by Gawain (lit)
“Yes, I see your point, and I agree completely. Can you describe this man—this Launfal—to me?”
Morgause smiled slowly. “I would be happy to.”
Chapter 23
ONCE Aislyn crept through the castle gates, she had to feel her way along the road, helped only by the occasional flash of lightning to the east and a faint, far-off glow from the market square at the foot of the hill. She went through the stalls carefully, keeping away from the lanterns hung by the merchants readying their wares for the morrow.
Once she was through the market, though, the darkness was a living thing, pressing round her like a muffling cloak. If not for the white stones marking the edges of the road, she would have given up entirely, though even so her progress was agonizingly slow. At this rate, I won’t make it a mile, she thought, but kept on walking, one careful step after another, until her breath came short and her legs began to ache.
Don’t think about that. Think about Gawain and what he’ll do and say when he discovers I am gone. He’ll be a bit sad, but likely he’ll be relieved, as well, though for form’s sake, he’ll send someone out to look for me. Or no, I’m wronging him, she thought. He’ll come himself.
That spurred her on, and when the clouds began to break, she took new heart. There was no moon tonight, but even the faint starlight seemed a gift, for it was enough to make out the whitewashed stones lining the broad road.
Aye, he will be sad, she thought, though not nearly so sad as I am to leave him. And at least Gaheris is there to cheer him.
She thought of the first day of Gawain’s visit home five years ago, when Gaheris had been chided by the queen for some imagined want of courtesy to his brother. Gaheris, who usually bore the queen’s rebukes in silence, suddenly announced to the entire hall that Gawain was not a deity, and he, for one, refused to worship at his shrine. Morgause was livid, but Gawain only laughed and said Gaheris was obviously a sensible lad and he looked forward to knowing him better.
His words had not sprung from any deep affection—he and Gaheris were all but strangers—but only an instinctive desire to help his brother out of a scrape. At the time, Aislyn had been faintly amused, and then annoyed when for the rest of Gawain’s visit, Gaheris hardly left his side.
One careless comment. One kind word. And look how warmly they had greeted each other earlier. She thought of her own brother Launfal and tried to imagine how he would greet her in the unlikely event of their meeting again. But the two cases were hardly comparable. She and Launfal had never been close. Or rather, she thought, she had not allowed him to get close to her. She had always been too busy, too wrapped up in her own concerns, to regard her sickly younger brother as anything but a nuisance.
The last time she had seen him was in the practice yard at Lothian. Launfal had been smiling when he disarmed a boy who overtopped him by a foot. Had she ever told him how proud she was that day? She didn’t think so. For Gawain had been there, too, and when he looked at her, all else had been forgotten.
She should have said something to Launfal. There was no one else to do it. Their mother never cared for him; he’d been conceived when Aislyn was still an infant, and the pregnancy had been difficult from the first. At seven months, he’d come into the world, and Mother nearly died of it. Aislyn knew that everyone assumed it was a late miscarriage, for she’d heard the story often from Nurse, who liked to tell it every time she’d had a drop too much of ale: how the child was forgotten in the worry over the mother until Nurse realized that the faint mewing sound coming from the corner was a living babe, though such a puny one that no one expected him to live.
Mother found the entire experience revolting, including the child that had come of it. It was an aversion that deepened over the years when it became clear that her sickly son was to be the last child she would bear.
Their father was no better. Always disgusted by any form of illness, Sir Rogier ignored Launfal’s existence completely, while Aislyn simply thought her brother tedious. He spent most of his time hovering between life and death, and by the time he finally spoke, the family had already dismissed him as an imbecile. Even when he began to resemble a human, he was so fragile that he was no good for any sort of game.
But on that day in the practice yard Launfal had not looked fragile. He’d looked strong and healthy and happier than Aislyn had ever seen him.
She wished she had spoken to him. There were so many things she should have said, but only one that really mattered: don’t trust the queen. Four words, that’s all, and she’d had plenty of opportunity to speak them between the time she’d fully understood the extent of Morgause’s wickedness and her disastrous meeting with Gawain. But she hadn’t. She hadn’t even thought of it. And now it was too late.
Aislyn doubted anything remained of the sweet-tempered little brother who had trailed after her for so many years, waiting vainly for her notice. He’d been so patient— annoyingly persistent, she’d thought then—and on the few occasions she had been bored enough to play with him, so grateful. Her heart burned with an emotion she did not at first recognize, but then she realized it was shame.
Of course he had turned to Morgause—who else did he have? A father who’d spoken to him perhaps a dozen times before expiring, a mother who actively disliked him, a sister who had not even cared enough to say the four words that might have saved him.
The long years she had spent alone, nursing her solitary grudge against the world, no longer seemed a punishment undeserved, but the inevitable result of her own self-absorption. Had she but an ounce of Gawain’s generosity, Launfal would have gone with her into exile. He would have followed her to the ends of the earth if she had only showed him some small kindness.
“Watch over him. He’s not a bad lad, he’s only fallen into evil ways,” she muttered as she walked along, and smiled wryly, thinking she could as easily be speaking of herself. Speaking to herself, as well, for much as she longed to believe someone listened to her prayers, she could not force her mind into obedience.
These reflections carried her into the utter darkness of the forest. When she could no longer trust her ability to find the path, she sank down on a boulder and eased off her shoes, groaning as she massaged her swollen ankles and throbbing toes.
Time to think. On the night of the king’s Midsummer feast she must be back in Camelot to find Morgana. Between now and then, the only sensible thing to do was to go back to her hut and wait.
But tonight she had gone as far as she could manage. Her heart was doing an odd little hitch and skip, and it was some time before she managed to rouse herself long enough to crawl off the boulder into a patch of ferns, where she fell asleep to the night call of an owl above her head.
Chapter 24
GAHERIS perched on the edge of Gawain’s bed and watched his older brother exchange his fine robe for a leather tunic and leggings. He had not said a word as Gawain told him the story of the king’s meeting with Somer Gromer Jour, though he had thought many things, and wondered even more, and liked neither his questions nor his suspicions. When Gawain explained about Dame Ragnelle and how he had come to marry her, Gaheris was hard put to hide his shock.
Was this really Gawain talking? Gaheris had never subscribed to the common wisdom that put Gawain only slightly below God’s own son, but he had always thought his eldest brother too sensible to land himself in such a humiliating mess. Of course, it wasn’t Gawain’s fault, not really—what else could he have done but marry her? Gaheris even understood why Gawain had kept the reason for his marriage hidden from the court. He wasn’t sure that he agreed with that decision, though he might well have done the same in his brother’s place. It was all perfectly understandable—even noble—but God in heaven, what a mess! And the oddest part was that Gawain seemed completely unaware of the gravity of the situation.
Gaheris drew one knee up and rested his chin upon it. “Is she as ugly as I’ve heard?”
“I don’t know what you’ve heard,” Gawain answered, tos
sing his robe into the trunk. “But I’d wager it falls far short of the mark.”
“She’s that bad?”
“Worse,” Gawain assured him, laughing.
It was one thing to bear up bravely under what could only be considered a disaster, but laughter seemed to be taking things a bit too far. In fact, Gawain was behaving very oddly altogether.
“Have you considered,” Gaheris said, “that this Dame Ragnelle could well be a witch?”
“Oh, she is,” Gawain answered, pulling the tunic over his head. “She told me so herself. But there’s no harm in her.”
“And what,” Gaheris asked carefully, “leads you to that conclusion? Exactly?”
Gawain frowned, then shrugged. “There just isn’t.”
“She forced you to marry her—”
“She did not. I wish people would stop saying that!”
“Who else has said it?”
“Arthur. He’s taking all this very badly, and just between the two of us, I’m getting a wee bit tired of his moaning.”
Gaheris blinked. That was the closest he had ever heard Gawain come to a criticism of the king, and it made him uneasy. So did the fact that Arthur, too, was clearly troubled about Gawain.
“Let me be sure I understand,” he said. “You married a woman you had never laid eyes upon—one who appeared out of nowhere and offered you a choice you could not possibly refuse—a hideous crone who is, moreover, a self-confessed witch. She has now vanished back into thin air—and you are going to look for her?”
“Aye.” Gawain slung his sword over his shoulder and began to buckle the straps across his chest.
“Gawain, sit down a moment, and give me one reason— one good reason—why you are not on your knees thanking God for your escape.”
Gawain sat down on the bed and raked a hand through his hair. “It is my duty to find her.”
“Be damned to that! I’m sure Arthur can have this farce annulled, particularly as she has now deserted you. I mean to say, it isn’t a real marriage.” He felt his cheeks burn. “That is, you didn’t . . . did you?”
“Nay, nay, there was nothing of that sort between us. Although,” he added with a grin, “Ragnelle did her best to give the impression that there was.”
Gaheris stared at him. “And that is amusing?”
“You can be sure I did not find it so at the time. But—if you had seen their faces—ach, never mind, ’tis impossible to explain.”
He began to rise, but Gaheris put a hand on his shoulder. “Try.”
Gawain sighed. “Camelot is a fine place, Gaheris, but we are none of us quite so noble as we like to think ourselves. That is not a pleasant truth to have flung in one’s face, but it is a thing worth knowing.”
“Yes, I daresay it is,” Gaheris said slowly. “But if you want my opinion—”
“Oh, I have a choice? Well, then—”
“Will you be quiet and listen!” Gaheris could hardly believe he was speaking to Gawain in such a tone, but he was more than uneasy now: he was frightened. “Don’t you understand what you’ve been telling me? This witch has deliberately deceived the court about your marriage—and that is no joke, Gawain, it is a trap. Not only that, but now she is attempting to turn you against your friends and kin. No, hear me out,” he urged as Gawain began to protest. “You take her side in everything, even when she is clearly in the wrong, and dismiss the king’s concerns as moaning. Gawain, that isn’t like you! Can you not see how you’ve changed? Think back on everything you’ve said, and then tell me again there is no harm in her!”
Gawain shook off his hand and stood. “You don’t understand.”
“I think I do.”
Gawain shot him an exasperated look. “Look you, Gaheris, this is all much simpler than you would have it. I married Dame Ragnelle. You can dispute my reasons or hers, but in the end they make no matter. We are wed. I vowed to honor and protect her and what I have sworn to do, I do.”
That, at least, sounded like Gawain, proud and stubborn as the devil. “But if your oath was given under—”
“Enough.” Gawain swung the cloak over his shoulders, settling it so his sword hilt poked through the split in the fabric. “I don’t want to brangle with you, Gaheris, particularly not on your first night at court. Believe it or not, I am glad you are here.”
“So am I. Lothian is a bad place these days.”
“Ach, that’s right, you were going to tell me about your quarrel with our mother. As soon as I return we’ll have a good, long talk.”
Gaheris sat for some time after his brother had left him, a worried frown creasing his brow. At last he went through the door and down the passageway. He was almost to his chamber when he turned back, and finding a page, asked him to run and see if the king would grant him an audience.
Chapter 25
DAMN Morgana. Damn her coming and going, sleeping and waking, damn her eyes and her hands and her feet and . . . and everything else, Aislyn thought as she stopped yet again to detach a clinging branch from her skirt. Beneath the shelter of the trees, the air was warm and still, and the underbrush a mass of blossoms. Very pretty, she thought, though she would rather have kept to the road—if only she didn’t think Gawain might be on it, too. Not that she didn’t want to see him—she missed him sorely, another misery for which she had Morgana to thank—but she could not afford for him to find her yet.
She reached her hut at dusk and slipped inside. Her supper was a handful of nuts and a mug of water from the stream, and by the time she had finished, full dark had fallen. Too weary to kindle a fire, she lay down on her pallet and waited for sleep. It was long in coming, giving her plenty of time to reflect on how she had gotten into this pathetic mess and the unlikelihood of ever getting out of it again.
She had never stopped to measure the crone’s years, but now she found herself counting each beat of her heart and cataloging every ache and pain. How much time was left to her? What if Morgana did not return as promised? What if Gawain was called to battle? He could be gone for months or even years. What if some other lady caught his heart?
She twisted on the thin pallet, feeling the dampness of the earth beneath creep into her bones. Strange that she had never noticed before how uncomfortable it was. She had always cast herself down thoughtlessly and closed her eyes, drifting into sleep without a backward glance. But then, she had been young and strong—what adventures she might have had, what great deeds she might have accomplished had she not hidden herself away here! What was it Gawain had said? In destinies sad or merry, true men can but try.
Coward, she thought, that’s what you are, skulking here for years while the world went on without you. Had she but faced Gawain that first day in the forest and spoken her heart honestly, she would have known that his was hers and always had been. But he had never really known her—and she had never really known herself. Only Morgana had seen the truth. She had been selfish and irresponsible, and she had no one but herself to blame for her predicament.
If only I could go back, I would do it all so differently. But there was no going back. She must go on and not fall into despair. Gawain was likely lost to her, but even if she could never have his love, she could live in such a way as to earn his respect—and more importantly, her own.
The next few days passed slowly. She saw no one but an elderly woman who lived high up on the hillside; the woman’s son, a shepherd, had begged Aislyn for a potion to cure his mother’s ague some winters back. Now when Aislyn puffed up the hill and introduced herself, she was greeted as an old friend. Sitting among drifts of wool, she learned that Sir Gawain had passed through the village on the day after Aislyn had left Camelot.
“He was seeking an old woman,” the shepherd’s mother said. “I thought it might be you.”
“What would Sir Gawain be wanting with me?” Aislyn asked. “Are you sure it wasn’t you he was after?”