Lancelot

by Gwen Rowley

  But this kiss was nothing like the first.

  It was so hesitant, so soft—the merest brush of lips against her own—yet, strangely, she felt it through her entire body, a sweet fire that seemed to melt her very bones.

  Her only complaint was that it was over too quickly, leaving her bereft. But only for a moment. The next time they kissed, her hand cupped the tender nape of his neck, and when he responded in kind, a delicious shiver rippled down her spine. She gasped softly in surprised delight, her lips parting beneath his, and he went very still for a moment before he tilted his head, deepening the kiss, his mouth firm and supple on her own.

  Greatly daring, she traced the contour of his lower lip with the tip of her tongue, and he made a sound—something between a sigh and a moan—and caught her in his arms, throwing her off balance so they fell together, laughing, onto his cloak. Lifting himself on one elbow, he gazed down at her, and she saw her own astonished happiness reflected in his eyes. “You are so beautiful,” he said, his voice filled with wonderment, and smiling, he bent to her again.

  This, this is what I have been waiting for all my life, she thought, dizzy with his kiss. Every hurt she had suffered, each failure and disillusionment were magically redeemed into steps upon the path that led her to this moment, this perfect moment that she hoped would never end.

  When he drew away, it was only to bury his face against her neck, his lips moving against her skin. She sighed and ran her hands down his back, feeling each separate muscle beneath her fingertips, breathing in his scent—something spicy and exotic—longing for this precious time to go on and on, yet knowing it could not. Not like this.

  They had come to a parting in the road. She could almost see it, two ancient wooden signposts pointing in opposite directions, the writing faded yet very clear. One was marked Dishonor, the other, Respectability. She wound her fingers through his springing curls and tugged him up so she could look into his eyes.

  He placed one callused fingertip against her mouth as though to still the question hovering upon her lips, and yet it must be asked.

  “Who are you?”

  Even before he spoke, she read the answer in his eyes. “I cannot tell you.”

  She pulled free of his embrace and sat up, smoothing her tumbled hair. Surely that tearing pain in her breast could not be her heart breaking. That was only an expression, after all.

  He sat up, as well. “I would tell you if I could, but I can not.”

  “Why?”

  “A vow.”

  “Oh, a vow. Well, then, I mustn’t meddle. I’d hate to see you damned forever just for my sake.”

  “Elaine—” He caught her hand in his. “The name you seek would tell you nothing—less than nothing—of the man I really am. But perhaps another—”

  “A false name?” She shook her head and attempted to withdraw her hand. “Thank you, but you needn’t bother.”

  “Not false,” he said quickly, tightening his fingers. “’Tis mine—at least it was. I bore it long ago, so long that I have no memory of ever having heard it spoken. It would please me very much to hear you say it.”

  “What is it?” Elaine asked.

  “Galahad.”

  It seemed a hush fell over the glade in which they sat, silencing the chatter of the birds and the rushing of the river. Sunlight fell through the budded branches overhead, striking sparks off the rings upon the long brown fingers, still clasped tightly around hers.

  “Galahad,” she repeated softly. A shiver passed quickly down her spine, as though she had unwittingly uttered some forgotten word of power.

  “Yes.” He raised her hand to his mouth, brushing his lips across her palm, then laughed aloud. “Yes.”

  And somehow, in a way she could never possibly explain, all was made right. When he bent to her, she swayed to meet him, her arms rising to clasp him round the neck. All the questions she might have asked, the ones tugging at the edges of her mind, simply ceased to matter when his mouth found hers and they sank together to the ground.

  Chapter 12

  THEY reached Corbenic as the sun was sinking behind the trees and walked hand in hand to the entrance of the tower.

  “Elaine.”

  Galahad turned to her, the last rays of the setting sun shining full upon his face. Confronted with such unearthly beauty, she could only stare in wonder. Even after all that they had shared she could scarce believe that such a man was looking at her with such longing in his luminous dark eyes.

  “Would you—that is, may I—” he broke off, laughing.

  “What?” she breathed.

  “May I wear your favor? Tomorrow, when I joust?”

  Elaine’s disappointment was gone almost before she was aware of it, swept away in an uprush of astonished joy. Long ago, before age and common sense had put an end to such foolishness, she had imagined some knight would ask her this very question. It had once been her favorite fantasy, one she had spent—wasted, she would have said just yesterday—many an hour picturing in lingering detail.

  To wear a lady’s favor said something very different than the dry business of alliances. It was a public declaration of affection, often the only one available to men and women bound in duty to another. But where no such bond existed, when the man and woman were free, it could mean . . . could mean . . .

  “Yes,” she whispered, “yes, if you like.”

  He smiled brilliantly. “Thank you.” He raised their joined hands, turning hers to lay a soft kiss against her palm, his eyes closing briefly. She had time to notice the warmth of his lips, the crisp, curling hair springing from his brow, the length of his dark lashes against his cheeks. Then his gaze lifted to hers, and he kissed her mouth.

  “Well, well,” a cool voice said behind her, “so here you are at last. Where have you been?”

  Elaine turned to find her brother Torre leaning in the doorway, arms folded across his chest. He had shaved, she noticed, and combed his hair, and wore his best tunic.

  “I took G—our guest to see the river,” she answered, willing herself not to blush.

  “I see.” Torre glanced pointedly at the sun, hovering just over the horizon. “A curious sight, to be sure. Come, sir, I will show you to your chamber. You just have time to wash before we eat.”

  “Thank you,” Galahad said. “Lady Elaine, until later.”

  He cast her one last smile, bowed, and followed Torre across the courtyard into the low building housing the hall and several chambers. Elaine tripped up the stairway of the tower to her own chamber and threw open the lid of the trunk at the foot of her bed. Her hand moved unerringly beneath the neatly folded clothing and fastened on a garment tucked into a corner. She drew it out and carried it to the window, smiling as she smoothed it between her hands.

  She had made this sleeve during the first year they returned to Corbenic, in the days when it seemed that anything was possible. She had worked upon it in secret, stealing an hour before dawn, another before sunset, sitting at her little loom before her window and dreaming of the day her token would flutter bravely from some knight’s helm. When it was done, she laid it carefully away.

  Now, three years later, the crimson dye seemed gaudy; the embroidery, so painstakingly applied, straggled in an intricate pattern far beyond her skill. But she would use no other. There was something almost magical about seeing her childish dreams come true.

  She whirled, dropping it upon the windowsill when her door opened and her woman, Brisen, came in, bright black eyes alight with curiosity. “Your father has been asking for you all afternoon,” she said without preamble, “and Sir Torre was about to set off himself. You’d best let him know that you’ve returned.”

  “I saw him when I came in.” Elaine drifted over to her bed and fell down upon it, gazing dreamily at the tattered canopy.

  “Good,” Brisen said, placing a cup of ale upon the bedside table. “From the look on Sir Torre’s face before, I feared there would be murder done. Not that I was worried. Your guest pr
oved himself a gentle knight before, out there in the fields.”

  Elaine didn’t bother asking how Brisen knew what had happened earlier. Brisen knew everything that went on at Corbenic. Sometimes she seemed to know things before they happened, but that, of course, was due to Brisen’s network of informers, coupled with the maid’s sharp wits.

  “’Twas a foolish thing you did,” Brisen grumbled, slapping a comb down on the table beside the ale, “going out there all alone, what with Bran Fletcher’s remains still hanging in the wood and the people so upset. Whatever were you thinking?”

  “Don’t you scold me, too,” Elaine said, picking up the comb and working the tangles from her hair.

  Brisen smiled, setting two deep dimples dancing beside her full red lips. “You’ve been scolded once already? By yon bonny knight?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” Brisen sat down on the edge of the bed and took the comb from Elaine. “Who is he?”

  “What, you don’t know?” Elaine laughed. “Don’t tell me you didn’t conjure his name from the thin air?”

  “The Sight doesn’t come to me for the asking, lady, I’ve told you that before.”

  Elaine had little patience for prophecy; only from Brisen would she tolerate such nonsense. But Brisen was not only an excellent serving maid, she was a healer of inordinate skill—one might almost say uncanny. Indeed, there were many who had said as much, but they did not say it twice where Elaine could hear.

  They had met in the surgeon’s tent at Camelot, among the reek of blood and groaning of the wounded, for every tournament brought some injury or other. Elaine had forced her way in over the objections of the guard and stood staring at her brother, one hand pressed to her mouth to keep from vomiting. Torre lay insensible with his shattered leg bared. It was the sight of the torn flesh and protruding bone that was responsible for Elaine’s nausea, that and the surgeon standing over him, a saw in one blood-flecked hand while with the other he gestured toward a spot above Torre’s knee.

  “Just here,” he was saying, “and it must be done at once. So if you would step outside, lady . . .”

  Elaine turned to Sir John, their steward, who had accompanied her to Camelot, for Lavaine and Lord Pelleas had both been stricken with a summer fever that kept them still abed. Sir John nodded, tears winding down his withered cheeks. “Come, lady,” he said, his voice choked, and took Elaine firmly above the elbow.

  “But—” Elaine began, “but—”

  It was all happening too fast. How could this day, so eagerly anticipated, turn so quickly into a nightmare?

  A small woman in a dark gown and white coif passed by, an ewer in her hands and strips of clean linen folded over her arm. She glanced down at Torre’s unconscious form and halted.

  “I must do it now,” the surgeon said.

  “Oh,” Elaine said weakly. “But are you sure . . .”

  “Quite. There is no help for it.”

  The woman, who Elaine took for a sister at some nearby convent, lifted her bright, dark eyes from Torre’s face and fixed them upon the surgeon. “You are wrong,” she said. “That leg can be saved.”

  The surgeon made an impatient gesture. “I did not ask you, Mistress Brisen.”

  “No, but you should have done.” The dark-robed nun turned to Elaine. “There is no need for this.”

  “There is every need,” the surgeon snapped. “Lady Morgana will be looking for you; best go to her at once.”

  “She can wait. Sir Yvaine is in no danger—unlike this poor knight.”

  “Lady,” the surgeon said to Elaine. “This . . . woman knows nothing. Every moment we delay increases the danger to your brother.”

  “Damn your lying tongue to hell, you ignorant butcher,” Brisen cried, and Elaine realized she was not a nun. “Lady, how far is your home?”

  “Half a day’s ride,” Elaine said.

  The surgeon snorted. “He would never survive the journey.”

  “He will,” Brisen said, “and he will walk again.”

  Elaine looked from the surgeon to the small, black-eyed woman, who spoke with such bold confidence though she seemed only a few years older than herself.

  “Who are you?”

  “Mistress Brisen,” the surgeon said with distaste, “is one of the Duchess of Cornwall’s women. She fancies herself a healer.”

  “I am a healer,” Brisen said.

  “And you think—you are sure—” Elaine faltered.

  “No, I am not sure. His life is in the Lady’s hands. But there is a chance—a very good chance—he can survive this.” She laid a hand on Torre’s brow. “He is strong and young. The leg is bad—it will never be the same—but still, I believe it can be saved.”

  “You will come?” Elaine asked.

  “I will.” Brisen set down the ewer and linen strips. “You,” she said to Sir John, “have someone fetch a cart. Hurry, now, we haven’t time to lose.”

  “But—” Sir John began.

  “You will kill him,” the surgeon said.

  Elaine took the smaller woman by the shoulders. “Why?” she asked. “Why would you do this? You do not even know us.”

  “I must,” Brisen said simply. “I cannot say why, only that it is so. I have trained for many years, lady—even he will tell you that—” She jerked her head toward the surgeon. “And I swear that I will do my best for your brother.”

  Elaine hesitated. It would be madness to take the word of a stranger over that of a surgeon appointed by the king himself. She could not live with herself if she brought about Torre’s death. Her decision made, she opened her mouth—and at that moment, Brisen leaned to smooth the hair back from Torre’s brow. The expression on her face and the tenderness of the gesture said more than all the words that had been spoken.

  “Fetch the cart,” Elaine said to Sir John. “We’re taking Torre home.”

  “I cannot allow it,” the surgeon said.

  “Get out of my way,” Brisen ordered in a low and deadly voice. “I will bind this up before we leave.”

  “You have killed him,” the surgeon said to Elaine and threw the saw back into his trunk. “Even if he should survive, he will never walk again.”

  Eight months later, Torre ventured his first halting steps.

  That had been more than a year ago, and for a time Elaine lived in fear that Brisen would return to Lady Morgana’s service. But she remained, slipping easily into the role of serving woman to Elaine, and healer to the manor folk of Corbenic. And if she insisted on her prophecies from time to time, so be it.

  “Who is the knight?” Brisen said now, her comb catching on a snarl.

  “Ouch! Torture will not help—I cannot tell you what I do not know myself.”

  “He did not say?”

  “He vowed not to tell anyone until after tomorrow’s tournament.”

  Brisen drew the comb slowly through Elaine’s hair. “There are several knights of Gaul at King Arthur’s court. Sir Bors—but they say he is as pious as a monk.” Brisen peered into Elaine’s face and smiled, her dimples dancing. “Clearly not Sir Bors. Sir Lionel, Sir Ector De Maris, and then, of course . . .”

  “Who?”

  “Sir Lancelot.”

  Elaine laughed. “But we know it isn’t him.”

  “Do we?”

  “You must have seen him,” Elaine said, “when you were at court.”

  “No, I came with Lady Morgana the morning I first met you. I never saw Sir Lancelot.”

  “But what would Sir Lancelot be doing here on the eve of the king’s tournament?”

  “What indeed,” Brisen murmured. “Turn to me, if you would.” She arranged Elaine’s hair so it lay over her shoulders, rippling over the swell of her breasts to fall in a golden puddle in her lap. “Lovely,” she said, sighing. “We’ll leave it loose tonight. If you want to wear the green, you can have ribbons, as well.”

  “What? Oh, the green is stained,” Elaine said absently.

  “Then it will have to be t
he blue—and the fillet, I think, with two small plaits by the temple. Come over to the stool, please.”

  Elaine obeyed and sat looking out the narrow window toward the northern field, where the tiny figures of the villeins and oxen showed blackly against the setting sun. There must be hundreds of manors in Britain right now where the same scene was unfolding, yet to her, it seemed a miracle. And she knew exactly who had wrought it.

  One lift of his hand, a few words, and Galahad restored order to her world. That same hand had stroked her cheek—she still felt the touch of it, burned like a brand upon her skin. He had said that she was beautiful, and just by saying it, had made it so.

  “He cannot be Sir Lancelot.”

  She did not realize that she had spoken aloud until Brisen answered.

  “He is the right age. And they say Sir Lancelot is dark and wondrous handsome. Did he tell you aught of his kinfolk? His parents?”

  “Only that he did not remember them,” Elaine said, then realized that if he were indeed Sir Lancelot, he would not. For King Ban had collapsed—soon after his son was born, in fact. His lady had laid the infant beside the lake to go to her stricken lord. By the time Ban was dead, the babe had vanished, carried off by the Lady of the Lake. Queen Helen had never seen her son again.

  “What of King Arthur?” Brisen asked. “Did he speak of him at all . . . or of the queen?”

  Elaine was having trouble breathing. “A little. Once he—he called the king familiar. And another time—” She leaned forward to take her ale from the table, but her hand was shaking so that she set it down again, not daring to bring it to her lips. “Another time,” she said, staring at the puddle on the table, “he started to say ‘Guinevere,’ then changed it to ‘the queen.’”

  “Ah. Well, if he is Sir Lancelot, there would be nothing strange in that. They say he is quite familiar with the queen.”

  “Idle rumors,” Elaine snapped.

  “This rumor is persistent, lady.”

  “That doesn’t make it true.”

  “No, it doesn’t. But if Sir Lancelot is out wandering the forest in search of a blank shield, then something very strange is going on at Camelot.”