Gawain

by Gwen Rowley

  One day they would laugh about that.

  He loved her—or at least he had, enough that he had never thought to marry anyone else. Once Morgana knew the truth, surely she would take pity on them. She must!

  “Shall we have a game of hazards?” Guinevere suggested.

  Arthur yawned. “It’s too hot to think.”

  “Hoodman’s blind? Or . . .” Guinevere’s voice died away.

  “Riddles?” Lancelot said.

  Guinevere looked at him expectantly. “Yes, tell us one.”

  “Me? I—I don’t know any,” Lancelot said. “Do you, sire?”

  Arthur yawned again, slumping in his seat. “I can’t recall any at the moment.”

  Guinevere’s eyes flashed. “If you would rather be abed, my lord—”

  “No, no.” Arthur straightened, blinking. “This is very pleasant, my lady. Very . . . relaxing.”

  Lancelot looked from the Guinevere’s angry face to the king. “I trust the council meeting went well?” he said. “What did you decide about King—?”

  “Not now, Lance,” Arthur said, and silence filled the chamber once again until King Bagdemagus snorted and sat up, staring about him wide-eyed. “Catch it by the ears, that’s the way,” he said clearly, then his eyes fell shut and he began to snore again.

  Lancelot picked up a small harp and plucked a few strings. “Lance,” the queen said, looking at him hopefully, “will you sing for us?”

  “Not I!” he answered, laughing. “I couldn’t carry a tune if it was strapped to my back.”

  He made to hand the harp to Guinevere, but she refused it. “I never learned,” she said. “The sisters did not consider it proper.”

  “Then perhaps . . .” Guinevere’s ladies all shook their heads, blushing like the gooses they were. Lancelot did not even seem to notice their confusion as he turned to the king. “I won’t offer it to you,” he said, “for fear that you might sing.”

  His gaze strayed back to the queen—it never left her long, Aislyn noted, and was far more anxious than seemed warranted by the occasion. Was he in love with her? If so, he was pressing his suit in a very peculiar manner, for he seemed more interested in bringing her and Arthur into accord than in winning her notice for himself.

  “One morning—it was last year, when we were encamped by the river Usk,” he went on, “I woke to the most fearful din. We all sprang from our bedrolls, thinking ourselves under attack—” He ducked as Arthur aimed a good-natured cuff at his head. “But it was only the king bathing in the river.”

  “What, a man cannot even greet the dawn with a bit of a tune?” Arthur said, pretending great affront.

  “A king can do whatever he likes, of course,” Lancelot said, then added in an undertone to Guinevere, “We thought for sure he had taken a cramp—”

  “It wasn’t that bad.”

  “No, sire, of course it wasn’t,” Lancelot said, but he rolled his eyes and added in an audible whisper, “Like an ox mired in the mud.”

  “Rogue,” Arthur said, “you exaggerate. Come, Gawain, defend me! You’ve heard me sing many a time!”

  Gawain, who had been gazing through the open doorway, turned, blinking as though he had been woken from a dream. “I’m sorry,” he said. “What did you ask me?”

  “It doesn’t bear repeating,” Arthur said, his voice gentle as he gazed at his nephew with a small frown between his brows.

  “I’ve never heard you sing,” Guinevere said to her husband, her voice wistful and a little sad.

  “Apparently you should be thankful,” Arthur replied, and though he laughed, it only underscored the almost palpable gloom that had once again fallen over the company.

  Lancelot turned back to the harp, trying vainly to pick out a tune. After he had hit a series of particularly sour notes, Guinevere snapped, “For pity’s sake, stop torturing that instrument!”

  “Right. Sorry.” He turned to set it back on the table.

  “Sir Gawain can play it,” Aislyn said, surprising even herself.

  “Can you?” Guinevere said.

  “What? Oh, the harp.” Gawain took it from Lancelot. “Not well.” He ran his fingers across the strings. “We all learned when I was younger, but it has been years . . .”

  He plucked a few chords, wincing when he struck a wrong note. “No, I am afraid I—”

  “Try,” Aislyn said. Leaning close, she whispered, “It’d be a kindness to the queen.”

  Gawain nodded and sat back, settling the instrument on his knee. “Well, there has been one song in my mind today . . .”

  He cleared his throat in the self-conscious manner of one unaccustomed to performing publicly and began to play, not one of the merry soldier’s songs she had expected, but a delicately haunting melody. He played it through once, and then, surprising Aislyn, he began to sing. His voice was deep and tunable, and though it was untrained, its very roughness added poignancy to the melancholy air.

  I dreamed I walked beside you as the sun set on the barley,

  Then I wakened to lie in my cold bed alone,

  You have left my heart shaken with a hopeless desolation

  And your beauty will haunt me wherever I go.

  Guinevere’s ladies sighed in chorus, leaning forward in their seats.

  The white moon above the pale sands, the pale stars above the thorn tree

  Are cold beside my lady, but no purer than she.

  I gaze upon the cold moon until the stars drown in the warm sea

  And the bright eyes of my darling are never on me.

  My days are so weary, my days they are all gray now, My heart it is a cold thing, my heart is a stone. All joy is fled from me, my life has gone away now Since cruel death has taken my love for his own.

  Aislyn wanted to weep for the aching sorrow in his voice, to laugh aloud for joy, to leap to her feet and shout out that it was she he sang for, her beauty that haunted him, but she knew the words could never leave her lips.

  The day it is long past now when we were to be married,

  And it’s rather I would die than live only to grieve.

  Oh, wait for me, my darling, where the sun sets on the barley

  And I’ll meet you there on the road to the sea.

  His fingers drew forth a muted echo of the last line before he laid his palm across the strings, stilling them abruptly. The king stared at his nephew, astonishment writ plain upon his open face. The queen lifted one hand to brush her cheek and one or two of her ladies sniffed audibly. Even Lancelot was silent, wide-eyed with surprise.

  Gawain glanced up at them, then back down at the harp. Aislyn, with an almost painful awareness, knew exactly how he felt, as if he had stripped himself naked before them all.

  “Ah, well,” she said brightly, “at least you still have me.”

  They all went rigid, faces tightening as though they’d caught a whiff of something rank. The silence was shattered by the last sound Aislyn expected: Gawain’s laughter. He looked to Aislyn, his shoulders shaking with mirth he struggled vainly to suppress, but when she winked at him, he lost his composure altogether. It had been a very long time since she had heard him laugh so freely, and judging from the shock on the others’ faces, the sound was strange to them, as well. At last he drew a shaking breath. “Forgive me,” he began, “I was—that is—”

  “There’s no need to be sorry,” Aislyn said. “I like to hear you laugh. You should do it more.”

  “Aye, you’re right,” he said, handing the harp back to Lancelot with an nod of thanks.

  “Gawain—” Arthur began, but before he could finish his thought a knock came on the door. One of the waiting women answered it, then stepped back to allow a young man to enter. Aislyn scarce had time to wonder where she had seen him before Gawain was on his feet. “Gaheris!” he cried and went forward to embrace his younger brother.

  Of course. Aislyn remembered Gaheris well from her time in Lothian, a quiet boy with laughing eyes. Brown-haired and of but average stature, he was
often overlooked among his golden brothers, but he had always been Aislyn’s favorite of the younger boys, for he would often make her laugh with a shrewd observation on the doings of the court of Lothian. Morgause, as she recalled, had not cared for either Gaheris or his observations. The queen much preferred her next son, Gareth, who she often likened to a young Gawain.

  “Oh, yes, my mother is here,” Gaheris said in answer to the king’s question. “She will be along presently.”

  Morgause? Here? Tonight? Aislyn did not stop to think. She slipped from the open door into the garden, and keeping to the shadows, made her way to Gawain’s chamber. Once inside, she bolted the door and leaned her back against the wood, drawing in deep gulps of air, shaken by the force of her heart pounding painfully against her ribs.

  At last she tottered to the chair and half fell upon it, her heart thudding out a terrible refrain. Morgause. Morgause is here. Oh, why did she have to come tonight? Why could she not have waited a few days more? Then Aislyn would have been glad to face her, but now . . .

  I have to go, she thought, jumping up. I cannot risk a meeting, not as I am now. With shaking hands, she flung up the lid to the trunk and pawed through its contents, all the while straining to hear a footstep in the corridor. After she had twice dropped what she held to whirl toward the door at some imagined sound, she abandoned her attempts to pack.

  Taking her bag from its hook on the wall, she hobbled to the door, stopping only long enough to cast one last look at the place where she had known the heights of joy and sorrow. The cats were absent save for Sooty, curled up on Gawain’s pillow.

  “Look after him,” Aislyn said, then braced her shoulders and added, “until I come back again.”

  Sooty blinked once, regarding Aislyn with feline contempt. “Don’t look at me like that, I will be back,” Aislyn said. “I will. You wait and see.”

  Chapter 21

  THE last time Gawain had spoken to his mother was on the morning of Aislyn’s death. Now here she was, strolling into the queen’s bower with an insouciance that stunned him. How dared she come here? How dared she face him after what she had done to Aislyn? It mattered not whether she had done the deed herself, she was responsible for Aislyn’s death. He could never prove it, but he knew. And she knew he knew. Yet still she smiled at him—for one horrified moment he thought she actually meant to embrace him, but after a keen look at his face she swept by and bowed before the king.

  “Sire, forgive me for not sending word, but I daresay my arrival is not entirely unexpected.”

  “Madam, you are welcome,” Arthur said coolly.

  “I see you’ve already met my son, Gaheris,” she went on. “It is my hope that you will accept him into your service.”

  “Is that your hope, as well?” Arthur said to Gaheris. “To become a Knight of the Round Table?”

  Before he could answer, Morgause laughed lightly. “What lad doesn’t dream of such an honor?” She leaned a bit closer to Arthur and lowered her voice, though not so much that Gawain, standing across the room, could not hear her plainly. “I fear Gaheris will never achieve the same stature as his brothers. Oh, he tries, but . . .” She glanced sideways at her son, adding in a piercing whisper, “I would consider it a great kindness, Arthur, if you would make a place for him.”

  “Gaheris,” the king said, “what is your wish?”

  Gaheris dropped gracefully to one knee and bowed his head. “My one wish is to serve you, sire, in whatever fashion you deem fit.” Though somewhat red about the ears, he was quite composed—remarkably so, given the circumstances. Arthur caught Gawain’s eye and raised his brows, signaling both approval and surprise. Gawain nodded once. Yes, sire, you are not mistaken. He is all that he seems.

  “I am sure you will serve me right well,” Arthur said kindly.

  Gaheris lifted his chin, his eyes flashing. “I ask no favors, sire, only the chance to prove myself.”

  “That you shall have.” Arthur laid a hand briefly on his shoulder. “Welcome to Camelot, nephew.”

  “Thank you,” Morgause said before Gaheris could reply. “That is very kind of you, Arthur, and I hope—that is, I am sure you will not regret it.”

  Having made the point—though perhaps not quite the one she had intended—Morgause glanced brightly about the chamber. “And whom do we have here?”

  “Queen Guinevere, allow me to present my sister Morgause, the queen of Orkney,” Arthur said, and as the two women greeted each other with wary eyes and courteous words, Gawain drew Gaheris into a corner.

  “What the devil was that about?”

  Gaheris shrugged. “I’m in her bad graces at the moment. ”

  “I never would have guessed. What did you do?”

  “Helped her latest . . . admirer on his way out the door.” Gaheris’s grin faltered. “That was a bad business, Gawain—I’ll tell you about it, but not here. At any rate, she’s—oh, God’s mercy, not now.”

  “. . . and Sir Lancelot du Lac,” Arthur was saying. “Lancelot, the queen of Orkney.”

  Morgause smiled and extended her hand. Sir Lancelot went beet red and choked out an incoherent greeting.

  “Poor gudgeon,” Gaheris said. “He doesn’t have the first idea, does he?”

  Gawain had never seen Sir Lancelot at such a loss. He was blushing like a squire, his polished manners quite forgotten. Morgause had clearly not yet lost her power to attract, but if she thought to add Sir Lancelot to her long list of besotted young followers, she would have to think again.

  “I was only the excuse for her to come,” Gaheris said, nodding toward his mother. “You’re the real reason. Is it true you are married?”

  “Yes.”

  Where was Ragnelle? Strange she was so silent. Gawain would have expected her to be the first to welcome his mother, pushing herself forward with some outlandish remark that would infuriate Morgause. The resulting skirmish would no doubt be deplorable, but for some odd reason he couldn’t help but smile to imagine it.

  “Is she here?” Gaheris said.

  Gawain quickly scanned the room. “She was . . .”

  “Gawain!” Morgause called, loudly enough so heads turned in his direction. “What are you doing skulking in the corner?”

  Gawain stiffened. How dare she even speak to him, let alone in such a tone? But when he came to think of it, the real wonder was that he was surprised.

  “Come see me when you’re done,” he said to Gaheris, “and I’ll introduce you to my wife.” He sketched Morgause a brief bow before turning toward the door.

  “Oh, dear, I must have frightened him!” she said to Arthur, her voice lightly mocking. “Come, Gawain, there is no need to flee! Whatever mischief you’ve been up to, ’tis best to confess it and have done.”

  Having reduced him to the status of a six-year-old, she held out her hand, her eyes hard above her gently smiling lips.

  He stepped across the room and took her by the wrist, drawing her away from the others and speaking so she alone could hear. “I have nothing to say to you, madam.”

  She pulled her wrist from his grasp. “Well, I have plenty to say to you! How dare you wed without my leave?”

  “And how dare you speak one word to me upon the subject of marriage? After what you did to—” He drew a swift breath. “No. I will not speak of it. Now, if you will excuse me—”

  “Do not tell me you are still nursing a grudge over that foolish girl! I had not thought that even you could be so stubborn.”

  “And I,” Gawain replied, tight-lipped, “would not have thought you would have the effrontery to speak to me of her.”

  “Not speak to my own son? Have you taken leave of your senses? Look here, my lad—”

  “No, you look, Mother. I know what happened to Aislyn.”

  “You—” She drew back and studied him intently. “Explain yourself.”

  “She did not lie to me, but you did, and whether she took her own life or was—was—”

  “I did not murder the chit,
or order her death, or any of the things you seem to be imagining,” Morgause retorted, her composure restored. “Why would I have bothered? She was nothing—”

  “She was the woman I loved, and while that may seem nothing to you—” He broke off. “This is not a conversation I wish to have with you, not now or at any other time. What’s done is done. But do not ever attempt to meddle in my affairs again. You will say nothing of my marriage to me or anyone, and if you speak to my lady at all, it will be with the respect to which she is entitled.”

  Morgause’s eyes shone with tears. “You are very hard, Gawain.”

  “I am what you have made me, Mother,” he spat, and turning his back on her, he walked from the chamber without another word.

  Chapter 22

  “IS Sir Gawain quite well?” Queen Guinevere said when Morgause rejoined her. “He has not been himself of late.”

  “Really?” Morgause sat down beside her. “In what way?”

  “Oh, ’tis difficult to explain,” Guinevere said, “but since his marriage . . .” She broke off, casting a guilty look in Arthur’s direction, but he was chatting with Gaheris and did not seem to have heard.

  Morgause drew a bit closer. “Of course I was surprised to learn of it and disappointed to have been left out of the festivities, but I know how impulsive boys can be!”

  Guinevere bit her lip to hide her smile. Only a mother could describe the formidable Sir Gawain in such terms!

  “Of course I cannot condone his unseemly haste, but I was right willing to forgive him if he was happy in his choice,” Morgause went on. “Yet it seems that there is something wrong about the marriage. He refused to speak of it just now and grew so upset when I questioned him that I lacked the heart to press him. But, madam—may I call you Guinevere? And you must call me by my name, for we are family now. Please, I beg you to tell me if my son is in some sort of trouble.”