Knights of the Round Table 03 - Gawain

by Gawain (lit)

  “Wondering what?”

  “Well, wondering if you’re as brave as all the tales make out.”

  He gave her a level look. “No one has ever had cause to complain of my behavior on the battlefield.”

  “What’s all life but a battlefield? Yet you let that boy mock you, and you just sit there and do nothing! Don’t you care what people say?”

  “Not particularly, no.”

  “Even if they’re saying you’re afraid of him?”

  “Anyone who could believe that knows nothing of me,” he answered with a flash of pride. “But look you,” he said, leaning forward, his expression intent. “The knights of Camelot are not mere fighting men, we are brothers. And Camelot itself is not just another castle, it is a—a beacon. You’ve heard of the king’s justice, have you not? That isn’t just a phrase, it is a living force that touches every one of his subjects. When we, the king’s companions, go out into the world, we carry his vision with us—his law, his justice, his mercy—into every corner of Britain. We cannot allow petty quarrels to divide us. We must be one.”

  For a moment, Aislyn could see it once again, Gawain’s shining kingdom built on justice and mercy . . . and then common sense returned. Once that Camelot had been her dream, as well, but when she had reached out to grasp it, she had learned how fragile dreams could be.

  “Pretty words,” she scoffed.

  “The vows we have taken—to the king and to each other—are real. They’re not just pretty words, they matter.”

  “Not to Sir Lancelot,” she pointed out.

  “If one of my brothers in arms treats me with discourtesy, the shame is his, not mine. But each man must look to his own honor. What I have sworn, I do.”

  Aislyn gave it up with an inward shrug. Talking to this new Gawain was like talking to a man encased in mail—no words of hers could make an impression. “So did you at least have a dance after I left?”

  He shook his head. “I told you, I don’t dance.”

  “Why, are you left-footed? Or did you never learn? Or is it just beneath you?”

  He scowled. “I do not care to dance. Is that a crime?”

  “Not a crime, but—”

  “I do not play hoodman’s blind or forfeits, either. Or sing pretty ballads.”

  Aislyn’s mouth twitched. That, at least, was true, though he’d sung her one or two soldier’s songs that had made her laugh, even as she blushed . . .

  Stop, she told herself. This isn’t the same Gawain, remember? And you don’t like this one.

  But still, she was a little curious. “What’s the matter with you, anyway? Here you are, a bonny young knight of three-and-twenty, and a prince into the bargain! You have everything a man could want, and yet you mope and droop about, as merry as a rain cloud at a picnic.”

  “I enjoy myself,” he said defensively.

  “When?” she demanded. “How?”

  “Well, when . . .” He frowned. “In battle.”

  “Killing people is fun?”

  “No, I didn’t mean that. It’s just that I feel . . . useful then. It is,” he said carefully, “something I do well.”

  “Aye, I’ve heard that. But we’re talking about merriment .” She rapped his knee with her knuckles to emphasize the point. “Having a laugh with your mates, flirting with the lasses . . .”

  “You want me to flirt?” He smiled without humor as he turned back the coverlet. “That’s odd advice for a wife to give her husband.”

  “I’m an odd wife,” she said. “So where have you been all this time since I left you, then? The truth.”

  “I fell asleep in the chapel.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Have you ever thought of taking holy orders?”

  He smiled briefly, surprising her. “One must have faith for that, and I . . .”

  “You are not a good Christian knight?” Aislyn demanded mockingly.

  “I serve my king; my soul is my concern. If indeed I have one,” he added in a lower voice.

  Aislyn barely stopped herself from reaching out to him. This was a change she had not expected; some of their most passionate arguments had been the result of Gawain’s refusal to agree that belief in some invisible deity was the refuge of the weak and childish. Despite the combined prayers of her family and household, the God Aislyn had been brought up to believe was omnipotent had been either unwilling—or worse, powerless to help them. That their house priest had attributed this to some fault on their part only added insult to the injury.

  “Ach, I don’t mind the priests much, either.” Gawain said, gazing into the rushing water of the burn. “They are always shut away in stuffy chapels, prating of the evil in the world. But it seems wondrous fair to me,” he said, looking about the forest clearing in which they sat, his eyes at last resting upon her. “And I think that Morgana—that is my aunt, the duchess of Cornwall—has the right of it. She says we are all in the hands of the Great Mother, and she told me that one day, I would see Her for myself. I didn’t credit it then, but now—” Color flooded his face and he bent to pick up a stone, which he flung into the pool below. “Well, I think I know now what she meant.”

  Strange that it should hurt her to realize his simple faith was lost to him. She had never been able to share it, but it had given him such joy that she could not but regret its loss for his sake.

  “Then why go to the chapel?” she asked.

  He looked achingly young for a moment, a bewildered sorrow in his eyes, but then he shrugged, his expression hardening. “ ’Tis quiet there; a good place to think.”

  “And to sleep,” she observed and he smiled wryly.

  “That, too.”

  “Can I ask you something?” she said, surprising herself, and he shrugged again, stifling a yawn. “You are the king’s heir. Should you not have taken a bride years ago?”

  “If I had, we would not be here now.” He lifted his gaze to her, his expression bleak. “I never meant to wed.”

  “Never?”

  “Once, I’d thought to, but . . . no.” He fell back upon the feather mattress.

  Aislyn pulled herself to her feet and looked down at him, her heartbeat quickening. Was it possible he regretted what he had done five years ago? That he still had some feeling for her after all? Leave it, she told herself, let it go, it doesn’t matter now . . .

  “Why didn’t you?” She held her breath, waiting for his answer.

  Gawain laid his forearm over his eyes. “She died.”

  She must have made some sound, for he said roughly, “No more. For pity’s sake, Ragnelle, just let me sleep.”

  Chapter 9

  AISLYN sat, clutching the arms of the chair, each breath an effort. What difference does it make? she asked herself. He isn’t the same. It doesn’t matter if he’s mourning some dead lass.

  “Once I meant to marry . . .”

  Once.

  It all rushed back so clearly, the nights she’d spent kneeling by the window, imagining Gawain declaring himself to her. She’d gone over it a hundred times, the words he would use, what she would say, how happy they would be. For five years, she had been certain he was on the brink of asking her before that terrible night.

  But he had never meant to marry her at all.

  She didn’t know how to feel or what to think. The great love of her life had been a mere infatuation on his part. It was some other woman who had changed him from the merry lad she knew to this grim stranger.

  Yet had he not always been a stranger?

  She had risked Morgause’s wrath for a man she had not known. For his sake, she had very nearly lost her life. Everything she had done and been and felt since that night had been based upon a lie.

  He had never loved her.

  Her breath rasped in her throat as she stared at him, marking the long, straight limbs, the broad chest and flat belly, the angles of his face, and the moon-bright hair that spilled across the pillow. Yes, he was beautiful, but his beauty was no more than a shell. She had never know
n the man beneath, and if she had once loved him desperately, her love was nothing to the hatred that consumed her now.

  She stood, hobbled over to the chest, and took up her bag. It didn’t take long to mix the potion, and when it was done she gulped it down in a single draught.

  She had forgotten how much it hurt. She fell to her knees, biting her lips against the pain as bones lengthened, straightened, as skin stretched and joints popped.

  At last it ended. She stood, throwing off tunic and undergown, then raised her arms over her head and felt each muscle stretch. Oh, it was good to be herself again! She ran her hands across her face, fingertips tracing her own nose and lips and eyes, reveling in the smooth suppleness of her skin. She smoothed the shimmering waves of hair falling over breasts and hips to curl about her knees.

  Padding barefoot to the bed, she looked down at Gawain. Dark golden lashes lay motionless against his cheeks. Save for the slow rise and fall of his chest, he could have been the effigy of a knight carved of alabaster and touched with gilt.

  Just so had he looked that night in Lothian when she had gone to his chamber, sent there by the queen.

  Aislyn had never seen Morgause in such a temper. The queen’s face was livid and her eyes glittered with the wild light of madness.

  “Did your supper with Sir Gawain not—not go well?” Aislyn faltered.

  Morgause’s laughter was like a shriek. “Well? No, it did not go well. My son is a traitor.”

  Something about the way she said the word chilled Aislyn’s heart. “Oh, madam, no!” she cried. “He is confused—”

  “Do you dare defend him?” Morgause seized an alabaster pot from her dressing table and flung it. Aislyn ducked; the pot shattered against the wall behind her head. “Or do you only seek to excuse your own failure?”

  “I need more time,” Aislyn said desperately. “I am certain I can convince him—” Her words ended in a cry when Morgause slapped her hard across the face.

  “Be still.” Morgause sat down at her dressing table and dropped her face into her hands. “Gawain is Arthur’s man; he told me so himself. He dared to look me in the eye and say he will serve that misbegotten bastard unto death.”

  “I am sorry, madam,” Aislyn said carefully. “I did my best.”

  “Your best,” Morgause spat, “was not good enough.” She raised her head and gazed into the mirror, her eyes holding Aislyn’s. “But you shall have another chance.”

  “Yes, madam, thank you, madam.” Aislyn gabbled, backing toward the door. “I am certain that given a few more days—”

  Not that she needed a few days or even one. All she asked was a quarter of an hour in which to beg Gawain to take her from this place.

  “Tonight,” the queen said, “you will go to his bed and you will bind him. Then we shall see what his pathetic notions of honor and loyalty are worth.”

  “B-bind him?”

  “The spell. You know the one I mean, do not pretend you don’t.” The queen whirled and caught Aislyn by the arm, sharp nails digging into the soft skin of her wrist. “Once Gawain is mine to command, Arthur will not hold his throne for long. You wanted a crown, Aislyn, did you not? Well, here is your chance to prove yourself fit to wear it.”

  The crown of Orkney, Aislyn thought numbly, that was what I hoped for, not that of Britain. How could she have been so blind to Morgause’s true intent?

  The queen’s eyes narrowed. “Do not fail me,” she hissed. “Or I promise that what life remains to you will seem far too long.”

  Aislyn nodded. “You can rely upon me, madam.”

  “Then go. Do what you must.” Morgause’s smile did not reach her eyes. “You can leave the rest to me.”

  AISLYN trembled as she stood in the doorway of Gawain’s chamber, wondering if Morgause’s magic was powerful enough to give warning of her impending treachery. But she drew in a long breath and gathered her courage in both hands, determined to confess everything to Gawain.

  He has to know, she thought. He would understand that she had never meant to deceive him, that she had only said what she had been told to say—and not said those things she had been ordered to conceal. Once she explained how it had been for her, how helpless she had felt when she arrived at Lothian with nothing but her own wits standing between her and a life of servitude, he would realize that she’d really had no choice.

  He would surely believe that she had not known Morgause was planning to overthrow King Arthur—although she should have realized it long since, and had she not been blinded by the dazzling prospect of a crown, she would have. And what would you have done? a small voice demanded mockingly. Until you met Gawain, would you have cared?

  She liked to think she would, for Arthur was reputed to be both wise and just, virtues that Morgause clearly lacked. But she could not be certain. Nor did it matter now; whatever she might once have thought or felt, she knew that she would never in this life allow Gawain to be used to such an end—or to any end at all. Better to slay him outright than consign him to such a fate. Should he be bound by magic, the man she loved would cease to exist, and in his place would be a shell with no will but hers—or to be exact, Morgause’s.

  And to think Morgause claimed to love her son.

  But I love him! she told herself, stepping into the chamber and moving swiftly toward the bed. And he loves me. He will take me from this dark place, sweep me off to shining Camelot, and protect me from his mother’s vengeance.

  Never had a fool been so deceived.

  Now she knelt beside him on the bed and leaned over him, her hair falling about his face as she brushed his lips with hers. He stirred and sighed, and she kissed him again. This time he responded, still half-sleeping. She teased his lips apart and his eyelids fluttered, then snapped open.

  “Aislyn?”

  “Shh.” She put a finger to his lips.

  “But—”

  “You are dreaming,” she said, touching the space between his brows.

  “Aye.” He sighed, relaxing back upon the pillow, gazing up at her with a smile. Well, at least he welcomed her into his dreams. For tonight, he would not think of that other one at all. When he woke, he would be bound to her, body and soul—and she would be gone. Then he would finally understand what she had endured for five long years.

  He touched her lips, her cheeks. Then his hands wound in her hair to pull her down to him.

  He had always been so gentle with her, so sweetly hesitant, as though she was made of some exquisitely delicate substance he feared to shatter. But there was nothing gentle about the way he kissed her now. He did not ask, he demanded, and her whole heart leapt in answer. His hands were warm as they slid up her sides to trail over her breasts, teasing and caressing until she moaned aloud.

  He turned, carrying her with him, not breaking the kiss. She wound her legs around his back, thrusting her hips upward to meet him as he filled her in one powerful surge. She cried out; her nails raked his back and he thrust again, more deeply, and again.

  This was what she’d dreamt of through those aching, endless nights, this was what she’d longed for all unknowing. Two were one, perfect and complete, a feeling so intense that she cried out again, a wordless cry of wonder that he echoed as he arched against her.