Lancelot

by Gwen Rowley

  “You lived here for seven years?” the knight said behind her.

  Elaine could scarce believe it herself. “A bit cramped, but the roof was sound, and it was pleasant to have the river so close.” Torre still came here often, when some savage mood drove him from their hall, and knowing him, he did not come empty-handed. Opening the cupboard door, she said, “I thought so.”

  She drew out a jug, nearly full, and two cups, and bore them back outside. “Come, I’ve been running on too long. Tell me something of yourself.”

  “There is nothing much to tell,” he said, smiling as he resumed his seat.

  “You said that you were fostered young. Were your foster parents kindly folk?”

  “I do not remember much about them,” he said with such finality that she knew the subject to be closed.

  “Then tell me about Camelot!” she suggested.

  “What would you like to know?” he asked politely but with a marked lack of enthusiasm.

  “Anything will do.”

  He looked up at the branches overhead, then at the river. At last he looked at her and shrugged. “I don’t know what to say. Most of the tales I could tell you are already known.”

  Elaine made one more attempt. “What of your own adventures?”

  “They’re not worth speaking of.” As though realizing that his answer was just short of rudeness, he smiled at her so brilliantly that she forgave him on the spot.

  “Here,” she said, pouring wine into his cup. “My mother’s dowry, or what’s left of it. Her family traded in Provence, so they sent her off with tuns of wine. Luckily, the Saxons did not think to look for the cellars.”

  He swirled the wine in the cup, sniffed it, and took an experimental sip. “I’ve never tasted better.”

  “You are extremely courteous,” Elaine said, laughing. “Are you sure you aren’t Sir Gawain?”

  “’Tis true I ride disguised, but even Sir Gawain would be hard put to shrink half a foot and alter the color of his hair.”

  She glanced at him, surprised at his tone. “Surely it is a compliment to be compared to such a knight?”

  “Of course,” he said with an ironic smile. “Who would not want to be Gawain? So brave and noble, so courteous and—” He broke off, yawning. “Forgive me. Just the thought of all that perfection is exhausting.”

  “Oh, fie, sir,” she chided, smiling, “perfection is too strong a word, though Sir Gawain is a noble knight.”

  “So he is. A very noble knight,” he agreed soberly, though his eyes glinted with a wicked merriment. “Indeed, there have been times, sitting in the hall while he revels us with some improving tale, when I have been so overcome by Sir Gawain’s . . . nobility that I feared I might fall face-first into my ale and drown.”

  Elaine laughed, then was instantly ashamed. “This will not do sir,” she said with a severity that was only part in jest, “no, it will not do at all.”

  “Tell me, lady, by what stroke of fortune did Sir Gawain win a champion so fair?”

  “Sir Gawain was with the king when they took Corbenic back. Indeed, ’twas he who slew the Saxon chieftan, hand-to-hand in single combat, and many a grievous wound he took for the sake of folk he did not even know.”

  She smiled at the memory of the one time she’d seen Sir Gawain, a mere flash of sunlight glinting off a helm as he rode back to Camelot. “No matter what they say at court, Sir Gawain will always be First Knight to me, even if that Sir Lancelot did knock him off his horse.”

  “Alas for poor Sir Lancelot that he was not here that day!” the knight said with a rueful twist of his lips. “Then you might have known that he is no such monster as you think. ’Tis true he oft speaks rashly, but after, he is always sorry. And I do not think—indeed, I am quite certain—that had he realized how gravely your brother had been injured, he would never have spoken as he did.”

  “He should have known,” Elaine said flatly, “and if he’d had the courtesy to send a servant round, he would have. Sir Gawain—”

  “Would have sent his squire,” the stranger finished for her. “You are right, such has always been his custom. And now ’tis Sir Lancelot’s, as well—or so they say.”

  “At least he has the sense to profit from Sir Gawain’s example.”

  The knight began to speak, then checked himself and looked across the river, his expression dark. Fool, Elaine raged at herself, cursing her blunt tongue. Aunt Millicent is right; you are too forward in your speech.

  Yet a part of her was not sorry she had spoken as she did. Why should she not say what she thought, even if this grand young knight did not agree? She had not liked the way he spoke of Sir Gawain, even if his words had seemed to be in jest. But then, she thought, melancholy washing over her, belike this is how they went on in Camelot. For all she knew, he’d said the same to Sir Gawain himself, and it was only she who did not see the joke.

  I have grown grim and dull, she thought, I, who was once so merry that nothing could damp my spirits long. And with a little shock she realized that there was no going back. She’d always thought she could, but now she knew it was impossible. There was too great a gulf between the girl she’d been and the woman she was now.

  She studied the knight’s profile, as clear and fine as if it had been carved upon a Roman coin, and sorrow overwhelmed her. If only you had come sooner, she thought . . . but now it is too late.

  “Shall we go back?” she asked, preparing to get to her feet.

  She expected him to agree instantly, but he surprised her.

  “Must we go quite yet?” he said. “Can we not stay a little longer?”

  His anger—if indeed he had ever truly been angry—had died. His eyes were soft as sable, shining beneath winged brows, wistful and a little sad. Lost in his dark gaze, it took a moment for his words to reach her, and then she had to bite back the eager agreement springing to her lips. By the time she realized that a simple yes was what she wanted, the silence had spun out too long. Her face flamed; she dropped her gaze and nodded, feeling an utter fool.

  Chapter 10

  LANCELOT quickly sipped his wine, hoping that his face did not betray his mortification. He should have leapt at the chance to return to Corbenic, excused himself, and taken to his bed. He had no business lingering here beside the river with a maiden who obviously wished herself away. ’Twas clear she agreed to stay only because she could find no courteous words with which to refuse him.

  It was rather comical when he came to think of it, for he had long bemoaned the fact that he could go nowhere without attracting a score of feminine admirers. Indeed, he’d often felt a hare amid a pack of hounds when he walked into the hall and all heads turned in his direction. Everywhere it was the same, ladies pelting him with scarves and sleeves and flowers when he rode into the lists, with rings and brooches and perfumed parchments in the hall. Unmarried ladies—total strangers—offered him their hands; the married ones were far more generous in the parts they suggested he make free with.

  Every lady but this raw country damsel. The most amusing thing of all was that if she knew whom she had spurned, she would despise him all the more.

  But not nearly so much as in that moment he despised himself.

  Now when he imagined the tales they would tell of his visit, a fine sheen of sweat broke out upon his brow. He was not the unknown hero, after all. He was the villain creeping in disguised to take advantage of a family who had accepted him in all innocence into their home. Had they but known his name, his welcome would have been quite different. Certes, Sir Torre would have refused him his shield, and Lady Elaine would not be sitting with him now. Once they knew his identity, what would they say? What would they think of his duplicity?

  But he had meant no harm; he’d only wanted to borrow a blank shield. He’d never intended to deceive this lady or her family. It was just that he was lost, for he had galloped out of Camelot in a black temper, too—

  (frightened)

  —angry to remember the need for a b
lank shield, and had lost himself in the forest. Such a thing could befall any knight. It wasn’t his fault . . . was it? No, the fault was Guinevere’s. She was the one who had lied. Yet Guinevere had only lied because—

  Because yet another lie had driven her to it. How had he become enmeshed in so many different lies that there seemed no honorable way forward?

  The one thing he knew for certain was that he had no business inflicting his company upon this reluctant lady, no matter how little he cared to be alone. He turned to suggest that they return to the manor just as she turned to him. He hadn’t realized how closely they were sitting, so near that he could see every lash framing her vividly blue eyes.

  All at once her scent surrounded him, not one he could name, but something new to him, as subtle and mysterious as a woodland glade at dusk, and he could not look away.

  She was so beautiful. Not just her lovely face or her wealth of primrose hair or her slender neck, fragile as a flower’s stem. She, herself, was beautiful in a way that moved him as no woman had ever done before. He had known it from the moment she turned to face that mob, her slight shoulders braced, in as fine an act of hopeless gallantry as ever he had seen upon a battlefield. And she had courage of a different kind as well. This lady would never pretend to be other than she was; she said precisely what she thought, and be damned to anyone who disagreed. Some might call that foolish, but Lancelot knew such uncompromising honesty came only at a price far higher than he had ever dared to pay.

  ’Twas no wonder a woman of such rare courage had no time for him.

  At last she turned away, a faint flush on her cheeks. “I really think we should—” she began.

  “When I was younger,” Lancelot heard his own voice say, “I thought I would be the greatest knight who’d ever lived.”

  Elaine, who had braced her hands to lift herself, halted. She was still poised for flight, he could see it in the tautness of her muscles, but she allowed him to go on.

  “I was very proud,” he said, his eyes fixed on the sunlight glinting on the water. “I had some talent—like your brother—but unlike him, I never had to think about anyone but myself. I was . . . encouraged to believe I was destined for great things. When I first arrived at Camelot, I was insufferable.”

  He chanced at quick look and found her smiling. “I’m sure you weren’t as bad as that.”

  “Oh, I was. If you asked—” He caught himself up sharply. “Anyone who knows me would say the same. The other squires detested me, but I didn’t care. I thought them so far beneath me, you see, so vastly inferior that their opinions meant less than nothing.”

  “Had you no friends?” she asked, her voice warm with a sympathy that touched him, though he knew it undeserved. “None at all?”

  “One or two,” Lancelot said, remembering his cousins Bors and Lionel with a pang, “who would have been my friends. But I’m afraid I did not much regard them, either. Truly, lady, I was detestable.”

  She laughed at that. “You seem much improved.”

  “Do I?” He winced at the eagerness in his voice. “I hope I am, a little. But any improvement is due entirely to the king. He did not think much of me at first—nor can I blame him, since the only time he was forced to notice me was when I was to be punished for fighting. Which happened rather often, I’m afraid.”

  “And did you win?”

  “Always. Which did nothing to endear me to the others. But one day—I’d gotten into the devil of a scrape—King Arthur sat me down and talked to me. He was—is—a very kind man, though he can be stern. He was that day,” he said with a reminiscent smile. “No one had ever spoken to me like that in all my life.”

  “Were you very angry?” Elaine asked. She drew her knees up and clasped her arms around her shins. Pale golden hair spilled over one shoulder, and her astonishingly blue eyes were fixed expectantly on his face, as though she were genuinely interested in what he had to say.

  “No, I was not angry,” he said, then grinned. “Well, perhaps a little, just at first. King Arthur is—I could say he is a good man, and that would be true, but many men are called good when they possess but a single virtue among a hundred flaws. Arthur is . . . wholly good.”

  “No man is that,” Elaine protested, “unless he is a saint.”

  “I’ve always imagined that saints are dreary folk, but the king is very human. He has his faults—as he would be the first to tell you—”

  “What are they?” Elaine interrupted. “I’ve never heard of any.”

  Lancelot thought a moment, then laughed. “Do you know, I haven’t, either. Nor have I seen them for myself. Guin—the queen might scold him for not keeping such state as she deems fitting, but I hardly reckon that a fault. No, if he has one at all, it is that he is too ready to believe that others are as good as he is himself. It isn’t that he’s perfect, but King Arthur always tries to do the right thing, no matter how difficult that thing may be or how impossible it seems.”

  Elaine rested her chin on her knees. “It doesn’t seem like much, does it, to always try to do the right thing? But when I think of it, there are times I’ve done—not the wrong thing, no one chooses to do that—but what is easy or convenient.”

  “Yes,” he said. “For myself, I have done many things that I would change now if I could.”

  “I can see why you admire him so,” Elaine said thoughtfully. “So after he had scolded you, what did he do?”

  “He sent me off in search of an adventure.”

  “And you became a knight.”

  “I did. But—but it was not what I thought it would be.”

  “I understand,” she said, and though he knew she did not really, he was still comforted. “I always thought—”

  “What?”

  “That I, too, was destined for great things.” She gestured toward the flowing river at their feet. “I would sit just here and plan my future.”

  “What was it?”

  “I had been betrothed to Lord—well, it doesn’t matter now, but he was a man of some consequence. I imagined I would rule graciously over my people—wearing very fine clothing while I did it, of course, and many splendid jewels. I would be famed not only for my great beauty but for my countless acts of charity. Sainthood would, of course, have followed, but only after I’d lived to a great age and borne at least a dozen children.”

  Lancelot whistled softly. “Sainthood? Even I never aspired so high as that. But tell me, what happened to Lord Whosis?”

  “He did not wait. Alas, when my family vanished, he basely wed another.”

  “Churl. Shall I run him through?”

  “Would you?” She seemed to consider the matter, her head tipped to one side. “’Tis very kind, but you needn’t bother. I fancy he is gray and stout these days, no match at all for a knight of your undoubted caliber.”

  “But lady,” he said, “what I cannot understand—forgive me if this is an impertinence—is why you have not wed since.”

  “Can you really not?” Now her smile was mocking, though whether of herself or him he could not say. “Oh, come, sir, you know how it is.”

  Deepening her voice, she went on in a drawl—astonishingly accurate—affected by some of the younger knights at court. “Who is her father? Good. Her mother? That will do. What is her dowry?” Her lips twisted into a supercilious smirk, and one hand described a languid, flicking motion. “Quite. And will you introduce me to that other maiden now, the one with the squint and the three manors?”

  Lancelot, who had been sipping his wine, choked on his laughter. She obligingly pounded on his back, and when he was recovered, said, “I think I must be somewhat tipsy, sir, to talk to you like this.”

  “No, not at all. I have heard that sort of thing before—’tis only that I didn’t think the ladies were aware of it.”

  “Of course we are. Or do you subscribe to the common wisdom that females have no sense?”

  “At court,” he said, “it is generally accepted that a lady’s intelligence
stands in direct proportion to her beauty. The plainest are reckoned to be clever, the fairest somewhat . . . less so.”

  “God giving with one hand and taking with the other, as it were.”

  “As it were,” he agreed. “Now, by such a measure, you, my lady,” he reached out and touched her cheek, “should by rights be little better than an imbecile.”

  She laughed, and the soft skin beneath his fingers took on a rosy hue. “Am I meant to be flattered or insulted?”

  “Mayhap the common wisdom is not altogether wrong,” he answered gravely. “Take all the time you need to work it out.”

  His hand drifted down to the soft hair hanging over her shoulder. He wound it around his hand and tugged her forward to look into her eyes. She went very still—the stillness of a hind that scents the hunter, of a dove beneath the shadow of the hawk. Yet she did not draw away.

  And Lancelot knew why. He knew precisely what he’d done. He had bought her trust with the coin of his own honesty, and she had repaid him with her friendship. It was precious to him, not only because there were few he had ever named a friend, but because he sensed it was not a gift she offered lightly. Let it rest here, and he had the hope of retaining that even when she learned his name. Go on taking advantage of her ignorance, and he was the basest churl who’d ever lived.

  “Lady,” he said, hating himself yet powerless to stop, “to such as you, a dowry would be entirely superfluous.”

  His gaze drifted downward to her full pink lips, softly parted in surprise, and before he could stop to think of the terrible mistake he was about to make, he kissed her.

  Chapter 11

  ELAINE had been kissed before. Once. At her cousin Alienor’s wedding feast—could it have only been last evening?—a knight had trapped her in a corner, grabbed her breast, and attempted to thrust his tongue down her throat. She had been at first revolted, then furiously angry as she jerked away and dealt him a stunning blow across the face. The experience was not one she had looked forward to repeating.