Gawain

by Gwen Rowley

  “Has it?” he asked vaguely. “Oh, the tournament. That doesn’t matter. Once it would have, but . . .” He closed his eyes. “It’s only words. As long as I can serve the king, I am content.” Her hand was gentle on his brow, soothing and relaxing. “You are very kind,” he murmured.

  “No, I’m not. I tricked you into marriage.”

  “Not a trick . . .” He forced his heavy lids open. “An honest bargain accepted freely. And it doesn’t matter, truly. I never wanted to marry anyone, not after . . . But she never loved me, it was all a lie . . .”

  Ragnelle’s hand stilled.

  “Later, I thought—I don’t know what I thought, but I felt—hoped—that I had wronged her.” His eyes stung and he turned his face away. “But by the time I went back to Lothian, it was too late.”

  “You went back?”

  “It took so long . . . I lost my way . . .”

  But he’d pressed on. Only when Gringolet shied and he realized they’d nearly ridden over the edge of a precipice did he stop and wait for the mist to clear.

  “’Twas dawn before I got there. Too late. It was the millpond . . . where we found the kittens.”

  “What about the millpond?” Ragnelle asked, and there was something strange about her voice, something wrong . . . He tried to name it, but his thoughts were dissolving into memories of that terrible morning, Aislyn’s mother weeping, saying . . .

  “Aislyn drowned. That very night. They said she fell, but I always wondered if . . . whether . . .”

  “Drowned? But—” Ragnelle was seized by a coughing fit; she hacked and sputtered, then finally gasped, “That must’ve been a shock to you. It is to me,” she added in a mutter.

  “I was . . .” But no, he could not speak of that morning. He could not think of it, he would not. Instead, he closed his eyes and let the darkness take him.

  Chapter 18

  GAWAIN’S breathing deepened, and his hand, outstretched on the coverlet, relaxed in sleep. Aislyn took the braid from his palm and stared at it.

  He had kept it, just as he had promised.

  There had never been another. Only her.

  She had seen only his anger that night, not the pain that lay beneath it. He had trusted her. She had made certain that he would. The sighs, the smiles, the sidelong glances—every one had been carefully planned to win his notice, and she had felt nothing but pride when he responded. Now it burned her to remember the skill with which she’d drawn him out, and her own smug satisfaction when he confided secrets he had never told another. When he confessed his loathing of all things magical, she had been sweetly sympathetic, but inside she laughed as she assured him she felt just the same before tripping off to her chamber to practice the fascinating new spell Morgause was teaching her. It was real magic, far beyond anything she had attempted in the past, a spell so potent that it could turn even the strongest warrior to soft clay in a skilled enchantress’s hands.

  She had not told Gawain all of this, of course, only enough to make him understand the danger.

  The rest he figured out himself.

  It had not taken him long. Halfway through her halting tale, the puzzled hurt faded from his expression; no sooner had she faltered to a stop than he was on his feet and reaching for his tunic. As he pulled on his boots, he asked one question only, and by the time she admitted that yes, she did indeed possess the gift of magic, he was halfway out the door.

  Yet he had truly loved her. He loved her still. He might have ridden off that night, but he’d turned back.

  “Wake up!” she cried. “Gawain, listen to me!”

  “ ’m awake,” he mumbled.

  I am Aislyn. The duchess of Cornwall put a spell on me.

  “Azure dragons,” she heard her own voice say. “The dish in the kitchen spills honey.”

  Gawain blinked and rubbed his hands across his face. “What did you say?”

  “Listen,” she cried, holding his eyes with hers. Aislyn is not dead.

  “Ashes in the bed,” was what came from her mouth.

  “In the . . . what? I’m sorry, I didn’t quite . . .”

  “I am here, Gawain!” she cried “Right here beside you! Can you not see me?”

  He took her hands in his. “I see you, Ragnelle. Be calm, now, and tell me what the trouble is.”

  She drew a breath. “I.”

  Gawain nodded.

  “Am.”>

  “Go on,” he said.

  Aislyn.

  “Acorn.”

  Aislyn.

  “Bannock.”

  Aislyn!

  “Vellum!”

  Gawain leapt to his feet, letting out a hiss of pain as he put a hand to his ribs. “Don’t worry, all will be well,” he said. His eyes were bleary, his hair awry, but his voice was crisp and sure. “Just lie down and I will bring the king’s leech.”

  “No! I don’t need a leech.” She began to cry as he urged her down upon the bed. “I’m not dead! I’m snowdrop!”

  “Do you have any pain?” He leaned over her, peering into her eyes as he touched first one cheek, then the other. “Can you feel that?”

  Tears spilled over her lashes when she nodded.

  “Lift each arm,” he ordered. “Now your legs. What is your name?”

  She sighed. “Ragnelle.”

  “And where are we?”

  “In your chamber at Camelot. I’m not mad, you dolt!”

  “I never said you were. Are you sure you have no pain?”

  “No, none.” Save for her heart, which felt as though someone had thrust a dagger through it, but if she tried to tell him that, who knew what nonsense would come out? “I was—it must’ve been a dream,” she muttered.

  “God be thanked.” He smiled his relief, though his eyes were still anxious as he searched her face. He looked like . . . like a husband concerned for his wife, Aislyn thought, and fresh tears stung her eyes. Don’t look at my face, that isn’t me! I’m here, inside—

  “Come to bed,” she said, lifting a corner of the coverlet. “I’m sorry I woke you.”

  “Don’t be,” he said, sliding in beside her. “I don’t mind. Wake me again if you need me.”

  When he slept, she rose, mixed the potion that would return her to her own form and drank it down. Nothing. She waited a few minutes more, knowing it was futile, then crawled back under the coverlet and wept.

  Chapter 19

  GAWAIN woke in the moments before dawn. He lay awhile, watching the chamber take shape around him while he stroked the various cats curled up on the bed, listening to the soft, rhythmic snores coming from beside him as he deliberately recalled what he had tried for so many years to forget: the day of Aislyn’s death.

  “Sit down,” Morgause said, “and calm yourself. Yes, the girl is dead and I am sorry for it, but there is nothing to be done about it now. I know you were fond of her—I was fond of her myself—but I had meant to speak to you today in any case.”

  “You killed her. Don’t lie to me, I know you did. She told me everything—”

  “Did she? Did she tell you that when her father died, they were attacked by a neighboring knight, and—”

  “What has that to do with this?”

  “—and his designs were not only on the land. Did she tell you that she was his leman? Did she tell you that he forced her—but no, there is no need to dwell on all that now. Aislyn survived a terrible ordeal and showed great courage in making her way to me, but I fear she was irrevocably damaged.”

  “No,” Gawain said. “It isn’t true—”

  “You must ask Lady Olwyn if you do not believe me, but I assure you it is the truth. The first thing Aislyn said to me was that she would never marry, and I cannot say that I blamed her. It wasn’t until later that I began to wonder if her mind was all it should be. She was prone to dark moods, and though they did seem to be lifting, I fear . . .” She leaned forward and rested her hand on Gawain’s. “I fear that her fondness for you, her . . . desire . . . roused feelings too pai
nful for her to bear. She took refuge in dangerous delusions—oh, if only she had come to me! I think I could have helped her. But she did not, until yesterday when she burst in here, accusing me of everything from pandering to regicide! I tried to reason with her, but it soon became apparent that she was quite mad. I sent her off to her chamber while Dame Olwyn and I discussed what was best to be done with her, but apparently she managed to escape. It is a pity, though I cannot help but wonder if she was not trying to spare her poor mother . . .”

  Her voice, so sad, so sweetly reasonable, stole through Gawain’s mind like a drug, soothing his pain, dulling his rage, clouding his certainty. Could it have been like that? Aislyn had been upset; had she been mad? Would he have known if she was? What did he know of madness?

  His anger drained from him, carrying with it all his strength. He was so weary that he could barely hold his head up. “But,” he said, making an enormous effort to rouse himself from the lethargy stealing over him, “last night she said—she came to my chamber and she told me you had—”

  “Had what?” Morgause asked gently. “Sent her to your bed? Oh, Gawain, don’t you see? She wanted you, but she could not admit it even to herself. And so she concocted this wild fantasy—if it is indeed the same one I heard from her yesterday—that I was somehow using magic to force her to seduce you.”

  “She said we were to wed—that you wanted—”

  “I? Allow my eldest son, heir to the throne of Orkney, to wed a girl with neither dowry nor breeding? Surely you knew then that she was raving!”

  Gawain was conscious of dull embarrassment. No, he hadn’t known, though now it seemed so obvious that he could not believe his own credulity.

  “I know this has been a shock to you,” Morgause said softly, “and you are weary, are you not? You need to sleep, and then you will feel better.”

  He nodded. Yes, sleep was what he needed. Then everything would be . . . be . . .

  “Go to your chamber and get to bed,” Morgause ordered softly. “When you wake, come straight to me.”

  Gawain rose to his feet, though he could not remember having sat down. He could not remember anything, save that he needed to sleep.

  He was halfway to his chamber when he happened to glance out a window and saw Gringolet tethered to a tree. What was he doing there? He should be in the pasture. It didn’t matter, someone would find him . . . but the horse’s head was drooping, his golden flanks dark with sweat. Something moved in Gawain’s sluggish mind, and he knew he could not leave his mount like that. Slowly he turned, plodding dully down the stairway and out into the courtyard. A groom was whistling as he carried two buckets toward the stable; Gawain called him over and told him to look after Gringolet.

  He was just turning back to the hall when he noticed the boy sitting on the mounting block, whittling a stick. Get to bed, a voice said in his mind, you need to sleep, but another voice, faint but strangely urgent, said, wait.

  He waited, leaning against the doorpost, watching the boy. And gradually he became aware that the boy was familiar, that he was . . . was . . . Launfal the faint voice said, and Gawain nodded. Right. Launfal. And he was— Gawain straightened. He was Aislyn’s brother. And Aislyn was dead. The memory of last night rushed back, and with it the grief. On leaden feet he walked over to the mounting block.

  The boy looked up and smiled. “Good day, sir.”

  “Launfal,” Gawain began. “I am so sorry.”

  “Sorry? Why?” His eyes were like Aislyn’s, but a darker green, and they were filled with such innocent surprise that Gawain knew the boy had not yet been told.

  It wasn’t right that her own brother should not know, but Gawain could not be the one to tell him. Instead, he said, “May I ask you something?”

  “Me? Oh, yes, sir.”

  “It is . . . difficult,” he said, sitting down beside the boy. “But I want you to trust that I have good reason to ask.”

  Launfal nodded, and Gawain forced himself to continue. “It is about the time you lost your home. I know your sister suffered greatly.”

  Launfal still watched him, nothing in his face but curiosity, and Gawain was just wondering how he could possibly broach the question, when Launfal said, “You mean during the siege?”

  “No, when the castle was taken.”

  “Oh, that. Well, it wasn’t pleasant for any of us. But it was a good deal easier being hungry on the road than trapped indoors. At least we had plenty of water, and I could always beg . . . or steal,” he added in a lower voice, avoiding Gawain’s eye.

  “I’m sure you did only what you had to,” Gawain said. “But I was speaking of the time between the breaching of the last defense and your escape. Did Aislyn—”

  “But there was no time. We didn’t wait for them to break through! Once the matter was certain, we told everyone to flee—and we did, too.”

  The boy was telling him the truth, Gawain could see it in his eyes. And what reason had he to lie?

  Unlike my mother, Gawain thought, a cold and deadly fury kindling in his heart.

  “Launfal!”

  A woman stood in the doorway to the hall, her eyes red with weeping and her face dragged down with worry.

  “In a moment, Mother!” Launfal called back. “Is there anything else, sir?”

  “No. Or—wait, Launfal, there is one thing. Tell no one what we have spoken of just now. If you are asked, say I— say I was bidding you farewell.”

  “Are you leaving?”

  “I am.”

  “Oh.” Launfal’s face fell. “I wanted to ask you about that cut you showed me. When will you be back?”

  Gawain smiled grimly. “No time soon. You’d best ask Gaheris. He can do it near as well as I can.” He touched the boy’s shoulder, conscious of all that remained unspoken between them. It was wrong to leave him in ignorance, but there was no time for explanations and even if there had been, Gawain would not have known what to say. He needed first to think, to sort the truth from all the lies he had been told, if such a feat was even possible.

  And then he realized it was not.

  He could spend a lifetime chasing after the truth, remembering every word he and Aislyn had spoken, weighing each intonation and analyzing every gesture she had made, and still he could never be certain. And he knew himself well enough to know that such an unsolvable puzzle would prey upon his mind until he was as mad as Aislyn. But no, that was another lie. She had not been mad at all, only . . .

  In that moment, he came to his decision. He would not waste his time or sanity in untangling the web of deception in which he’d been enmeshed, or in mourning a lass who had never been more than a dream. For whatever purpose, Aislyn had lied to him, not once but many times, and there was no reason to believe she had not gone on lying to the end.

  And it was the end. The tale was told, even if he would never understand it. Whether by her own hand or his mother’s or by some evil chance, Aislyn was dead. The knowledge slammed into him with such force that he wanted nothing but to fall to his knees and weep for his lost love, the lass who had kissed him beneath the cherry tree and given him a lock of her bright hair to carry into battle. But that small, cold voice in his mind warned him that he could not afford to linger. He must get away from this place while he was still in command of his own will.

  “Launfal, I hope that you—whatever befalls—I wish you good fortune,” he finished lamely, then strode from the courtyard, shouting for his horse.

  He had been right. It was a mistake to look back; he already knew everything that mattered. Aislyn had used him. Her kisses were sweet poison that robbed him of his wits; every lie a new betrayal of his trust. For whatever reason— be it the one she had given him or some secret purpose— she needed to leave Lothian; he was the means of her escape. Her words of love were as false as everything about her.

  Unless . . . unless she had been honest with him that last night.

  “I’ll never know now,” he said aloud.

  Ragnelle stirred
beside him. “Eh?”

  “It was nothing. How do you feel this morning?”

  She sat up and knuckled her eyes. “Well enough for an old woman. But what were you saying before?”

  “Oh, I was remembering what we spoke about last night.”

  “The lass, you mean?” Her eyes were on his face, those clear, light eyes that were so incongruously beautiful. “The one they told you was drowned?”

  He nodded. “I was just thinking that I’ll never know why she came to me and told me all she did.”

  “Oh, I think you do. Listen to your heart, the truth is there.”

  No. His heart had misled him before, why should he believe it now? Aislyn had betrayed him.

  But his heart refused to be silenced. She loved you, it said, she trusted you with her life. The ultimate betrayal was not hers, but yours.

  “God forgive me,” he breathed, “I left her and she—but I did not know—”

  “’Course you didn’t,” Ragnelle said roughly. “How could you? It takes a wise head to sort truth from lies, and you were but a lad. She should have understood that. And you went back, didn’t you?” Her gnarled fingers closed over his. “That was a fine thing, Gawain, a—a noble act, and ’twas no fault of yours you were too late.”

  Her words eased something in him, as though a splinter had been drawn from a festering wound he’d borne in secret, hiding it even from himself.

  “Ragnelle,” he asked, “do you think the dead can see us? Do you think she knows that I am sorry now?”

  “Oh, she knows,” Ragnelle said, and her voice was oddly choked. “And I—I reckon she is sorry, too.”

  EVEN Gawain’s return from Lothian five years ago had not been so painful. Then he had done everything in his power to put Aislyn from his mind, but now his defenses had crumbled and the grief poured in, as unbearable as though but a moment had passed since he first learned of her death.