I walked over slowly, and stepped into the pavilion. For a moment, Lancelot did not notice, as he sat in a small wooden chair, staring into the low coals of the brazier. They lit his face orange, casting shadows against his high cheekbones, his thoughtful mouth. A gust of breeze flapped the tent door, and the noise of it made him look up. He saw me then, and as though unconsciously, as though moving in a dream, he stood to his feet. Taken with a sudden rush, he strode across the pavilion towards me. He gently took my face in his hands, and pressed his forehead lightly against mine. I could feel the fluttering of my heart within me, the heat already kindling deep within. I forced myself to push away the thought that it was not me that he saw. I turned my face up towards his, closer, and I felt his nose brush against mine as he leaned down to me.
“Guinevere,” he whispered, but I did not care. He drew me into a kiss. On his lips I tasted the wine, and the heady spice of the herbs that I had given him in it. I felt the slightest tremble of desire run through me, like a spark of fire. I pushed him back gently towards the pile of silk cushions beside the brazier and the chair. I slid my hands up under his shirt, feeling the hardness of muscle beneath, the softness of his skin, and the brush of the soft, inviting hair that ran down from his navel. I should have held back, I should have been more cautious, but I had waited so long, and the desires of my body were clouding my mind. I had dreamed long ago of this, and I had waited and waited and this was the moment, and I could not hold myself back from it. I pulled the shirt up over his head, and threw it aside. He drew away then, holding my face gently in his hands.
“Guinevere,” he whispered, his voice thick with anxiety that I had not expected, “I have to tell you, I... You are used to a man who has known many women. There has been – I have known no other woman. I... I am not sure that I know exactly –”
I rested my fingertips lightly against his lips, and shushed him gently. He closed his eyes for a second, and I felt his lips yield slightly under my touch. I took a step back from him, and unwound my hair. I was half-surprised to see it fall, thick and red, in curls around me. I was already forgetting that I had come in another’s shape. Then I reached down and slowly pulled the fine silk dress up over my head, and stood naked before him. I saw his eyes mist over with desire, and a low sigh escaped his lips.
“I am sure nature will take its course,” I replied softly. The voice when I spoke was her voice; low and sweet with its Breton tones.
Lancelot did not need any more prompting. I expected him, however, to rush at me all at once the way all the others had done, wild with desire. He no longer hesitated, but his touch was light and teasingly slow as he ran his hands over me. I had never been touched like that; not by a man whose eyes were full of wonder, not by one who wanted to know every inch, not by one who was not hasty to have his own pleasure. He let me wait until I was wild for him, my body aching, though no longer because he did not dare. I slipped him from his clothes and pulled him down among the silk cushions with me. And then it was all the cool silk of the cushions, and the fresh smell of the grass, and his hands sliding up my thighs, still making me wait; and though I had thought that I would have to lead him through this, I found there was greater delight in committing myself to this sensuality that I had not known before. And when I took him inside me at last, it was with all the rapturous relief that my dreams of him had promised. Everything else fell away, but the pleasure of the moment.
In the darkness afterwards, he whispered, “I love you.”
He does not mean you, I told myself, but I could not stop myself from believing it.
I dreamed strange dreams that night. I dreamed of Guinevere, lying out in the grass of the clearing, asleep in the moonlight in the nightdress I had stolen. It was she, but her pale skin was traced with blue-green woad, and when I went over to her, and knelt beside her, she stirred and murmured my name. In her sleeping hands she held Excalibur, clasped tight in her grip, and when I reached for it, the dream faded away.
I woke suddenly in the morning, my heart racing, as though from a bad dream. I sat up sharply in the pile of cushions, and Lancelot murmured beside me and turned over in his sleep. It was cold. I felt the dewy spring morning against my bare skin and shivered. I should not have slept there. I still wore her shape, still saw pale white limbs free from the lines of woad before me, dark red hair falling in front of my face. What was I going to do? I could not just leave. He would speak to her about it, to Guinevere, and they would work out that it had been me. He knew my powers, and he would hate me. His memory would be hazy, his mind clouded with the drink I had given him, but he would not be so befuddled with it that he would think he could have confused a woman painted with woad with one who was not.
Then, I thought, Elaine. No one at Camelot had met her. No one knew who she was. She had been a comely girl, and Lancelot would have a hard time convincing anyone at Camelot that he had not desired her for her own sake. She was a cousin of mine. He could not put her away, nor me if I wore her shape. I could bear it.
I closed my eyes, and pictured her as I had last seen her. Big brown doe-eyes, long shiny chestnut-brown hair, small, delicate frame. When I opened my eyes, I saw that it had been accomplished.
Lancelot stirred again beside me, and I put a hand against his chest. He, still half-asleep, took it and pressed it to his lips.
“Good morning,” I said, softly. I saw his brow wrinkle in confusion. He took his hand from mine and rubbed his face, and when he drew his hands away and opened his eyes to see a woman he did not recognise, he cried out, jumping up in surprise and snatching his sword into his hand.
“Who are you?” he shouted, grabbing his shirt from the ground and pulling it over his head, still keeping hold of his sword. I pulled my knees up and wrapped my arms around them, casting him a pitiful look.
“Sir, you do not remember?” I said. I could feel tears gathering at the back of my eyes, strange tears. I did not know why I should cry, but at once I felt sad and vulnerable. Perhaps it was the thought of the awful thing that I had done, or it was the knowledge that he would be even more dismayed if he knew it was truly I.
“What did you do to me?” Lancelot demanded. I could see the fear in his eyes, I could see that he was trembling. What had I done? I pushed it away. I had to. The tears came suddenly then, and at the sight of them I saw Lancelot weaken, and he dropped his sword and came back to kneel beside me, picking up the nightdress and handing it to me gently so that I could pull it on. He did not seem to notice that, while the woman had changed, the dress was the same.
“Who are you?” he asked, more gently, taking my face in his hands, turning it up towards his. “How did you come to be here... with me?”
I wiped the tears off my cheeks with the back of my hand. “It is a part of our destiny,” I said, shakily. I could not think of any other explanation, and it seemed inadequate. The words seemed foreign, too. “My name is Elaine, sir. I am a cousin unto King Arthur.”
Lancelot leaned away, and I saw the frustration and the despair pass across his face. He knew that whatever there might have been with him and Guinevere was over now, before it had begun.
He gave a slow nod.
“I know that you thought I was the Queen, sir,” I said, putting my hand over his. He jumped slightly, and looked nervous.
“Elaine,” he replied. “I am sorry. I will take care of you, I promise. I must go, for Cornwall, but I will give you any protection you need from me. May I... take you anywhere?”
I shook my head. I did not want him to take me to Elaine’s father’s castle only to find there were two of the same girl.
“I live close by,” I lied. “I should like the walk.”
He nodded.
“Come back for me,” I told him, putting a hand against his cheek. I could see him soften, could see he was sorry.
He nodded again, and leaned down to kiss me, softly. There was no passion in it, no love, but there was kindness, and I felt that wrench within me. I had tricked a k
ind man, and I would be sorry for it, always.
I stepped from the tent, and pictured myself back in my bedroom in Rheged. When I opened my eyes, I was there, and I was myself. The days passed, and I wrote to Elaine’s father. He accepted all of my requests, and committed himself to obedience to me. Elaine must have told him what a witch I was. I was glad.
I began to feel sick, and weary. I knew what this was. I thought of Morgawse, and her child, far away in the North. I had not written to her, had not heard from her or seen her, in a long while. I ought to, soon. But not now, not yet. I was too ashamed of what I had done.
Chapter Twenty Three
When news came that Lancelot had passed out of Cornwall, I took my place at Elaine’s father’s castle, in her shape. I chose dresses that showed well my swelling belly, and I waited for the moment to come. It was the very height of summer, and the sun was hot and low, and gorgeously warm when he came. Five months he had been away, from the very beginning of spring to the full ripeness of summer, and it showed on me well.
Lancelot rode through the gates of the small castle with a woman at his side. Mark’s Queen by the look of her. This was the woman that Arthur had turned down in favour of Guinevere’s magic blood and sharp wit, which – little did he know – was turned against him now. She was truly a beautiful creature; pale golden hair down to her waist, big, blue eyes and a soft, pink full-lipped mouth. She had a placid expression, and a dreamy look in her eyes. I had not yet heard her speak, but I would not have been surprised if Kay’s estimation of her as simple were accurate. Still she was lovely, and dressed richly and beautifully. She wore a circlet of white gold, set with sapphires and pearls – which I recognised with annoyance as my mother’s crown – and a dress of pale pink silk, sewn with pearls. I wondered what she was doing with Lancelot. Surely it was not just any queen that he wanted.
He jumped from his horse to greet me and Elaine’s father, then helped her down and introduced her. She gave me a look of disdain. I wondered what she knew. Lancelot’s eyes, when they saw the swell of my belly, did not register surprise, only resignation. I had at least thought he might be pleased. A child is a child. Everyone had expected me to feel joy at the conception of my son.
“Sir Lancelot,” Elaine’s father greeted him, brusquely, “I trust you intend to stand honourably by my daughter.”
He played his part admirably. Lancelot nodded, flustered.
“A man cannot be constrained to love, nor to wed, but I expect you to take my daughter with you to Camelot, and acknowledge this as your child. She was a maiden, sir, when she came to you.”
Lancelot nodded again, his face tense and set. He knew the anger that would be waiting for him when Guinevere heard.
The journey back to Camelot was short, and tense, and when the castle came in sight over the hills, Lancelot said we had to stop and make camp. I knew what he wanted to do. He wanted to sneak ahead and make his apologies to Guinevere. Well, it was too late. Elaine’s father had written to Arthur before we left and I, and my child, would be expected.
The next morning, they were gathered in the courtyard to greet us as we came through the gates. I saw Arthur first, dressed to meet us in all the grandeur he had. I supposed he wanted Isolde to go back to Cornwall and tell her husband what a fearsome king Arthur was. Gawain stood beside him, dressed in his armour, as he always was. The other side of Arthur, Guinevere stood, squinting into the sun at us riding towards her. She did not look as angry as I had expected her to, and I was a little disappointed. In the summer heat she wore a dress of blue and white silk, sewn with silver thread that glinted in the sun, and a circlet of fine gold glinted, half-hidden in the thick curls of her hair. The delicate dress looked wrong along with the fierceness of her looks. I thought she had suited much better the hunting leathers that had made the women of Camelot whisper behind their hands.
Lancelot jumped from his horse first to greet Arthur. Arthur pulled him into a hearty embrace, clapping him on the back. Of course Arthur would be pleased that Lancelot had returned with a woman carrying his child. I was surprised to see that Kay was smiling, too. I would have thought he would be jealous. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but I was sure that it was about me, and I was glad.
Isolde beside me had tried to get down from her horse, but had tangled her foot in the stirrup, and the horse was whickering and stumbling away from her. I saw Kay step forward to take hold of the horse’s bridle, as Lancelot came towards me to lift me gently down from the horse. Elaine’s little body was small and light, and even with the child growing strong inside, he lifted me easily down. I was pleased. I wanted Guinevere to see him put his hands on me.
Arthur greeted me first, kissing me on the cheek and making some kind of meaningless compliment that I was not paying attention to. I could feel Guinevere’s eyes against my skin.
I turned to Guinevere and she took my hand with all politeness, but then I felt in the pit of my stomach the feeling I had felt once before, when I had seen her on her wedding-day. Up close again, and my own dark power working within me, I was overwhelmingly aware of the ancient Otherworld blood in her, and it seemed to recognise the dark magic in me, and both bridled at one another. I could see her feel it, see it pass across her face. I saw her breath catch. But it passed, and she said nothing. She did not see through me, as I had feared for a moment she might. She kissed me on the cheek, and we gave each other the proper greetings, commending each other’s beauty. I could see her eyes measuring my form, testing Lancelot’s excuse.
Since Isolde was here, and Queen of a rich if no longer powerful realm vassal to Arthur, some court had to be paid, and Guinevere led the small group of women that we made into her walled garden. It was a lovely place, small and intimate, smelling of roses and honeysuckle. Someone had set out silk cushions and thick silk rugs over the grass, and we – Isolde, Guinevere, her three ladies, and I – sank down among them. I was glad to sit down after the long ride. I had forgotten, too, how tiring it was to have a child growing inside me. Guinevere lay back among the cushions and, closing her eyes, turned her face up to feel the hot summer sun against it. I could see Isolde beside her chattering away, her soft pale-pink lips moving strangely slow. I suspected that Guinevere was not listening.
There was a lute player there, and Isolde stopped talking to watch him, and I saw Guinevere put a hand over her eyes to shield them from the sun, and gaze up at Isolde. She was, certainly, avoiding looking at me.
Her maid Margery was sat beside me, the girl who did not know I had taken her shape many times to spy on her Queen and mistress. I turned to her and gave her the sweetest smile Elaine’s pretty little face could manage, and she smiled back, at first warily and then, glancing towards Guinevere and seeing her engaged in some conversation with Isolde, leaned down close to me to whisper.
“You are lucky, lady, to have had Sir Lancelot as your lover. He is a very handsome man. I do not doubt that there are many women,” she could not hide her eyes’ unconscious sweep back towards Guinevere, “who envy you that.”
I gave a gentle nod of agreement, and a smile of complicity.
“Tell me what it was like,” she whispered, leaning even closer, encouraged. “I don’t know what it is like to be with a man, and no one will tell me.”
At the other end of the garden, I could hear Isolde beginning to sing.
“Well,” I began coyly, “not all men are the same, or so I have been told. Some are rough and mean, but the man I have known, he was gentle and loving.”
Margery giggled, as though I were telling her some great, forbidden secret.
Suddenly, Guinevere was standing over us, demanding to know what we were laughing about. She had lost that steely control I knew so well; her anger had overtaken her, and the opaque calm I had seen on her when we had ridden into Camelot had utterly evaporated. She grasped me hard by the arm and pulled me to my feet.
“What amuses you two ladies so?” she demanded, in her anger her Breton accent thick, her En
glish words too formal.
I gathered my best politeness around myself. I only wanted her to appear more wild, more out of control than even she was. The more scandalous it seemed, the more the gossip would eat away at her, and I would have what I had waited for.
“Forgive me,” I began, demurely, fixing her with the most innocent look I could muster. It was difficult, for I was enjoying myself. “I was telling Margery of the love of Sir Lancelot. I know I should not speak in public of such things, but he was so tender. So,” I drew in an expressive breath, and saw the rage catch deeper in her, “manful, I –”
To my absolute pleasure and triumph, she slapped me hard across the face. I barely felt the pain, I had such a rush in my veins. I heard Margery gasp beside me. I had won. Perhaps I would even go to Lancelot, and cry, and say that she had been unkind, and then he would hate her for it.
With a sudden lurch of guilt, I wondered if it might not be about the child as much as it was about Lancelot. The child I had offered up in exchange for Mordred’s life. Once the thought struck me the guilt did not leave easy. I had been happy to enjoy her suffering when I had thought it was a lover’s jealousy, but for a lost child – I was not so sure. It had been a year – two? – since then, and there was no sign that she might have another. It struck me that only a woman who knew she would never bear a child would demand her lover’s compliance as boldly as I had heard Guinevere do. She had nothing to fear. It was too late for hesitancy now, though. Too late for doubt.
THE CURSE OF EXCALIBUR: a gripping Arthurian fantasy (THE MORGAN TRILOGY Book 2) Page 18