell anyone of its secrets?”
“My sister,” he replied. “I entrusted her with Excalibur’s care and she hid both objects. But I found them, together… ”
Ninianne was already shaking her head. “Your opponent wears the scabbard,” she said. “Yours is a counterfeit. You have been deceived.”
“Morgan did this?” he exclaimed.
Ninianne didn’t reply, wincing as the world juddered, the cords of her muscles straining against time’s fight to right itself.
“My lord, we must leave,” she urged. “You are injured, and the magic will not hold much longer.”
“No,” my brother said. “I have never surrendered in my life and won’t start now.”
He lurched to his feet with just enough time to tear the scabbard from Accolon’s belt and fling it out of reach, as time defeated magic and the world’s awareness rushed back into place. Accolon’s sword strike continued to fall, and Arthur ducked away, blocking the blow with a raised Excalibur.
Accolon recoiled; when he had begun, his opponent hadn’t even been holding a sword. Again I felt his confusion as a shiver across my skin, and something else for the first time: the hot tide of pain.
My brother surged forwards, raining blows that Accolon barely had time to defend. A brutal strike to the gut winded him, and he fell to his knees, clutching his belly.
Arthur pointed Excalibur at his chest. “Now you yield. Admit you are a traitor.”
“I’m no traitor,” Accolon replied. “You may kill me, but I will never surrender with those words. I—”
Something stopped him, and he looked down at his arm, still gripping his middle. Gradually, he lifted his hand away. His gauntlet came away the darkest red.
“No!” I cried.
I rushed onto the battlefield—to lay hands, make it stop before it began. I could hear their hard breaths, smell the scent of blood on steel, but I swept through both figures as if they were stardust.
And then, inevitably, Accolon began to bleed.
Every wound he had sustained poured forth at once, spilling through his shredded mail.
Immediately, he fell, collapsing onto his side, blood soaking the grass as if he were drowning in a sea of red.
I stood helpless, shocked at the volume of it, the amount of life his body held, now seeping away into the earth.
Arthur towered above him, taking a dagger from his belt.
Leaning forwards, he tugged at Accolon’s helm under the chin, and for a horrific moment I thought he was going to cut his throat—vicious, unknightly, the stuff of criminals and madmen.
Instead, Arthur slashed the helm’s laces and sheathed the knife.
“Before you yield, I will hear your confession, then give you a swift, knightly death,” he said. “Prepare to make your peace with God.”
In a clean movement, he pulled the helmet off. Accolon’s mail coif was up, his face bloodied and battered, half turned towards the rucked-up ground.
“Who are you?” Arthur demanded.
Accolon coughed, spitting blood into the dirt. With great effort, he heaved back onto his elbows, pushed his mail hood down and looked his vanquisher in the eye.
“I am Sir Accolon of Gaul,” he said hoarsely. “A knight of King Arthur’s court.”
It was as if time had slowed again, though this had nothing to do with Ninianne. The High King fell to his knees with a crash.
“Accolon? My God, it is you.” My brother tore his own helm from his head and revealed his golden, bloodied face. “It’s me, Arthur. If I had known, I—”
The crowd cried out at the unexpected sight of their King. Accolon’s eyes widened. “My lord,” he managed to utter as a tremendous pain took hold. He grasped at his body, groaning in such deep agony it reverberated through my bones.
Arthur pulled off both of their gauntlets and took Accolon’s bare hand. “It’s all right,” he murmured in soothing tones. “You are strong. This will pass.”
My brother looked up, wild-eyed, beckoning to Ninianne at the edge of the duelling ground. She came to his side, her light dimmed and trembling.
“How could this happen?” he said. “Just yesterday, we were hunting in the woods. How didn’t I know it was him?”
She stooped beside Arthur, her voice barely controlled. “Where did you get your scabbard, Sir Knight?”
Accolon squinted at her gleam. “She…gave it to me,” he said hoarsely. “Morgan…of Cornwall.”
The name by which he had first known me landed as an arrow in my heart. Ninianne stepped back, aghast.
“My sister gave you the scabbard?” Arthur exclaimed. “But how…why? Did she tell you to kill me?”
“No!” Accolon’s voice was suddenly clear, his vehemence giving him strength. “Nor would I agree to such a thing. Morgan…told me to keep it close so I would be…safe. She and I have loved one another these long years…as much as two hearts can.”
Another attack of pain took hold and Accolon collapsed back onto the grass. “Forgive me… ” he gasped. “If I had known…I never would have fought…you.”
“Nor would I.” My brother’s voice was full of tears. “I forgive you, Accolon, but most of all you must forgive me. You are my knight—my friend. Never for a moment would I have wished to do you harm.”
Accolon nodded, attempting to speak, but the words emerged as a hard cough. He reared up, hacking violently, and a gush of blood came out of his mouth. There was nothing I could do except watch it happen.
“No, no, no.” My brother took Accolon’s head in his hands, holding him steady. “Save your strength. You will survive this—I swear it. God will spare you and me both.”
“My lord,” Ninianne said. “You are badly wounded. There is an abbey nearby with an infirmary, but we must hurry.”
Arthur looked up at her. “Good. We will both go there to be tended.”
Ninianne glanced at Accolon, her light draining until she was almost haggard. “There is no time, my lord. You must sit on the back of my horse and we will ride as fast as we can. This knight would not want to delay us.”
“His name is Sir Accolon of Gaul,” Arthur said fiercely. “He is good and honourable and did not deserve this. I will see him healed alongside me.”
“Your Highness,” Ninianne pleaded. “It is no use. Sir Accolon is—”
“I won’t hear it!” Arthur shouted, but his voice was laced with fear.
A bloodied hand gripped my brother’s arm. Arthur held it, helping Accolon hoist himself up into a sitting position. His eyes shone midnight, bright beyond his pain.
“You must tell her,” my Gaul said. “Le Fay. She is my life, my heart. She must know how much I love her. Take the news to Belle Garde.”
“Hold fast to your strength,” Arthur urged. “You will tell her so yourself.”
He held him close, insisting that he was strong enough, that he would live to recount this tale for years if he could just stay with him.
But it was far too late, the red lake around Accolon too deep to ever let him rise again.
He let go of my brother’s hand and lay back on the grass, exhaling beneath the ghost of a smile.
“Morgan,” he said, and closed his eyes.
With his dying breath, he spoke your name.
Through the endless circle of time, I felt part of myself vanish with him.
“No,” Arthur said tremulously. “It cannot be.” He put his hands to Accolon’s face, searching for signs of life, then clutched him to his chest. “Bring me a horse bier!” he roared to the frozen crowd. “He will be saved. Bring me a bier now!”
Stunned, I watched the tears run down my brother’s blood-streaked face as he shouted and bled and raged even as he weakened, pushing away Ninianne’s exhortations to leave. I ran towards him, but the ground dissolved beneath me, the crowd fading to a blur, the crumbling castle fading into the sky.
There was a rush of cool air, then darkness fell, engulfing me in a sudden, profound night. A figure glimmered across the expanse of black. Accolon in outline, translucent with stars.
“Not yet!” I protested. “I need to see more.”
“I died, Morgan,” he said. “For me, that’s all there was.”
He came closer, his face tender, rueful, but we were still far apart. Of everything we had endured, the fact that I couldn’t put my arms around him in that moment seemed the greatest cruelty of all.
“All this time…I didn’t know,” I sobbed. “How could I not know?”
I put my hands over my face and felt the salt heat of tears already there. How long I had been crying I could not remember, but I let them come now, the cloud inside of me finally bursting into a storm, bringing a rain that might never stop.
“Mon coeur,” I heard Accolon say, but the sound faded, his form waning, exhausted by the intricacy of the memory.
I looked up for one last comforting glimpse of him, but my Gaul was gone and Llyn Glas had returned, leaving only the echo of his voice and his silver-gold essence scattered across the water.