Chapter 46
Forty-Six
Mordred knew the girl, Hildegard. She was the baker’s daughter. A shy, sweet girl. Her mother, it was known, had taken a particular liking to Merlin. One had to wonder where this child got her hazel gold eyes.
But now she was racing towards him, soaked to the shins, eyes rimmed with terror, waving around a sealed letter.
“Sir Mordred, Sir Mordred! A boat… with a lady… It’s in the river and she is… she is dead!”
Hildegard was shaking. He grabbed her shoulders to steady her. “Take a deep breath, little one. Get a hold of yourself. Did you recognize the lady?”
Hildegard nodded, tears clinging to her eyes.
“Who was it?” he asked gently.
“It was the good young Lady of Astolat,” she sobbed.
“No, dear, you must be mistaken. It cannot be Elaine of Astolat.”
“But it was! I recognized her shimmering red hair,” she wailed. “She had this letter tied to her hand.”
He examined the letter’s hard wax seal. The familiar crest of Sir Bernard, Elaine’s father.
Mordred’s body was moving through the vestibule, passing beneath the gate, but his mind was elsewhere.
No, he thought. This is a cruel trick. The Lady of Astolat, he was certain, was safe in her castle.
She was likely at morning prayer. No doubt she was fine.
In fact, this was a divine sign, he realized, as he ran through the marsh.
They’d been friends since birth, parallel childhoods in neighboring kingdoms. At feasts and festivals they’d darted off together on clandestine adventures in the towers, gardens and tombs.
As they got older, they played table games, occasionally strolled the shore.
He had always loved Elaine of Astolat, and this mix-up was a sign.
He would ride out today and offer her marriage.
Through the bullrushes he could see the lantern glowing from the prow of the smallboat. He recognized the embroidery of her blanket and turned away.
Trembling, he ripped open the letter.
I loved him, but he did not love me back.
I have not slept. I cannot eat. All I do is think about him. I have never known such life-altering anguish.
I have committed no grave sins. My innocence remains intact. Why do I suffer so?
All because I have loved an earthly man. A noble, kind, handsome, earthly man.
He told me that he would never wed. He may not. But there is a harder truth that I have seen with my own eyes. His heart, I know, belongs to Queen Guinevere. He is in love with her, and she must be in love with him.
How can I, homely Elaine of Astolat, compare to such regal beauty?
In truth I shall never love another. If I cannot have Lancelot of the Lake, I shall die.
Please take mercy on my soul.
Mordred bit the inside of his cheek until the teeth punctured skin.