by Gwen Rowley
“Forgive me,” Torquil said at once, leaning forward to rest his hand upon her wrist. “What do you like to talk of?”
Gawain stiffened, but before he could react, Aislyn had slipped her hand from under the Saxon’s. “Why, of Sir Gawain, of course!” she answered, laughing. “We have been wed such a short time, I can think of little else.”
Mathilda looked on her with amused approval, and Torquil, with a good-natured bow to Gawain, subsided.
The talk went on to other things, but Gawain no longer listened. He leaned his chin on his fist, watching as Aislyn discussed herb lore with Mathilda.
He’d had enough of feasts and chatter. He wanted to sweep Aislyn off to their chamber. But first he must find Morgana before she disappeared again and tell her his decision.
He imagined Aislyn stretched out upon their bed with the moonlight gilding her sleek limbs. He thought of her walking proudly beside him with the sunlight in her hair.
How could any man make such a choice? Yet it must be made, and then endured, for once he had decided, no word of complaint would ever pass his lips.
At last the Saxons retired and soon after, the king and queen withdrew, as well.
“Shall we find the duchess?” Aislyn asked.
“Yes.” Gawain sighed and gestured a page over. “I suppose we must.”
“Do you care to tell me your decision?” she asked as they waited. “Or is it to be a surprise?”
“I will tell you.” She looked at him expectantly and he scowled. “As soon as I know.”
“Oh, Gawain,” she said, slipping her hand into his. “It is awful, isn’t it? Are you sure you want to be married to—”
“Quite.” He kissed her fingers. “I just need to work out the details.”
But he thought he had the answer now. He could not bear to sleep beside the crone each night, knowing he could have had Aislyn in his arms. He would just have to accept the fact that she would be the crone by day.
Instantly, an image formed in his mind of Dame Ragnelle capering in the garden. But it had been long since she had shamed him like that! Yes, it would be hard to face the court again with her at his side, but he could do it if he must. And Dame Ragnelle was not so very awful. She might be hideous, but she was kind. She had bound his wounds, made him laugh, helped him understand himself as he had never done before. He was really very fond of her.
And yet . . .
His mind went over it all again, turning and twisting the same pieces of the puzzle, but try as he might, he could not make them form a pleasant picture.
Chapter 43
BY the time the page returned, Gawain was no closer to the answer, though had succeeded in giving himself a pounding headache.
Oh, just pick one—night or day, what does it matter? he thought impatiently, relieved that this ordeal must soon be finished.
“The duchess of Cornwall is with the king and queen,” the page said. “She bids me have you join them.”
“What now?” Gawain groaned, and Aislyn took his hand.
“Ah, Camelot! Such an entertaining place to live!”
“A bit too entertaining lately,” Gawain grumbled, though he managed to compose his expression to one of polite interest as the page opened the door of Arthur’s presence chamber and bowed them inside.
“Oh, good, you’re here,” Morgana said from the chair in which she was relaxing. Behind her stood Launfal, and he cast Aislyn a rather desperate look as she walked in.
Arthur sat at his long table with Guinevere beside him. Though she had chatted brightly with the Saxons earlier, now the queen looked strained and weary, and though she, like Arthur, seemed ready to listen to what Morgana had to say, she looked as though she rather dreaded it.
“Launfal has been telling me the most interesting tales!” Morgana began. “I thought you two should be present when he repeated them to the king.”
Aislyn stiffened and gave a little gasp. What now? Gawain wondered, looking from her to Launfal. Aislyn’s hand clenched around Gawain’s, but she gave her brother an encouraging smile, which seemed to hearten him, for he lifted his head and straightened his shoulders.
“Sire,” Launfal began, “first, please allow me to thank you for getting to the truth of Sir Marrek’s death. But there is something else you must know—part of the reason I was coming to Camelot in the first place was to tell you—” He swallowed nervously. “Sire, I am Somer Gromer Jour.”
Him? Somer Gromer Jour? Gawain had seen nothing but a silver helm that day, but now he suddenly recalled what Somer Gromer Jour had said—“My sister told you that!”—and looked to Aislyn. She nodded and squeezed his hand, silently asking for his patience, and after a moment, he nodded in return. Arthur’s expression did not change; only the slight widening of his eyes betrayed his surprise. “You?” he said. “But why?”
“Sire, at the time, I was in the service of the queen of Orkney,” Launfal went on. “And she—”
“Are you speaking of me, Launfal?” Gawain sighed as his mother swept into the chamber. How did she always know when people were talking about her? Was it sorcery . . . or merely spies?
“Yes, madam,” Launfal said evenly. “I was just telling the king about the adventure of Somer Gromer Jour.”
“But that is my tale to tell!” Morgause protested.
“Then please do, madam,” Arthur replied coldly. “For Launfal has told me nothing as yet, save that he was in your service at the time. I can only assume that you commanded him to challenge me, and it was by your order that I would have been slain had not Dame Ragnelle supplied me with the answer to your riddle.”
“Oh, good, you do not know yet!” Morgause cried. “I was afraid that Launfal had spoiled my surprise!”
“Surprise?” Arthur said.
“Yes!” Morgause clasped her hands together like an eager child. “You see, Arthur, when I heard you had taken a bride, I wondered what gift I could possibly give you—you who have so much. I thought long upon the matter, and at last decided that nothing would do but to ensure your marriage would be a happy one. At first, I was puzzled as to how to accomplish such a goal, but at last I hit upon the answer—to send you on a quest so you might discover for yourself that which all women desire. Of course no man would undertake such a quest did not his very life depend on it,” she added with a light laugh, “and so . . . Somer Gromer Jour!”
Launfal’s lips parted, though he seemed incapable of speech as he stared at Morgause in astonishment.
“Poor Launfal was a bit uneasy about the role I asked him to play,” she said confidingly to Arthur. “A bit confused,” she added, tapping her brow. “Why, for a time, I do believe he actually feared I meant to do you harm! But tell us now, Launfal, on your honor—and remembering that the duchess of Cornwall will detect any falsehood you might utter—during your time as Somer Gromer Jour, did you ever, for a single moment, have the slightest intention of slaying the king or even causing him an injury?”
“No,” Launfal said strongly. “I did not.”
“I trusted Launfal implicitly,” Morgause said, “for he comes of a very noble house, but just in case matters got out of hand—if you, Arthur, or my loyal Gawain decided on a bold attack—I had men-at-arms stationed close at hand to ensure that no one would be hurt. Is that not so, Launfal?”
“There were men-at-arms to hand,” he answered neutrally.
Morgause spread her hands and smiled. “So there you have it, Arthur, my wedding gift to you—and particularly to dear Guinevere.”
Guinevere looked at Morgause through shadowed eyes, her mouth set in a hard line. Nor did Arthur return Morgause’s smile. Seemingly unaware of their cold silence, Morgause bowed. “And now I must to bed,” she said lightly, “for I leave at dawn tomorrow. I am right anxious to get home to my children. No, don’t bother to get up, Arthur,” she added, though the king had shown no sign of doing so. “I shall see myself out.”
With a wave of her hand, she swept from the chamber, leaving a
rather stunned silence in her wake. “Exit the Queen of Air and Darkness,” Morgana said drily. “Really, I think that might be her finest performance yet.”
“Launfal,” the king said. “Have you anything to add to what the queen of Orkney has just told us?”
“I—I cannot prove that anything she told you is not the truth,” Launfal said carefully. “But I never did mean you any harm, sire, that much I can swear to.”
“You already have,” Morgana said, “and I, for one, believe you. Arthur, is it true that this lad bested you in a joust?”
“Handily,” Arthur admitted wryly. “Gawain would have it that sorcery was involved . . . what say you to that, Launfal?”
Launfal looked down at the floor, flushing slightly. “No, sire. There was no sorcery. Had I seemed likely to lose, the queen of Orkney would have stepped in, but she did permit me to attempt it on my own.”
“Sire,” Aislyn said, “I know not if you have been told this, but Launfal is my brother.”
“Is he really?” Arthur said. “No, I did not know. But now that you have told me, I can see that it is so.”
Aislyn glanced up at Gawain, and he gave her a quick smile of understanding. “Then, sire, as Launfal is now my brother, too,” he said, “I would take it as a great favor if you would make him one of your companions.”
“He has certainly proved his fitness,” Arthur said. “And if you, Gawain, will vouch for him—”
“With a good will.”
“Then . . . would you like that, Launfal?”
“Sire—” Launfal dropped his gaze to the floor, biting his lip hard. Only when he had mastered himself did he look upon the king with his whole heart in his eyes. “It is what I have dreamed of all my life.”
Like Gawain himself, the king seemed much moved by this simple declaration. “Young Gaheris is to receive his accolade tomorrow,” Arthur said. “Do you go and join him in the chapel. Gawain will be standing up with him; I daresay he would do you the same service.”
“Thank you, sire, but—would it be possible to ask Sir Dinadan? That is,” Launfal added hastily, “if you do not mind, Sir Gawain.”
“Not in the least. And I’m sure Dinadan will be honored.”
“Run along, then, lad,” Arthur said, “and I will see you on the morrow.”
Launfal bowed without speaking, his face transfigured by a joy too deep for words.
“I think I will like that young man,” Arthur remarked when he was gone.
“I am sure you will, sire,” Aislyn answered. “He is quite—remarkable.”
“A quality that seems to run in your family,” Arthur said, a twinkle in his eye. “And I look forward to knowing you better. But not tonight,” he added, stifling a yawn. “Shall we retire, my lady?”
Guinevere had been strangely silent this past while, and now she stood obediently without replying. Aislyn went to her and bowed. “Madam,” she said, “if I said anything to offend you earlier, I do hope you will forgive me.”
Guinevere regarded her, unsmiling. “Of course.”
“My tongue runs away with me sometimes,” Aislyn went on, “but I daresay you’ve noticed that before.”
“Indeed I have.” Guinevere nodded coolly to her, then to Gawain. “Congratulations on your marriage.” And laying her hand lightly on the king’s arm, she left the chamber with him.
“Oh, dear, I’m afraid I’ve gotten on her bad side,” Aislyn said, a worried frown between her brows.
Gawain shrugged. “I’ve been there since she came to court.”
“And did you see how she looked at Launfal?” Aislyn went on. “I hope she hasn’t taken against him, too.”
“He survived the Queen of Air and Darkness,” Morgana remarked. “I daresay he’ll bear up under Guinevere’s dislike.”
“If indeed she does dislike him and you aren’t simply playing mother hen,” Gawain said, slipping an arm around her waist.
Aislyn sighed and leaned her cheek against his shoulder. “I missed my chance to mother him,” she said sadly. “And now it is too late.”
Gawain gave her a comforting squeeze. “He is still your brother. You’ll have plenty of chances to fuss over him.”
“There is the matter of his marriage . . .” Aislyn said, brightening.
“Yes, but can it wait until tomorrow?” Morgana yawned. “I’m for bed. Come, Gawain, let us have your answer.”
He looked into Aislyn’s face, tipped expectantly to his. He must speak. It was not fair to keep her waiting any longer. No matter how lightly she pretended to take this, he could see the anxiety beneath her smile. But God help him, how could he decide? How could he bear to part from her for even half the day and have only Dame Ragnelle in her place? He looked into her clear green eyes, always so incongruous in Ragnelle’s wrinkled face. How odd that he always thought of them as two separate women when really . . .
They were one. His mind had always known that, but only now did he feel it in his heart. It was Aislyn who had bound his wounds, Aislyn who had made him laugh as he had not done for years. And it was Dame Ragnelle who had enthralled the entire court tonight while she defended him as fiercely as a lioness. They were one, the maiden who had stolen his heart, the crone who had won his admiration, the woman who would heed his counsel, even if she would not promise to obey it. They were one, and all were his own love. She was infinitely changeable, yet she never could be other than herself—sometimes wise and sometimes foolish, brave and strong and loyal, the lover he had always dreamed of and the truest friend he’d ever known. The Goddess is in all women, Morgana had said to him, and though he had once flung those words mockingly in her face, now, at last, he understood their truth.
And with that understanding came his answer.
“I cannot choose,” he said.
A quiver passed across Aislyn’s mobile features, but when she spoke, her voice was firm. “I thought not. And you should not have to. It is all right, Gawain, I do not blame you for not wanting only half a life—”
He touched a finger to her lips. “I cannot choose because this choice does not belong to me. It must be yours.”
“Oh!” Aislyn put a hand to her head. “I felt so strange . . . but it is past now.”
Morgana laughed. “Yes, it is past now, and there is no choice for you to make. You are free of all enchantment. As you are now, so shall you be tomorrow, and tomorrow night, and so on.”
“What?” Gawain rounded on his aunt. “You said you could not lift it!”
“I did not. You did.”
“I?” he demanded. “How?”
“The last time I visited, when we sat together in the hall, I told you that if you wanted to find happiness with your lady, you only had to . . .”
“Solve that damned riddle,” he finished, and Aislyn burst out laughing.
“Oh, Gawain, no! Why did you not tell me?”
“I forgot,” he said honestly.
“Perhaps next time,” Morgana said with some asperity, “you will give a bit more weight to my words. Can you guess now what it is that all women desire?”
“To have their own way?” Gawain said warily. “To rule men?”
Aislyn laughed. “What all women desire is sovereignty, but not over men, my love.” She took his hand. “Over ourselves.”
“That’s it?” Gawain’s laughter died abruptly as he looked from Morgana to Aislyn.
“’Tis simply said,” Aislyn began.
“But not so simply done,” Gawain finished thoughtfully.
“Very good, Gawain,” Morgana said. “There is hope for you yet.” She looked as though she might say more, but in the end she only embraced him, and then Aislyn, too, and went away.
“Tell me,” Aislyn said after a time, her hand against his cheek, “what made you say that I should choose?”
“You were the one who would have to bear the worst of it. It was only right you should decide. And, too, I realized that it did not really matter.”
“Did not matter?�
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He traced the delicate arch of her brow with one finger. “Your eyes are very beautiful, you know, but what I love most about them now is not their brilliance, but that they see straight through falsehood and pretension. And once you have seen a truth, you speak it in no uncertain terms.”
He kissed her lips, then drew away, smiling as he stroked her hair. “You are the loveliest woman I have ever seen. Looking at you now—” He laughed. “You take my breath away. But it won’t always be that way. Oh, not that I will tire of you—that could never happen!—but in time, we will grow accustomed to each other, and how you look will come to matter less than what you are.”
“What am I, then?” she asked, half laughing.
“A woman whose spirit burns so bright that even age and illness could not damp it. You were alone in a strange place, imprisoned in a form that left you weak and weary and afflicted with all manner of aches and pains. Yet somehow you always found the strength to defend those who could not defend themselves. Look at how you stood up to Gudrun—and to Sir Lancelot—and to me when I deserved it. You showed me what true courage is—and you taught me how to laugh again—even at myself.”
He took her hand and stroked it, a lock of fine golden hair falling over his brow. “To look upon your lovely face and hold you in my arms is more joy than I deserve. And it would be a lie to say I am not conscious of how other men admire you—and envy me your company, just as they pitied me before. I thought of those things earlier, but in the end, I came to see they did not matter. Even when you are the crone in truth, you will still be Aislyn.” He raised his head to look into her eyes. “And I will still be yours.”
Chapter 44
THE torches were guttering in their holders as Aislyn and Gawain walked arm in arm down the deserted passageway. She had never known such happiness; indeed, she hardly dared believe that it was real. Yet once they had left the king’s presence chamber for the shelter of the gardens, Gawain had proved his words of love in such a fashion as could leave her in no doubt of their truth.
“You are older than me,” Aislyn remarked casually. “By the time I am a crone again, you will be ancient.”