Gawain

by Gwen Rowley

  He could not bear to go back to the life he had known after Aislyn had vanished and he and his mother had fallen so abruptly from the queen’s favor. Between one day and the next, Launfal had found his status changed from that of guest to the meanest servant. His mother, the one time she had dared to speak to him, said only that they must both adjust to changed conditions. But she, at least, still dwelt among the queen’s women, while Launfal, with no place in the strict hierarchy of the castle servants, was the lowest of the low.

  He was given the most difficult and noisome tasks, and his ignorance of how to perform them earned him frequent beatings. The friends he had made among the squires no longer knew him, and he could not even speak to his new peers, for their language was so unfamiliar that he might as well have landed in a foreign country. They understood him well enough—had, in some cases, served him in the past—but now took a vicious pleasure in pretending they did not.

  Twice he had run off and twice been taken before the steward and whipped. “Try it again, lad,” the steward had growled the second time, “and you’ll be branded.”

  That put an end to his attempts to escape. No man so marked could ever hope to become a knight.

  Launfal learned to fight then—not the noble feats of arms he had dreamed of, but silent, deadly struggles over half an onion or a bit of cheese. Even when he won, it was never enough to fill his belly, and he lived for the moment he could crawl beneath a mound of straw and lose himself in dreams of the day this would all be over and he would be back where he belonged. If that hope was lost to him, he might as well be dead.

  Now he forced himself to laugh as though Morgause had made a joke, though he knew her to be serious. “Wearisome? Oh, madam, you shouldn’t say such things! ’Tis only that you’ve been so occupied of late . . .”

  “And do you think to find companionship in the practice yard?” she asked, still regarding him with that unsettling intensity. “I seem to recall that the knights have been unkind to you in the past.”

  They despised him to a man, called him the queen’s whore and worse—not troubling to lower their voices, either, for they had learned he would not fight back, though they did not know what held his hand.

  Morgause had forbidden him to fight. She did not want his face marred, nor for him to be incapacitated when she had need of him. “I ask very little of you,” she had said the one time he disobeyed her, “but if it is too much, you need only say so.”

  That had been a mere two years ago, though it seemed an age. He had still retained some innocence then, enough to believe her capable of human emotion. “Oh, no, madam, I am pleased to serve you,” he had said earnestly, “it is only that I would like to serve you as a knight.”

  Morgause had laughed. “A knight? You? Oh, no, Launfal, you are quite unsuited to that role! If your service to me irks you, then you shall return to your place among the varlets.”

  He still remembered the shock of that, as though she had struck him across the face. “But—but you said that was a mistake!” he had stammered in bewilderment. “You said you never meant for me, a knight’s son, to—”

  “I?” She raised her brows, looking at him as though he had gone mad.

  Had he known her better, he would have stopped right there. But he had not yet realized that to Morgause, truth was not an absolute, but a weapon she wielded according to her whim.

  “It was the night you first brought me to your chamber, do you not remember?” that innocent, ignorant boy had protested, as though she could be moved by reason. “You must! You sat just there—surely you recall—and said you were sorry, that you hadn’t known I was sent to live among the servants, that—”

  “Lower your voice,” she said coldly.

  “But you must listen—”

  “Must? How dare you speak to me like that? Your disobedience—your gross ingratitude and impertinence— have wounded me deeply. I am queen of this demesne, and I shall set the terms of your service. If I say you are a varlet, then so you are. Do you understand me?”

  And then, at last, Launfal did understand. Her soft words and apologies that first night had all been lies. Now that those lies no longer suited her, she had changed them for a different set. There was but one grain of truth in what she’d told him: she was indeed the queen, and her word was quite literally the law.

  Two years had passed since that realization and Launfal was still alive, a victory won at the cost of a thousand betrayals of himself. Did one more really matter?

  Yes, he thought, looking at her sitting at her writing table. Yes, it does matter.

  Morgause smiled indulgently, and throwing down her quill, she stood. “Oh, very well,” she said. “I can see I have neglected you, but I shall make amends.”

  The black tide swept over him again, and again he beat it back as she approached him slowly, no longer the queen but a woman bent upon seduction. How could she not know how she revolted him? In the days since their return from Inglewood Forest, it had become almost impossible to hide.

  His anger died, leaving the familiar bewilderment in its place. He had always tried to be a good son, a good brother—even a good servant when such had been his lot. Yet despite all his efforts, God had been blind to his plight and deaf to his prayers.

  There is no God, he thought. Heaven holds only stars and empty air. There is nothing but ourselves.

  Morgause was close enough that he could smell the scent she favored, one that had once delighted him and now made his stomach twist. I cannot do this, he thought, or no, I could. I have before.

  I will not.

  He straightened, and for a moment she hesitated, a flicker of uneasiness passing across her face.

  “Madam,” he began, and was interrupted by a knock upon the door.

  “A messenger from Camelot,” the serving girl said, and Morgause forgot him instantly as she swept from the room. Launfal waited only long enough for her footsteps to vanish down the passageway before he slipped after her and out a side door, not bothering to take even his cloak.

  HE made it only as far as the orchard before he was halted by a squire from the queen. He thought briefly of making a run for it, but now that he had determined to leave at any cost, his mind was working with cool precision.

  Wait, it said. Your chance will come.

  “The queen is in a rare mood,” the squire said as they walked back to the castle. “It seems Sir Gawain has wed without her leave—they’re saying there’s something odd about his marriage.”

  Morgause was pacing her chamber, two knights standing by the window and eyeing her warily. Her face was mottled with hectic color, her eyes narrowed into slits. Launfal had once told her she was beautiful in a temper, but like most of what he said to her, it was a lie.

  “I leave for court tomorrow,” she declared.

  And I? Launfal wondered, his heartbeat quickening. If once he reached Camelot, he would be free. King Arthur was said to be both just and merciful; hearing Launfal’s tale, surely the king would take pity on him. And if he was left behind, he would be free, as well. Who would bother with the queen’s whore when the queen was gone away?

  Perhaps there was someone up in heaven after all.

  “Be sure to have them pack the amber gown,” he said casually, sprawling in a chair and plucking a handful of cherries from a dish. “It is wasted here.”

  “The amber—?” She whirled to face him, and the fine hairs on his arms lifted when she burst out laughing. “Oh, you are good.”

  “Am I?” He tried to smile, but his face was oddly stiff. She sat down on the arm of his chair and drew a finger down his cheek.

  “You’ll never guess what the messenger told me,” she said teasingly.

  “That Sir Gawain is wed?”

  “Mmm, yes, but there was more.” Her hand slipped beneath his chin and she lifted his face to her. “It was about Somer Gromer Jour—do you remember him? Apparently when the king gave him the answer, he said something very curious. Can you tell me what
it was?”

  Launfal’s heart began to thunder in his chest, but he forced himself to hold her eye. “No, madam. I cannot recall having said anything—well, perhaps I cursed a bit, but—”

  “He said”—Morgause leaned close—“now, what were the words? Oh, yes, I remember. He said, ‘my sister told you that.’ ”

  Launfal swallowed audibly. He had said those words— blurted them out in shock—though he hadn’t known he had been overheard. His mind raced, trying to find some explanation that would not sound too ridiculous, but he could only shake his head, attempting to look puzzled. “No,” he said, “I don’t recall—”

  He saw the blow coming and turned his head to the right, so Morgause’s palm merely brushed his cheek. “You lied to me that day. How many other times have you lied?”

  “Never! Oh, very well, I did think it might be Aislyn, and I didn’t tell you because it would only have upset you.”

  “And yet you knew full well I was looking for her.”

  “I did, but—I mean to say, she is my sister, and—”

  This time he failed to anticipate the slap. It snapped his head back with such force that his skull hit the wall behind him with an audible crack. One of the knights—whose presence now seemed ominous—laughed.

  “After all that I have done for you, this is how you repay me! I took you from the stables and gave you all any man could desire.” She stood abruptly. “But it is finished. I have been growing weary of you for some time now, and this is the final straw. I am through with you.”

  Launfal stood, as well. His cheek throbbed and his skull was tender, but if that was the worst of it, he’d gotten off lightly. “I—I am sorry that I no longer please you,” he said, nearly gagging on the words. “But I hope—that is, if I ever—” Gritting his teeth, he went to his knees. “For the sake of what we once had, I pray you give me leave to go to—”

  “Go? You are not going anywhere! Oh, Launfal, and here I thought you were only pretending to be witless! You do not honestly think I will allow you to leave here?”

  Hot blood rushed to his face and pounded in his temples. “Why should I not?” he said, rising. “God knows I have earned some reward from you.”

  She made to strike him and he grasped her wrist, pulling her hard against him. Desire flared in her eyes, and later he thought that one kiss might have melted her—at least long enough for him to consider his options. But his blood was up and he could only think how ridiculous she looked gazing up at him like a moonstruck calf—and in the next moment it was too late, for he had made his fatal mistake.

  He laughed.

  Morgause wrenched away from him. “Sir Ewan, Sir Col,” she said coldly, “seize this man. He has laid hands upon the queen.”

  “Is that a crime?” Launfal said, still laughing. “Then I should have plenty of company in the dungeons!”

  His arms were taken and pinned behind him, but he ducked away as Morgause aimed a blow at his face. “You find this amusing?” she hissed.

  “No,” he said, his chest still heaving with something that had gone beyond laughter. “I find it pathetic—almost as pathetic as I find you.”

  “Hark the churl who dreamed of knighthood! But you are mine, Launfal, my property to do with as I will. Lest you forget it again, I will put my mark on you. Hold him down,” she ordered curtly, and turned to thrust a poker—or no, dear God, it was a branding iron—into the heart of the fire.

  Launfal fought, but the two knights were both large and strong. When they had forced him to his knees, Morgause wound her fingers through his hair and jerked his head up. “Such a pretty lad,” she mocked, “such a pity.” She fumbled one-handed for the iron and Launfal let himself sag in the grip of his captors. They shifted, fumbling for a better grip, relaxing their hold on his hands as they hauled him upright.

  “Please,” he whispered, “madam, don’t—not that—”

  “What, you do not want to bear my mark? Now I call that ungrateful.”

  As she passed the glowing brand before his face, Launfal found he did not have to feign the tears rising to his eyes. He shrank back against the two knights, knocking them off balance. “Don’t mark me,” he whispered. “Anything but that.”

  Morgause drew the iron back. “Anything? Well, I suppose we could geld you instead.”

  The terror was like ice. “No!” he cried, “mark me— please, madam, I—I would b-be honored to wear your brand, I will serve you m-most loyally, I swear it.” He straightened, shifting his weight forward as he lifted his head and shook the hair back from his face.

  “I say he should be gelded,” one of the knights said.

  “Wouldn’t be much of a loss, though, would it?” the other answered, and they both laughed.

  Their hands relaxed fractionally—not enough, but it was the best chance Launfal would have. He forced himself to remain perfectly still as the brand approached his face, but just as its tip seared his flesh, he lunged awkwardly forward and seized the burning end one-handed, twisting it from Morgause’s grasp. Still on his knees, he flipped it and swung blindly behind him. The knight on his left fell back with a shout.

  Launfal wrenched himself to his feet, bringing the iron around with all his strength. It struck the second knight full in the face and he went down like a stone. The first knight staggered to his feet and drew his sword. Before it had cleared the scabbard, Launfal felled him with a single blow. Morgause picked up her skirts and ran for the door, but he was there before her, the smoking iron at her throat.

  He gestured toward the chair. “Sit.”

  His cheek hurt, but it was his hand that was the trouble, for it was seared to the bone. The pain and the stench of charred flesh made him want to vomit.

  “Give me your scarf,” he ordered harshly, and awkwardly, juggling the iron and setting his teeth against the pain of his seared palm, he bound her wrists to the arms of the chair. She attempted to rise once and he stepped back, the iron raised.

  It would be so much simpler to kill her. More practical, as well. No matter how well he bound her, she would soon be free to raise the alarm. But the truth was that he wanted to kill her. He had wanted to for a very long time and he would never have another chance.

  She looked into his eyes and sagged back in a faint that he doubted was genuine. Even if it was, what difference did it make? He could kill her just as easily unconscious.

  The iron trembled in his grasp as he lifted it, then with a curse he let it fall and bent to jerk the knots tight about her wrists.

  He bound both knights and relieved them of their weapons. The daggers he tucked into his belt; one sword he flung from the window, and the other he kept in his hand as he made for the door. It had been a long time since he’d held a sword. He had forgotten how good it felt. How right.

  Enjoy it while you can, he thought, for you won’t have it long. But at least he would go down fighting, not whipped and starved like an animal. He eased out the door, checking the passageway in both directions before heading for the back stairway.

  He clattered down the twisting stairs at a dead run, halting with a gasp when he rounded a corner and found himself face-to-face with a young man who gave a startled cry, the book he had been holding falling from his hand.

  “Launfal!” Prince Gaheris said, half laughing. “You gave me a start! Where are you—”

  He fell silent, his eyes widening as they moved from the sword in Launfal’s hand to his face.

  Of the three princes still in Lothian, Launfal had always liked Gaheris best; in part because he was Morgause’s least favorite of her brood, but also for himself. In another life, he’d sometimes thought, they might have been friends.

  “What have you done?” Gaheris whispered. “Did you— is she—”

  “Alive. Unharmed,” Launfal said harshly.

  He froze, looking toward the upper corridor, where the sounds of raised voices and running feet could be heard. He would not be taken here, trapped like a beast in its lair. His one remai
ning goal was to make it to the courtyard, where he would sell his life as dearly as he could.

  “Move,” he ordered Gaheris, raising the sword’s point to his chest. “Now.”

  Gaheris’s gaze snapped back to him. “Come with me,” he ordered and plunged through a curtained doorway leading to a storeroom. “Hurry,” he hissed over his shoulder.

  Launfal hesitated for the space of a heartbeat before he followed.

  Chapter 12

  MORGANA found Gawain in the hall, sitting with a knight who rose as she approached, bowed to her, and hurried off.

  “What ails your friend?” she asked, sitting down beside Gawain.

  “He thinks you’ll turn him into a tree if he offends you.”

  Morgana gazed after the retreating knight with interest. “Is he so offensive?”

  Gawain shrugged. “Dinadan has never learned to guard his tongue. When he sees a jest, he cannot help but share it.”

  “How unfortunate for him. But tell him he needn’t run next time. I have never yet turned any man into a tree—or anything else, for that matter.”

  After today, she could not say the same of women, but she felt no need to share that information with Gawain.

  What Morgana had told Aislyn was true: she was extremely fond of her eldest nephew. What she had not said was that Gawain often annoyed her greatly, or that they had quarreled the last time they met. But now, looking at him, she felt only pride in how well he was bearing up under his disastrous marriage and could not recall why they had argued.

  “Welladay,” she said, gently chiding. “I turn my back, and now look at the trouble you’ve gotten yourself into!”

  He smiled, albeit a trifle wryly, more in acknowledgment of her tone than of her words. Morgana was not so much older than he was himself, but had always taken her status as aunt very seriously.

  “I wed. It happens. And it might as well be Dame Ragnelle as anyone.”

  “Does your mother know of this?”