Gawain

by Gwen Rowley

  “Sir Dinadan,” he supplied.

  “Right.” She was a bit annoyed that he’d followed her thoughts so easily, so she gave him her best smile. He leaned a little closer, gazing fascinated at her teeth. “A friend of Sir Gawain’s, are you?”

  His eyes flicked up to hers. “Yes,” he said decidedly. “I have that honor. We met years ago, after the—” He lowered his voice. “—the rebellion.”

  “Which one?” Aislyn helped herself to his wine. He grinned, revealing unexpected dimples.

  “The first one, just after King Arthur came to the throne.”

  Aislyn nodded. Some of Britain’s most powerful barons had thought pulling a sword from a stone was insufficient proof of Arthur’s lineage and had sought to relieve him of his crown. Gawain’s father, King Lot, had been chief among them.

  “Was your father one of the rebels?” she asked.

  “Alas, he was.” Dinadan took the wine from her. She opened her mouth to protest, but he merely sipped and handed it back, a show of good will that could not have come easily. She lifted it to him before she drank, acknowledging the gesture.

  “Father always was a fool,” he went on. “Afterward, many of the rebels’ sons were sent to court to be trained as knights.”

  A nice way of putting it, Aislyn thought, when what they’d really been was hostages to their sires’ continued loyalty.

  “And you are still here,” she said.

  “Indeed. King Arthur is Britain’s best hope against the Saxons,” he said, and all the humor vanished from his expression. “That alone would keep me at his side. The Saxons are a curse,” he added, raising his voice slightly. “I would see every one of them driven back into the sea.”

  “Not quite all, surely?” Aislyn glanced past him to the tall Saxon lord seated on his other side, who she vaguely recalled was one of the king’s allies. The man stiffened, his eyes narrowing.

  “All.” Dinadan leaned back, an ironic smile curling his thin lips. “I mistrust these treaty troops,” he said, not bothering to lower his voice. The Saxon glared at him, then turned pointedly away. “Gawain does not agree with me,” Dinadan went on in a drawl, though his long fingers were busy tearing a hunk of bread to pieces. “All the king does is well done in his eyes. But years ago, when I was a child, I was taken prisoner in a Saxon raid upon my home.” He dropped the bread and took the wine from her again. “Seven years of slavery are not easily forgotten.”

  “No, I expect they wouldn’t be.”

  He smiled and waved a hand, banishing the subject. “Tell me about you and Gawain. How did you come to marry so suddenly?”

  “True love strikes fast.”

  He laughed and heads turned in their direction. Aislyn fancied he rather enjoyed shocking them, and she warmed to him, feeling she had found a kindred spirit. “I must confess, lady, that I have no idea what to make of you.”

  “Good.”

  He offered her the wine again, but she refused. Though she’d never admit it, Gawain was right. She’d had enough. A bit more, in fact, and she might give into the temptation to share her jest with Sir Dinadan, who seemed to her a man who might enjoy it. Instead she turned from him back to Gawain.

  Holy Mother, but he was a handsome wight. Different, though, from the lad she remembered. That Gawain had been a blooded warrior already, but merry-hearted, too, always ready with a jest. She had yet to see him smile today—small wonder, considering—but she fancied the change in him went deeper than this marriage.

  They called Gawain the Courteous Knight, and she’d always wondered why, for though he’d been mannerly enough when she knew him, she would hardly have called that his defining feature. But no song had ever praised him for the qualities that had captured her five years ago: his impulsive generosity, his high spirits, the honesty that always took her unawares. Strange how honesty was always referred to as blunt. His had been sharp as a dagger, slicing through all her glittering ambitions to reveal them for the tawdry things they were.

  Or no, she thought, resting her chin on her hand, it was the fierceness of his idealism that had won her. Many and many an argument they’d had over it, too; first because, mindful of her duty to Queen Morgause, she had attempted to draw Gawain away from King Arthur and back to the loyalty he owed his clan. Later she had argued for her own sake, for she could not believe in the new Britain Gawain described to her, a place where every subject, no matter what their station, was entitled to the king’s protection. A land where a widow could not be driven from her home simply because she lacked the ability to defend herself against a greedy neighbor.

  A land where justice was every subject’s right, not a gift to be purchased at the cost of a girl’s body . . . and her soul.

  Aislyn had not dared to believe such things could really be. But argue as she would, no words of hers could quench the fire that consumed Gawain, and in the attempt she had only succeeded in catching his vision like a fever.

  Sir Gawain the Courteous? That was far too tame a title for the young warrior she’d known. But it suited the man beside her now.

  There was a look of chill austerity about him that matched the tales she’d heard of him of late. Sir Gawain the Chaste, she’d heard him named, and though at first she’d laughed, remembering certain passages between them, she had never heard another woman’s name linked with his. His was too lofty a spirit to surrender itself to the dark urges to which all men were prey—or so the stories went—and no mere woman could ever win a heart so devoted to his God and king.

  Not for lack of trying, Aislyn thought eyeing the weeping maidens throughout the hall. But Gawain did not seem to regard them in the least. Even when one forgot herself entirely and called out, “Mercy, sire! Whatever Sir Gawain has done, have pity on him!” he only glanced briefly in her direction, brows slightly lifted as she was helped, sobbing, from the hall. A ripple of uncomfortable laughter passed among the courtiers, but Gawain did not seem to hear it, save that his lips pressed a bit more firmly together.

  A pity, Aislyn thought, regarding the grim set of his mouth. He’d had a most enchanting smile. He’d certainly enchanted her . . .

  And you’re lucky you didn’t die of it, she reminded herself sternly.

  She picked at the remains of her meal, but her hunger had long been satisfied. She was just wondering how long they would have to sit here when the great doors opened and a warm, blossom-scented breeze rushed in. “Sir Lancelot du Lac,” a page announced, and suddenly the hall sprang to life.

  Guinevere sat up very straight, her face vivid with excitement. The king looked over toward the door, as well, his expression brightening. Aislyn craned her neck to see this newcomer, but he was surrounded by a group of knights, all talking at once as they gestured toward the high table.

  “What?” The voice rang out across the hall. “You’re joking!” And then she did see him; a slender, dark-haired youth in a fine crimson cloak. He saw her, as well. Astonishment and disbelief chased each other across his fine-boned features before he burst into a merry laugh.

  Gawain went very still. Only a single muscle leapt in his clenched jaw as the youth approached the high table, moving with lithe grace across the floor.

  “My lady,” the young man said, sweeping Guinevere a bow. “What news is this I hear? Did I really miss a wedding?”

  “Indeed,” Guinevere replied. “Sir Gawain was wed this day.” The two looked at each other, then away. Guinevere bit her lips and the young man gave a sudden burst of laughter which he tried vainly to pass off as a cough.

  “Lancelot,” King Arthur said, the single word a warning.

  Every trace of merriment vanished from Lancelot’s face. Gravely respectful, he made the king a bow. “Sire,” he said. “I am glad to be back.”

  “And I am glad to see you,” Arthur said, relenting enough to smile. “Later you must tell me all your adventures.” He looked pointedly toward Gawain; Lancelot took the hint and turned.

  “Sir Gawain,” he said. “It seems
congratulations are in order.”

  “Thank you. Lady Ragnelle, may I present Sir Lancelot du Lac?”

  Lancelot bowed. “I’m so sorry to have missed the wedding. I’m sure you were a lovely bride.”

  Cheeky boy. “Either your sight is failing or you’re making mock of an old woman,” she retorted tartly. “Which is it?”

  He blinked, disconcerted, but only for a moment. “Every lady is beautiful on her wedding day,” he said with a charming smile.

  “Well, you’re a sweet lad, aren’t you?” she said, amused. “Would you like to kiss the bride?”

  Panic flickered across his handsome face. “I—I do not dare. Sir Gawain would not like it,” he added, long, dark lashes veiling his eyes. “I would not want to offend.”

  Aislyn let out a snort of laughter and waved a hand. “Perhaps another time.”

  “What have you been up to, Lancelot?” Sir Dinadan asked. “Slain any dragons lately? Bested any giants? Rescued a few maidens in distress?”

  Lancelot’s smile altered; suddenly it was not so charming anymore. “I’ve been keeping myself busy. And you? Lost any tournaments lately? Or have you been too busy making nonsense rhymes?”

  “As it happens, I do have a new song. I’ve been waiting for your return to sing it. I think you’ll like it even better than the last.”

  Lancelot’s dark eyes narrowed. “And I think you’d be wiser to keep it to yourself.” He bowed curtly toward the queen and retired to a seat at a lower table, which quickly became the center of the hall. Knights and ladies crowded around him, talking in high, excited voices punctuated by bursts of laughter.

  “Has he really done those things?” Aislyn asked. “Slain giants and whatnot?”

  “He has indeed,” Gawain assured her. “Sir Lancelot is a most accomplished warrior.”

  He’s no friend to you, Aislyn thought, and well you know it. Look at him there, laughing at your expense. Don’t you care? Does nothing bother you?

  And then she thought of something that would.

  “Well, that’s all for me,” she said, pushing aside her trencher. “Come, husband, let’s to bed.”

  “If you like,” Gawain said with maddening composure. “My lord,” he added, turning to the king, “may we be excused? My lady is weary and wishes to retire.”

  Arthur choked on his wine. “I—I—oh, God, Gawain—”

  “Please, Arthur,” Gawain said quietly. “Don’t. It’s all right.”

  “Then yes,” Arthur said miserably. “Go on.”

  “What?” Aislyn grumbled as Gawain took her arm and helped her toward the door, “Are there to be no songs? No jests and merrymaking as they tuck us up together?”

  Gawain shot her a dark look. “I think not.”

  Oh, really? This was her wedding day; she could insist upon the proper form. She glanced over the hall, wondering which of the ladies was so far out of favor that the task of unclothing Sir Gawain’s loathly lady would fall to them. As for the men . . . her gaze settled on Sir Lancelot. No one would have to order him; he’d be the first one on his feet.

  She looked at Gawain again. His expression showed nothing, but that fair skin would always betray him. Two spots of brilliant red stained his cheekbones, as though he had been slapped into awareness of her rights. She could do it. She should do it. He deserved no less.

  “I suppose I’m a bit past such frolics,” she heard her own voice say. Cursing herself for her weakness, she smiled, adding, “I’d just as soon have you to myself.”

  And she had the satisfaction of seeing every drop of color drain from his face.

  Chapter 7

  THIS cannot really be happening, Gawain thought as he walked down the passageway, slowing his steps to the halting gait of the—the—creature whose claw dug into his forearm. No, not a creature. It wasn’t her fault she looked the way she did. She couldn’t help the warts, nor the wrinkles or the hairs sprouting from her chin. Well, perhaps she could do something about those—and was there really any need for her teeth to be quite that sickening shade of green? But would it really make a difference if she plucked her jutting chin and polished her two remaining teeth to gleaming whiteness?

  Sweat prickled at his neck and armpits. She is just a woman, he told himself firmly, old and bent with age. Her form is . . . roughly . . . human. And she had done King Arthur a great service today, one deserving of reward.

  God help him. There must be some way out. He couldn’t do this—no man could.

  And yet he must.

  Suddenly he remembered his first battle. The king’s army had marched far into the night before they found the Saxon raiders encamped by the smoking remnants of a village. Arthur’s men had snatched a few hours of—not sleep, they were too strung up for that—time to rest the horses and see to their weapons.

  The rain stopped just before dawn, though the sun struggled to break through the heavy clouds. Even when Gawain could make out his own comrades, the far end of the meadow was swathed in mist. He could hear the Saxons—the steady pounding of spear butts on the earth, the guttural war chants—and smell the grease they used to wind their fair hair into braids. The mist began to splinter, giving him quick glimpses of the enemy—but surely they were not so many as they seemed. That was an illusion. It must be. But then the sun burst forth and there they were, rank upon rank of enormous, bearded men. So many men. Three times—four—their own number.

  That morning, standing across the field from the Saxons, the same thoughts had chased each other through Gawain’s mind. I cannot do this—yet I must.

  When the time came, he did.

  He opened the door to his chamber and stood back to let it—her, Ragnelle, God help him, his bride—pass through.

  Two paces in, she stopped dead.

  “What—what are those?”

  He followed her pointing claw—finger—toward the bed. “Cats.”

  Ambrose, the white tom, leapt lightly from the bed to wind about Gawain’s ankles. Star and Motley soon followed, though Sooty only rose and stretched by way of greeting before turning herself in a circle and settling back down on his pillow.

  “Don’t you like them?” he asked, hoping rather wildly that she would ask for a separate chamber.

  “I—I don’t mind them,” the crea—, no, Ragnelle, answered.

  Gawain threw open the shutter. “Out,” he said, and they went—all but Sooty, as always supremely disdainful of anything resembling an order.

  “You, too,” he said, scooping her into his arms. He ignored her resentful yowl and tipped her out into the night. What now? You know what, he told himself, don’t pretend you don’t. This is your wedding night.

  God help me. I’d rather face every one of those Saxons again. Single-handed. Weaponless. Blindfolded, with my hands bound behind my back.

  He cleared his throat. “Shall I send for a woman to attend you?”

  “I’ve been getting in and out of my own clothes for years,” Ragnelle said. “I think I can manage it tonight.”

  “Right.”

  He gazed out at the moon-washed courtyard, wondering how this had all happened. There must be something he could have done—or said—to make it turn out differently. But what? Where had he gone wrong? He couldn’t have refused to save the king’s life. He’d had to accept. Just as he’d had to accept the Green Knight’s challenge years ago. He wished now that he’d let the fiend cut off his head. At least that would have been an honorable death.

  “Well?” a voice said behind him. “Are you going to stand there all night?”

  He turned. There she was, lying in his bed—his bed— her scanty white hair spread out against his pillow, her eyes bright beneath her tangled brows.

  God help me. Drawing a deep breath, he crossed the chamber to the candle.

  “Leave it.” His bride cackled, watching him with avid eyes. “I want to see what it is I bargained for.”

  It was intolerable. Yet he had wed her. She was within her rights to ask that he sh
ow himself to her. That was the point, after all, of the public bedding he had denied her.

  But he wished she’d let him blow the candle out. Warm light washed the bed, pitilessly revealing the gross, misshapen features of his wife.

  CANDLELIGHT lent Gawain’s hair a ruddy glow, that exquisitely fair hair that one popular ballad had compared to falling rain.

  There were many ballads about Sir Gawain. Aislyn, disguised sometimes as a lad, sometimes as the crone, had often stopped outside the village alehouse, arrested by the sound of his name drifting from within, borne upon a cloud of music and stale ale. It was a weakness and she’d known it, but like the drunkard with his ale, she’d been helpless to resist.

  She watched him strip off his tunic and hose. Of course she didn’t have to look. She had seen him naked before and it wasn’t a sight she was likely to forget, no matter how much she’d wanted to. He had already attained his height then—or most of it—but had still been a bit uncertain about managing his arms and legs. That slight awkwardness was gone; he was in command of his body, moving gracefully through a world that had been fashioned for smaller men.

  His shoulders had definitely broadened, she thought; new golden hairs glittered on his chest. Her gaze drifted downward, past the taut plane of his belly. As though aware of her scrutiny, he turned his back, presenting her with an equally pleasing view.

  There wasn’t any harm in admiring his form. In her form, she couldn’t do anything but admire him. Which was all to the good, because he was indeed the most admirable of men.

  She’d thought the same five years ago, standing in the doorway of his chamber. She had gone to him that night at Morgause’s bidding, to fulfill the very special task the Queen of Air and Darkness had set her: to use first her body, then her magic to seduce Gawain and bind him to her will.

  He had lain sprawled upon his bed that night, one arm crooked over his head, moonlight gilding his hair and his face innocent and peaceful. Now, as he turned to her, his expression was very different—hard, intent, completely focused on the task ahead.