by Gwen Rowley
Everywhere he looked, he saw her: sitting at the high table in the hall, clad in green with ribbons in her hair; walking in the courtyard, laughing beside the fountain, so beautiful it made his heart ache to remember.
Yet he did not push his memories aside. Instead, he gave himself over to them, visiting each place he had described to her, imagining what she would have said to him and he to her, constructing entire conversations in his mind that set him first to smiling and then to sighing, and finally to sink down on a bench and stare blankly at the fountain.
Five years Aislyn had been gone, and he might as well have leapt into the millpond after her for all the living he had done. It seemed now those years had been a dream, a frozen wasteland without laughter or music . . . and certainly without women. But it wasn’t as though he aspired to celibacy, not like that young Sir Bors or some other knights he had met. Gawain had always been susceptible to a fetching lass and had thoroughly enjoyed his share of amorous adventures— until he met Aislyn and tumbled headlong into love.
It was more than the startling beauty of her face, or the deliciously soft body that had driven him half mad with desire, or even the kiss that had convinced him he must marry her or die. At eighteen, these had seemed paramount, but every lad of eighteen was a rutting fool. Now Gawain could appreciate the time they had spent talking, more precious than even that soul-searing kiss. Aislyn thought about the same things he thought about, pondered the same questions, and if their conclusions had sometimes been at odds, her ability to debate an issue only added to her fascination.
For five years he had told himself that every word she had spoken was a lie, but looking back, he could only shake his head in wonder. The falsehoods she had told him stood out in such stark contradiction to the rest of her words that only a fool could ever have muddled the two— a fool or a callow youth so deep in love that he could not see the difference between a lie born of desperation and a complete rejection of his heart, his soul, and his body, offered to her without reservation.
At eighteen, Aislyn had seemed to him a woman grown, but at twenty-three, Gawain knew she had been little more than a child. For all his adventures in the bedchamber and on the battlefield, he had been no wiser. He could blame her or he could blame himself, but the truth was that love had not been enough to keep them both from making irrevocable mistakes.
And so, at last, the tale was told in full. He knew what had happened, and why, but that knowledge did not make the pain any easier to bear. Perhaps in time it would. He even thought it might. But right now he could not even imagine an existence in which Aislyn was not foremost in his heart and mind, the memory of her laughter so clear that each breath was an effort.
“Gawain.”
He looked up to find the king watching him. How long had Arthur been there? He had been so lost in his own thoughts that he had not even noticed his arrival.
“I have been waiting for you,” Arthur said. “We were to meet before the council assembles.”
“Yes, sire, of course,” Gawain said. “Forgive me.”
“Readily.” Arthur sat down beside him. “How—how fare you today?”
Gawain did not know how to answer. A part of him wanted to tell Arthur the whole tale, if only for the sake of speaking Aislyn’s name aloud, yet another part shied away from exposing a wound so fresh, even to a friend. Before he could decide, the king added, “That was a nasty fall you took.”
“Fall?” Gawain wrenched his mind back to the present. “Oh, that. A couple of bruised ribs was the worst of it, and Ragnelle bound them. I hardly feel them today.”
Arthur’s face tightened at the mention of Ragnelle’s name. “I cannot see how you can bear for that—that creature to touch you,” he said in a low voice.
Gawain was surprised by the force of his anger. “Her looks are against her—as she would be the first to admit— but I would hardly call her a creature.”
Arthur shook his head. “You are very brave—”
“Oh, rot, I’m nothing of the sort. Look you, sire, Ragnelle is no monster. She is an old woman with a peculiar sense of humor, but kindly for all that.”
“Kindly? To force you into marriage—”
“I was neither forced nor tricked,” Gawain said, annoyed. “You made it very clear the choice was mine and I made it with full knowledge of the consequences. If I have no complaint, I cannot see why anyone else should.”
“Yes, of course,” Arthur murmured. “Well, if that is the way you want it—”
“That is the way it is.”
Arthur patted his shoulder, gazing at him with a sympathy that made Gawain long to strike his hand away. “Very well, then, we shall say no more about it.”
“Thank you.” Still unaccountably annoyed, Gawain stood. “We should talk about what King Aesc said before we see the others. I believe the alliance can be saved if we—”
“That will wait. Sit down, Gawain, I want a word with you about yesterday.”
Gawain obediently resumed his seat, though he wasn’t happy about it. If he could not be left alone in his sorrow, he didn’t see why he should be forced to relive a day he would just as soon forget. These private jousts were ridiculous; a warrior fought in the service of his king, not for his own vanity, but neither had he enjoyed being beaten, and particularly by Sir Lancelot.
“Sir Lancelot’s behavior toward Sir Dinadan was very wrong,” Arthur said, “and I have spoken to him at length. He is truly sorry and has apologized.”
And what has that to do with me? Gawain thought with a fresh spurt of annoyance. Dinadan was a friend—a good friend—but he was also a knight, blooded in battle and quite capable of settling his own affairs. It was for Ragnelle’s sake Gawain had thrown down the glove—surely that was obvious! But apparently it was not, at least to Arthur, for he made no mention of the apology that was owing to her. Gawain wondered if he even knew of Ragnelle’s involvement, and thought briefly of explaining, but the effort seemed too great.
“I am glad they have settled things between them,” he said neutrally.
Arthur nodded, looking unhappy. “If only you and Lancelot knew each other better, I am sure you would be friends. He might be a bit rough around the edges, but at heart he is a good lad.”
Gawain barely repressed a derisive snort. How many times had he heard that before? Arthur had said the same about Agravaine, and though Gawain had wanted to believe it, he had never been quite able to make that leap of faith. Unlike Arthur, Gawain had known Agravaine from the cradle, and as far as he could tell, his little brother had always been a spoiled, sullen little bastard and a bully into the bargain, which was the one failing Gawain could not abide.
But that was Arthur, determined to see the good in everyone. Gawain had always tried to emulate this touching belief in the inherent decency of all humanity, but today his emotions were too raw to even attempt it.
“When you consider Lance’s peculiar upbringing,” Arthur persisted, “it is no wonder he is a bit wild. He doesn’t really mean any harm, you know, it’s only that he doesn’t understand our customs.”
That was one way of putting it. Another would be that Sir Lancelot, having been brought up among the fey folk, completely lacked the human qualities of humility and compassion—though to be fair, he made up for it with extrameasures of pride and malice. But Gawain knew from long experience that to point out these truths would be a waste of breath.
“So long as you are satisfied with him, there is no more to be said,” was the best that he could manage.
“I think there is. Lancelot is proud, but I know he values your opinion more than he lets on. If you would only—”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Arthur, he detests me! Just let it be!”
He broke off, ashamed of his outburst, which had surprised him as much as it had the king, but his tongue seemed to have taken on a life of its own. “If Sir Lancelot really cared a whit for my opinion—which I wholly doubt—he knows what he must do: make a full apology to Dame Ragnelle. Should he ab
ase himself properly to her— a sight I would pay good gold to see—I would think better of him. But he never will.”
“Dame Ragnelle?” Arthur frowned. “What has she to do with this?”
“Ask Sir Lancelot. Such a good-hearted lad will be eager to tell you the whole tale. Now, shall we talk about the Saxons? That is why you came here, isn’t it, to discuss King Aesc and his Wessex kin?”
“You disappoint me,” Arthur said. “I had such hopes that you and Lance could finally learn to know each other. I had not realized you would be so inflexible—”
“Well, you know it now.” It seemed a part of Gawain stood off, horrified by the words that kept springing from his lips, yet at the same time, it was an almost unbearable relief to finally speak the truth. “I am not like you. I cannot find good where none exists, and yon preening whelp has tried me beyond what any man should bear. You took him as a knight—well and good, I will say naught of your decision, though it is passing strange to me that you would accept a man who knows so little of respect or common decency into your service. But let it go. I will not speak of his monstrous pride or the intolerable insolence he has displayed—not only to me, but to every man at court, and a good many of the ladies, too. I—”
Arthur held up a hand. “For a man who means to say nothing, you are strangely garrulous. But I think your point is made.”
Gawain stood a moment, then dropped onto the bench and covered his face with his hands. “Sire, forgive me. I do not know how I could have been so discourteous.”
“I do. And to tell you the truth, I am not at all surprised. You are under far more strain than you will admit, and it was bound to come out some time. Since your marriage—”
“Nay, nay, it has naught to do with that.”
“Then what is it?” Arthur asked, so kindly that the last of Gawain’s anger melted away. He lifted his head and looked at his uncle, his king, and his closest friend, and found nothing in Arthur’s eyes but affection and concern.
“It was long ago, yet—yet it seems it happened only yesterday,” he began haltingly. “I never told you—”
“Sire!”
Sir Lancelot hesitated at the gate, one hand on the latch.
“Not now,” Arthur said, though he softened his curt dismissal with a smile. “I’ll talk to you later.”
“I am sorry, sire, but the council was called for noon and they are all assembled—”
“Blast it,” Arthur muttered. “We must go.”
“Yes. Of course.” Gawain stood. “I’m sorry, we never had the chance to talk about King Aesc.”
“I’d far rather have heard what you were to tell me. I know, we’ll dine tonight—or, no, we cannot. The queen has bidden us to her bower for supper. You haven’t forgotten, have you? You will come?”
Gawain had indeed forgotten. Nor was it by accident, he thought wryly. An invitation to one of the queen’s little suppers might be an honor, but it was one he could happily dispense with.
“And Dame Ragnelle, of course—that is, if you would like to bring her,” Arthur added in such an obvious effort to be agreeable that Gawain could not refuse.
Chapter 20
THE council meeting finished, Gawain wandered restlessly to the practice yard, where he exchanged a few words with Agravaine and Dinadan, who were lounging against the fence watching the other knights at work. At last his footsteps led him back to his chamber. He found Ragnelle there before him, sitting by the window with Star curled up in her lap.
She looked over as he came in, her wizened little face as mournful as a monkey’s.
“Are you well?” he asked as he unpinned the brooch at his shoulder.
“I am old,” she said. “And there’s naught to be done about it. How was the council meeting?”
Gawain tossed his cloak onto the trunk and stretched out on the bed. “Long.”
“Did you settle King Aesc?” she asked, surprising him.
“How do you know about that?”
She shrugged. “I hear things. They say his kinfolk are after him to break his treaty with the king.”
“Aye. Aesc’s been at odds with them for years. Now that there is peace, they want him to join with them, and a good many of his people think he should.” He yawned. “It is a delicate situation.”
“Can you not offer him something?” Ragnelle suggested.
“We have, but if we offer too much, we’ll look weak. And his people are already saying they could have more than we will give if they fight us for it. They may be right. If he joins forces with King Ceredig . . .”
“What about King Ceredig, then? Have you tried winning him to your side?”
“A dozen times at least,” Gawain answered. “He refuses to even meet with us; he sees no profit in an alliance with Arthur. These Saxons are all the same, they would as lief go to a battle as a feast. But this can hardly be of interest to you.”
“Why not? I live here, too, you know.”
He yawned again. “If we have to fight them, then so be it.”
“And men will die,” she said softly. “And their women will mourn them.”
“Aye, I suppose . . .” He lifted himself on his elbows to look at her. “We’re not dead yet, Ragnelle. There’s no need to start mourning us today.”
One twisted hand lifted to brush her wrinkled cheek. “Oh, don’t mind me, I’m just a bit mopish.”
“Well, I know something that will cheer you. We’ve been invited to the queen’s bower for a private supper.”
Ragnelle’s face did not brighten; indeed, her misshapen shoulders seemed to sag a little. “I think I’ll bide here.”
“But these invitations are not easily come by! Ladies have been known to tear the hair from a rival who received one, and grown men to weep at having been missed out.”
She did not even smile. “You go,” she said. “I’m not feeling up to it.”
“Not up to the most exclusive invitation to be had in all of Britain?” Gawain raised himself to look into her face, but she turned her head away. “Would you pass up the opportunity to scandalize the queen and her chosen favorites?”
He was on his feet now, ready to summon Arthur’s leech no matter what Ragnelle might say, when she gave a short laugh.
“Well, if you put it like that, I suppose I’ll have to go.”
“Are you certain? Ragnelle, if you are unwell—”
“Is there something amiss with your hearing?” she huffed, setting Star on the floor. “Or your eyes? The only thing the matter with me is that I’m an old woman, not some hasty-witted dewberry who can dash off at a moment’s notice!”
“I’m sorry,” he said, “I should have told you sooner, but I forgot. Shall we go?”
“What, now? I should say not! If you expect to present yourself in that old tunic, you’d better think again! Here you are, a prince, yet you slouch about like some fly-bitten clodpole when I would wager Sir Lancelot—he’ll be there, won’t he?—will be trimmed out in some outlandish finery. Oh, stand aside, you’re only in the way. Aha! I knew you must have something that didn’t look as though it came from the ragpicker.”
She shook out a gray robe with silver embroidery about the neck and hanging sleeves, and shot him a stern look from beneath her tangled brows. “If you dare tell me you don’t have a silver circlet, I’ll—I’ll—I don’t know what I’ll do, but I promise you won’t like it.”
“I have one,” he assured her. “Somewhere.”
“Don’t just stand there, go and find it! And the comb, as well. And you can take your hair out of that braid while you’re at it. No, don’t argue, we haven’t time. I’d like to get there before all the food is gone.”
THERE had never been so fine a knight—so proud a prince—so bonny a man as Gawain in his severe gray robe with its discreet silver edging. The fabric flowed with him when he moved, each step revealing a tantalizing glimpse of muscled thighs and chest and shoulders. His hair, confined by a plain silver circlet, cascaded down his back like
moonlit silk, so soft and cool that any woman surely must long to run her fingers through it.
Sir Lancelot looked well, too, Aislyn thought, trying to be fair. His crimson tunic was undeniably dramatic, and its elaborate gold trimming set off his dark good looks to perfection. On any other night, he would have captured every eye. But on this night, she concluded with an inward laugh, he merely succeeded in looking overdressed, even a trifle garish in his finery.
Lancelot knew it, too. Aislyn could tell by the way he kept looking sideways, as though wondering how he could work the conversation round to the name of Gawain’s tailor. He would have to work hard, though, for Gawain cared no more for his wardrobe than for the stir he had created by simply walking into the room.
Clearly he did not often garb himself as befitted his rank. Which was all to the good, for now that Aislyn came to think of it, she didn’t particularly care for the way Guinevere’s ladies were eyeing him. Her only comfort was that he seemed as oblivious to them as he was to anything he had done to attract their notice.
He was all concern as he escorted Aislyn to a seat and made sure she was provided with food and drink. But after he had exchanged a few obligatory courtesies with the king and queen and such guests as were assembled, he turned his gaze out the open doors leading to the gardens and there let it remain as the conversation flowed on around him.
Not that he had missed much. This was a very private gathering, indeed: Sir Lancelot, the elderly King Bagdemagus and three of Guinevere’s ladies were the only guests besides themselves. The evening was overcast and oppressively warm; the sky above the garden was an odd yellowish color and not a breath of air stirred the hangings on the walls. Once the initial greetings were over, no one seemed to have much to say, and apart from King Bagdemagus, no one had an appetite for the delicacies Guinevere had ordered. “Excellent, my lady,” he said when he had finished, and leaning back in his seat, promptly fell asleep.
Still, Aislyn wasn’t sorry she had come. What good was it to sit alone and brood on the injustice of her situation? At least she was with Gawain when he could have easily left her behind. He had been very sweet before, offering this invitation like a boy carrying a handful of blossoms, torn up by the roots, to his ailing granddame.