by Gawain (lit)
“Oh, yes, my mother is here,” Gaheris said in answer to the king’s question. “She will be along presently.”
Morgause? Here? Tonight? Aislyn did not stop to think. She slipped from the open door into the garden, and keeping to the shadows, made her way to Gawain’s chamber. Once inside, she bolted the door and leaned her back against the wood, drawing in deep gulps of air, shaken by the force of her heart pounding painfully against her ribs.
At last she tottered to the chair and half fell upon it, her heart thudding out a terrible refrain. Morgause. Morgause is here. Oh, why did she have to come tonight? Why could she not have waited a few days more? Then Aislyn would have been glad to face her, but now . . .
I have to go, she thought, jumping up. I cannot risk a meeting, not as I am now. With shaking hands, she flung up the lid to the trunk and pawed through its contents, all the while straining to hear a footstep in the corridor. After she had twice dropped what she held to whirl toward the door at some imagined sound, she abandoned her attempts to pack.
Taking her bag from its hook on the wall, she hobbled to the door, stopping only long enough to cast one last look at the place where she had known the heights of joy and sorrow. The cats were absent save for Sooty, curled up on Gawain’s pillow.
“Look after him,” Aislyn said, then braced her shoulders and added, “until I come back again.”
Sooty blinked once, regarding Aislyn with feline contempt. “Don’t look at me like that, I will be back,” Aislyn said. “I will. You wait and see.”
Chapter 21
THE last time Gawain had spoken to his mother was on the morning of Aislyn’s death. Now here she was, strolling into the queen’s bower with an insouciance that stunned him. How dared she come here? How dared she face him after what she had done to Aislyn? It mattered not whether she had done the deed herself, she was responsible for Aislyn’s death. He could never prove it, but he knew. And she knew he knew. Yet still she smiled at him—for one horrified moment he thought she actually meant to embrace him, but after a keen look at his face she swept by and bowed before the king.
“Sire, forgive me for not sending word, but I daresay my arrival is not entirely unexpected.”
“Madam, you are welcome,” Arthur said coolly.
“I see you’ve already met my son, Gaheris,” she went on. “It is my hope that you will accept him into your service.”
“Is that your hope, as well?” Arthur said to Gaheris. “To become a Knight of the Round Table?”
Before he could answer, Morgause laughed lightly. “What lad doesn’t dream of such an honor?” She leaned a bit closer to Arthur and lowered her voice, though not so much that Gawain, standing across the room, could not hear her plainly. “I fear Gaheris will never achieve the same stature as his brothers. Oh, he tries, but . . .” She glanced sideways at her son, adding in a piercing whisper, “I would consider it a great kindness, Arthur, if you would make a place for him.”
“Gaheris,” the king said, “what is your wish?”
Gaheris dropped gracefully to one knee and bowed his head. “My one wish is to serve you, sire, in whatever fashion you deem fit.” Though somewhat red about the ears, he was quite composed—remarkably so, given the circumstances. Arthur caught Gawain’s eye and raised his brows, signaling both approval and surprise. Gawain nodded once. Yes, sire, you are not mistaken. He is all that he seems.
“I am sure you will serve me right well,” Arthur said kindly.
Gaheris lifted his chin, his eyes flashing. “I ask no favors, sire, only the chance to prove myself.”
“That you shall have.” Arthur laid a hand briefly on his shoulder. “Welcome to Camelot, nephew.”
“Thank you,” Morgause said before Gaheris could reply. “That is very kind of you, Arthur, and I hope—that is, I am sure you will not regret it.”
Having made the point—though perhaps not quite the one she had intended—Morgause glanced brightly about the chamber. “And whom do we have here?”
“Queen Guinevere, allow me to present my sister Morgause, the queen of Orkney,” Arthur said, and as the two women greeted each other with wary eyes and courteous words, Gawain drew Gaheris into a corner.
“What the devil was that about?”
Gaheris shrugged. “I’m in her bad graces at the moment. ”
“I never would have guessed. What did you do?”
“Helped her latest . . . admirer on his way out the door.” Gaheris’s grin faltered. “That was a bad business, Gawain—I’ll tell you about it, but not here. At any rate, she’s—oh, God’s mercy, not now.”
“. . . and Sir Lancelot du Lac,” Arthur was saying. “Lancelot, the queen of Orkney.”
Morgause smiled and extended her hand. Sir Lancelot went beet red and choked out an incoherent greeting.
“Poor gudgeon,” Gaheris said. “He doesn’t have the first idea, does he?”
Gawain had never seen Sir Lancelot at such a loss. He was blushing like a squire, his polished manners quite forgotten. Morgause had clearly not yet lost her power to attract, but if she thought to add Sir Lancelot to her long list of besotted young followers, she would have to think again.
“I was only the excuse for her to come,” Gaheris said, nodding toward his mother. “You’re the real reason. Is it true you are married?”
“Yes.”
Where was Ragnelle? Strange she was so silent. Gawain would have expected her to be the first to welcome his mother, pushing herself forward with some outlandish remark that would infuriate Morgause. The resulting skirmish would no doubt be deplorable, but for some odd reason he couldn’t help but smile to imagine it.
“Is she here?” Gaheris said.
Gawain quickly scanned the room. “She was . . .”
“Gawain!” Morgause called, loudly enough so heads turned in his direction. “What are you doing skulking in the corner?”
Gawain stiffened. How dare she even speak to him, let alone in such a tone? But when he came to think of it, the real wonder was that he was surprised.
“Come see me when you’re done,” he said to Gaheris, “and I’ll introduce you to my wife.” He sketched Morgause a brief bow before turning toward the door.
“Oh, dear, I must have frightened him!” she said to Arthur, her voice lightly mocking. “Come, Gawain, there is no need to flee! Whatever mischief you’ve been up to, ’tis best to confess it and have done.”
Having reduced him to the status of a six-year-old, she held out her hand, her eyes hard above her gently smiling lips.
He stepped across the room and took her by the wrist, drawing her away from the others and speaking so she alone could hear. “I have nothing to say to you, madam.”
She pulled her wrist from his grasp. “Well, I have plenty to say to you! How dare you wed without my leave?”
“And how dare you speak one word to me upon the subject of marriage? After what you did to—” He drew a swift breath. “No. I will not speak of it. Now, if you will excuse me—”
“Do not tell me you are still nursing a grudge over that foolish girl! I had not thought that even you could be so stubborn.”
“And I,” Gawain replied, tight-lipped, “would not have thought you would have the effrontery to speak to me of her.”
“Not speak to my own son? Have you taken leave of your senses? Look here, my lad—”
“No, you look, Mother. I know what happened to Aislyn.”
“You—” She drew back and studied him intently. “Explain yourself.”
“She did not lie to me, but you did, and whether she took her own life or was—was—”
“I did not murder the chit, or order her death, or any of the things you seem to be imagining,” Morgause retorted, her composure restored. “Why would I have bothered? She was nothing—”
“She was the woman I loved, and while that may seem nothing to you—” He broke off. “This is not a conversation I wish to have with you, not now or at any other time. What’s done is
done. But do not ever attempt to meddle in my affairs again. You will say nothing of my marriage to me or anyone, and if you speak to my lady at all, it will be with the respect to which she is entitled.”
Morgause’s eyes shone with tears. “You are very hard, Gawain.”
“I am what you have made me, Mother,” he spat, and turning his back on her, he walked from the chamber without another word.
Chapter 22
“IS Sir Gawain quite well?” Queen Guinevere said when Morgause rejoined her. “He has not been himself of late.”
“Really?” Morgause sat down beside her. “In what way?”
“Oh, ’tis difficult to explain,” Guinevere said, “but since his marriage . . .” She broke off, casting a guilty look in Arthur’s direction, but he was chatting with Gaheris and did not seem to have heard.
Morgause drew a bit closer. “Of course I was surprised to learn of it and disappointed to have been left out of the festivities, but I know how impulsive boys can be!”
Guinevere bit her lip to hide her smile. Only a mother could describe the formidable Sir Gawain in such terms!
“Of course I cannot condone his unseemly haste, but I was right willing to forgive him if he was happy in his choice,” Morgause went on. “Yet it seems that there is something wrong about the marriage. He refused to speak of it just now and grew so upset when I questioned him that I lacked the heart to press him. But, madam—may I call you Guinevere? And you must call me by my name, for we are family now. Please, I beg you to tell me if my son is in some sort of trouble.”
“Well,” Guinevere said confidentially, “I hardly know myself how it all came to pass. Sir Gawain arrived here with Dame Ragnelle and announced that the two of them were to be wed that very day!”
“And when was that?” Morgause said.
“Eight days ago. I remember it particularly, because it was the same day he and my lord rode out to meet Somer Gromer Jour. I do not know if word has reached you of my lord’s adventure—”
“Yes, it has, and God be thanked that danger was averted.”
“Know you of some other danger?” Guinevere asked uneasily.
“Indeed, but we will come to that in time. You were saying that Gawain brought this woman to court—and what sort of woman is she?”
“Oh, madam—Morgause—I hardly know how to tell you. She is much older than Sir Gawain—”
“But still of childbearing age?” Morgause interrupted.
“Far, far past it. And she is quite . . .”
Morgause pressed her hand. “Go on, my dear.”
“She is—they call her the loathly lady,” Guinevere said in a rush. “For that she is so foul to look upon. And her manners are so gross that she cannot be of gentle birth!”
Morgause drew a sharp breath. “But—but this is infamous! How could Arthur—forgive me, I will speak no word against my brother, but I cannot understand why he allowed this!”
“Nor can I,” Guinevere said, dropping her voice to a whisper. “He will say nothing of the matter save that it must be as Sir Gawain wishes. We have all wondered, of course, if she has some dreadful hold over him—” She broke off, blushing, but Morgause only nodded.
“It is natural to wonder, though knowing Gawain, I would think it is more likely a matter of honor. You say he rode out with the king to meet Somer Gromer Jour, and when he returned, this . . . woman was with him?”
“Yes. Do you think there is some connection?”
“I cannot see what it would be,” Morgause said, frowning. “But you can be sure I will have the truth of it before long! I must say, you are not at all what I expected! What a comfort it is to find you so sensible and well-informed.”
“Thank you,” Guinevere said, touched and flattered by the praise, which was of a sort she did not often hear. “But you were going to tell me something about another danger, were you not?”
Morgause regarded her a moment, then nodded decisively. “I meant to give Arthur this news privately, but now that I have met you, I would like to ask your counsel first.”
“Oh, yes,” Guinevere breathed. “Do tell me! Lately I have felt so uneasy—as if something threatens my lord—”
Morgause’s reddish brows lifted. “Do you have the Sight?”
“Me? Oh, no, I do not meddle in sorcery!” Guinevere exclaimed, then was stricken with embarrassment when she remembered to whom she spoke.
But Morgause did not seem offended. “I forgot that you were convent-bred. Oh, what a pity, for I really do believe—but no, I’ll say no more, dear Arthur might not like it. Only . . . do pay heed to your intuitions, Guinevere. They may be more important than you know.”
“I shall,” Guinevere promised earnestly. “But do tell me of this danger!”
Morgause sighed. “It begins with a lady who served me before her marriage. When she came to me some five or six years ago, a widow in the most desperate straits, I took her and her children in.”
Guinevere nodded. Of course Morgause had. She would have done the same herself for any loyal servant.
“The elder proved to be a sad trial,” Morgause continued. “She was quite lovely, and not without intelligence, but she drowned herself over a broken love affair. The younger, Launfal, seemed more promising, though always somewhat heavy of spirit, for he could not be reconciled to the loss of lands and riches that were once his family’s. It seemed to me he fixed upon Arthur as the culprit, and blamed him, as well, for the sister’s death. It was all nonsense, as I told him more than once, but he brooded upon his imagined wrongs until I feared for his reason.”
“What did you do?” Guinevere asked.
“I put him under restraint, still hoping he could be saved, but with the cunning of his kind, he managed to escape.”
Guinevere shivered and peered into the shadowed garden. “So he—he could be anywhere!”
“That is the reason I came in such haste, to warn the king against him. Arthur must be brought to understand that Launfal, for all his youth and charm . . . My greatest fear is that my brother . . .”
She put her hand on Guinevere’s. “Forgive me if I speak bluntly. You must have noticed that your lord does not keep such state as was common in his father’s day. Arthur walks freely among his subjects and opens his hall to every sort of churl on feast days. It is all very admirable, of course, but I would not have his kindness be his undoing.”
“We must tell him,” Guinevere said. “Warn him of this danger. He will know what is to be done.”
“Yes, of course, but . . .” Morgause cast her eyes down and sighed. “It cannot have escaped you that men—even the best of them—tend to shrug off warnings from a sister or a wife. They pat us on the head and tell us not to fear and then go off and do exactly as they meant to all along. They are all boys at heart, the dears, always so anxious to prove their courage! I fear it sometimes falls to us women to take the sensible view. To protect them from themselves.”
Guinevere had never thought of it thus before. Arthur was both good and wise—so good and so wise, in fact, that she was often driven to reflect unhappily upon the many flaws in her own nature. The thought that she, by virtue of her sex, possessed a wisdom he could not was too thrilling to resist.
“Yes, indeed,” she said to Morgause. “Tell me what you think should be done.”
“Perhaps if Arthur’s knights—or perhaps your knights, those who came with you from Cameliard, whom I am sure can be trusted with your confidence—were to be made aware of this danger to their king . . .”