Lancelot

by Gwen Rowley

  “I won’t,” Elaine promised. “But Torre—”

  “I will speak with him,” Pelleas said, and sighed. “Indeed, ’tis past time I did so. Go, make ready, and leave the rest to me.”

  Chapter 21

  THEY found Lancelot the next day. It happened quite by chance, when they came upon Lavaine in the marketplace, and he related all that had happened after the tournament.

  “Sir Lancelot lives,” Lavaine assured them, “though he is very ill. No, he can’t be moved,” he said in answer to Gawain’s questions as they turned into the forest, “but he is best where he is. Father Bernard is a notable healer.”

  Once they reached the cave’s entrance, Gawain declared his intention to leave them and ride back to Camelot.

  Elaine was sorry to see him go, and a bit puzzled that after searching so long and hard for Sir Lancelot, he would desert them on the very brink of attaining his goal. But Gawain would not be gainsaid, nor would he stay even to accept the meal that Father Bernard offered him.

  “Sir Lancelot is in good hands,” he said, “and I must return to court. Sir Lavaine, would you ride with me? You can give the king a full account of this matter.”

  “Oh!” Lavaine flushed. “What do you think, Father? Can you spare me?”

  “You go along, Lavaine,” the hermit answered, “we shall manage very well.”

  “Then yes,” Lavaine said, “thank you, Sir Gawain.”

  Gawain smiled at the boy. “Good. I would hear more of your part in the tournament, and I know the king will want to thank you personally for assisting Sir Lancelot.”

  They went off together, Lavaine looking slightly dazed and very happy as he turned to wave before vanishing between the trees.

  Father Bernard led Elaine and Brisen into the cave where Lancelot lay sleeping on a pallet.

  Brisen’s face grew grim as she made a brief examination. “He’s very weak.”

  Elaine stroked Lancelot’s hot, dry brow. She sensed that he was aware of her touch; his eyelids seemed to flicker just a little. She traced the dark, winged brows with her fingertip and smoothed the thick black hair behind his ear.

  He lay with his head turned toward her, his face quite still and peaceful, but with a grayish tinge to his skin that frightened her. And he was so thin. Astonishing that he could have lost so much flesh in so short a time. His collarbones stood out, and every bone in his deep-sprung rib cage was visible beneath the bandage wound round his chest. It was clean, she noted hopefully, but when she said as much to Brisen, the dark-eyed healer merely shook her head.

  “It isn’t draining,” she said, and Father Bernard, standing just behind her, nodded his agreement.

  “Good evening, Sir Lancelot,” Elaine said, watching him closely. Had there been some movement? She thought there was, so subtle that she could not have said just what it was, only that he seemed hear her. Or was she only seeing what she wanted to see?

  She took his hand, holding it between both of hers. “Lancelot, can you hear me?” she asked. “I know you cannot speak, but can you show me?”

  She searched his face anxiously, but there was no change. The thick black lashes lay unmoving against his pale cheeks, his lips did not seek to form a word or even the ghost of a smile.

  “His spirit has fled,” Brisen said behind her. She placed a hand upon Lancelot’s brow. “Lady, he is far away.” She closed her eyes and was silent for so long that Elaine began to wonder if she’d dropped off, but at last she sighed deeply and looked at Elaine, her dark eyes filled with pity.

  “What can we do?”

  “There is nothing any of us can do now . . . save you, perhaps.” Brisen gazed down upon the sleeping knight. “Talk to him. Call him back if you can. And send for me if there is any change.”

  AFTER an eternity, the silence was pierced by another voice. Lancelot could not make out the words, but the tone was as soothing as water over stone, beckoning him, drawing him back into the pain and flame.

  “No,” he tried to say, “no, let me rest,” but he could not form the words. Still the voice went on, and still he fought against it. The battle was sharp and brief, but then he knew that he was winning; the pain subsided, the voice faded until he was once again at peace. And then a despairing cry cut through the empty darkness.

  “Oh, Galahad, you have to try.”

  Something stirred in the silence of the crypt. Not du Lac, for he was dead, slain by the will of the Lady of the Lake. It was the Knight of the Red Sleeve who woke and knew it was his lady’s voice that called to him.

  “He cannot hear you,” a deep voice said. “I am sorry, lady, but I fear you’ve come too late.”

  Where was she? The darkness was too heavy; he could not find his way. And then she spoke again.

  “I will fetch Brisen. She must tell us what to do.”

  No, no, don’t leave, he cried, but she could not hear him. With the greatest effort of his life, he forced his lifeless finger to tighten around hers.

  “He does hear!” She took his hand, chafing it between her own, and the warmth of her touch spread up his arm. “You go, Father,” she said, “I will stay here.”

  Her voice was like a silver thread, showing him the way. When she fell silent, he was lost, slipping back, away from her. He squeezed her hand again, silently begging her to go on speaking.

  “I would have come sooner,” she said, “but I did not know where you were. No one knew. Sir Gawain came to Corbenic looking for you, and told me what had happened at the tourney.”

  Her words made little sense at first: Gawain, Corbenic—these were familiar, though he felt as though a thousand years had passed since he had heard them. But as she spoke on, images formed in his mind, first dim, then brighter.

  “Sir Gawain was terribly upset by what had happened and so ashamed that his brother was one of the knights who set upon you. Apparently it was all a mistake—they thought you were some stranger pretending to be Sir Lancelot in disguise . . . or something of the sort,” she added doubtfully. “It didn’t make much sense to me.”

  It made no sense to Lancelot, either. Oh, Agravaine he could understand—he had made an enemy of Gawain’s brother back in the days when they were squires. But Bors had been one of the knights—Bors, his cousin, one of the few at Camelot he would have called a friend.

  “Has he spoken?” another voice asked, a low, husky voice that was oddly soothing.

  “No,” Elaine said, “but he hears me.”

  “Then keep talking, lady.”

  Lancelot blessed the owner of that voice, though he did not know her name.

  “The king is furious with them all and very worried,” Elaine said quickly. “He suspected it was really you, and when Sir Gawain saw your shield, he confirmed it. I knew already,” she added quietly, stroking the hair back from his brow. “I guessed that night—we all did, really, but of course I couldn’t ask. You wouldn’t have told me, anyway, so what would have been the point?”

  So many lies. But he was free of them now; they were du Lac’s lies, and he was dead.

  “I left Corbenic with Sir Gawain,” Elaine went on, “he was very kind, and so concerned for you . . .”

  That is Gawain all over, Lancelot thought with bitter amusement. He’d rather have his tongue torn out than admit he’d be thrilled to find me dead. Gawain hates me, he did from the first, even before I unseated him and—

  (stole)

  —won his title.

  “He gave me the diamond,” Elaine said, “to give to you. Your prize. He told us all how bravely you fought. And he offered to send to his kinswoman, Lady Morgana, for a healer. I told him that wouldn’t be necessary, since Brisen is here, and he said if you have need of anything at all, we must send to him at once.”

  Why? Why would Gawain offer such a thing for me, a man he has every reason to detest? Surely this was taking hypocrisy to a new level. Or was it hypocrisy at all? Perhaps it was something altogether different that drove Gawain, a thing du Lac could never unders
tand.

  “Honor!” The Green Knight had laughed. “You do not know the meaning of the word . . . you’re not human anymore, not in any way that matters . . .”

  But he was free of the Green Knight, as well, and the Lady—she who had had claimed to love him as a son. But he wouldn’t think of the Lady. It was Elaine who mattered now. Elaine, whose sleeve had stanched his wound and saved him from the death decreed by the only mother he had ever known.

  “Poor Galahad,” she whispered, and he felt her cool lips brush his brow. “Hurry and get stronger so I can take you to Corbenic.”

  Corbenic. It sprang into his mind, then, so sharp and clear that a sigh of longing escaped his lips. If only he could see it all again, the tumbledown tower and cluttered little courtyard and Elaine laughing in the green grass beside the river.

  Du Lac was dead—let him lie there in his tomb. But as Elaine’s lips touched his brow again, Lancelot knew that he would live.

  Chapter 22

  “DON’T leave me.”

  Elaine started awake. She lay half upon the floor, her head resting on the edge of the pallet. For three days she had not stirred from this spot except for the most necessary errands, and every time she returned, it was to find Lancelot tossing restlessly until she spoke to him. Then he would sleep—a real sleep, Brisen assured her—which was what he needed most. But until now, he had not spoken.

  She raised her head, her neck stiff and every muscle aching. Lancelot’s eyes were open; they seemed enormous in his fleshless face.

  “Don’t leave me,” he said again, his voice barely more than a whisper.

  “I won’t.” She smiled at him through the tears that stung her eyes. “How are you?”

  “Hungry.”

  She laughed aloud. It was over, then; he would recover after all. Wincing a little as she turned her head, she called for Brisen to bring some broth and bread.

  The days passed quickly after that, and each one brought a marked improvement. Elaine, true to her word, sat beside him hour after hour while he slept. As he gained strength, they talked a little. Rather, Elaine talked, and Lancelot listened, prompting her with questions when she faltered. He never asked her of the present or the future, but always of her childhood, which he seemed to find endlessly enchanting.

  “Tell me how you found this place,” he would ask, or, “What is your favorite memory of your mother?” and Elaine would be off, reliving memories she had thought forgotten. Once, when Father Bernard was changing his bandage—always a painful business—she said, “What of you? Tell me of your childhood!”

  “I lost my parents young,” Lancelot said, wincing as Father Bernard tugged at the edge of his bandage, “and was brought up by—by my foster mother.”

  “Did you really not know your name when you arrived at Camelot?” Elaine asked curiously.

  “No, it was only later that I learned it.”

  “But what were you called?”

  He shrugged, then drew in a hissing breath as the bandage came free. Elaine could hardly bear to look upon the wound, but Father Bernard nodded as though satisfied. “My . . . tutor called me Boy—when he wasn’t calling me other things,” Lancelot said with a wry smile. “My foster mother and her household said King’s son.

  “King’s son? So you knew you were a prince?”

  “Oh, yes, I always knew that.”

  “But not your name?”

  “The Lady—my foster mother—said I must learn that for myself, when I was older.”

  “But why?” Elaine asked. “Surely you asked!”

  “Many times, but she would never answer, save to say it was my destiny.”

  “How peculiar! Did she really call her manor Avalon? What sort of place is it?”

  “I remember so little now,” Lancelot said. “For years, my childhood has been lost to me. Sometimes, though, I can see the lake—that is what I remember best. I used to lie beside it in the tall grass and dream about the future. A courtyard with a fountain.” He winced as Father Bernard began to clean the wound, then suddenly he laughed. “The tapestry beside my bed! Yes, of course, how could I have forgotten? It changed—shifted—so every day it showed a new scene from a story. There was a maiden in a tower and . . . and a prince, I think he was, and . . . no, it is gone.”

  A tapestry that shifted? Elaine brushed her fingers across his wrist; she was not certain whether she was more relieved or alarmed to find it cool.

  “Feasting in the hall,” Lancelot went on, his eyes wide and dreaming, “pipes and drums beneath the moon, and something—something in the oak grove; I cannot remember what. The Lady, of course, and—and a man who hated me, a knight who went always in green armor.”

  “The Green Knight?” Elaine asked, relieved to have some solid bit of fact to cling to. “He who visited Camelot to challenge Sir Gawain?”

  “Yes. He was my tutor. He always hated me,” Lancelot added in a low voice, “I think he would have slain me if he could, but the Lady would not allow it. But that was when I had her favor.”

  “And you do not now?”

  Lancelot closed his eyes and shook his head mutely.

  “How did you lose it?” Father Bernard asked, dabbing green ointment on the wound.

  “The Lady brought me to Camelot to serve the king. I was her gift to him, her knight she had brought up and trained to his service.”

  “Her gift?” Elaine repeated, but Father Bernard motioned her to silence.

  “Go on, Sir Lancelot,” he said quietly. “What did you do to so offend your foster mother? Did you not serve the king as she desired?”

  Lancelot’s head moved restlessly on the pillow. “Yes. I did all she asked—and I was glad to do it, I was proud to serve King Arthur. But then there was Guinevere . . .”

  Elaine stiffened. For days she had been braced to hear him call out for the queen in his delirium, but never once had he uttered her name. Now, just when she had relaxed her guard, it cut her like a blade. She must have made some sound, for Lancelot looked sideways at her, then away. “Or, no. I—I misspoke. I am so weary, I hardly know what I am saying.”

  “Tcha, child,” Father Bernard said comfortably, “do not trouble yourself. We are all friends here, you know; you can say anything to us.” He looked across the bed at Elaine and nodded toward the opening. When she hesitated, he nodded again, this time more forcefully.

  “I shall leave you to your rest,” she said to Lancelot, gently removing her hand from his.

  “Will you come back?”

  “Of course! Sleep, and I will see you later.”

  WHEN Elaine was gone, Lancelot closed his eyes, wishing he could recall every word he had spoken. What had he been thinking to go on like that? What must Elaine be thinking now?

  “Lancelot,” Father Bernard said gently. “You can confide in me. You needn’t fear that anything you say will pass beyond these walls. I have taken my own vows and will keep them unto death.”

  “Forgive me, Father, I have sinned?” Lancelot said with a low, bitter laugh. “No, thank you. I have no faith in your god’s powers to put right my wrongs.”

  “You needn’t make a formal confession to be assured of my silence, and your faith is a matter between you and God. But it seems to me you bear a heavy burden. When first we met, before King Arthur’s tournament, I sensed that you were troubled—no, more, that you had bid farewell to hope. Was this because the Lady had withdrawn her favor?”

  Lancelot looked at him for a long moment, then nodded. “I knew before I rode into the tourney that she meant for me to die.”

  “Yet here you are, very much alive.”

  “I should be dead—I was meant to be.” Lancelot made an impatient sound. “I know you won’t believe me—”

  “Why should I not?”

  “Because I know how it must sound! And it matters not now—as you say, I am alive. Only . . .” The hermit looked down at the linen he was unrolling, and at last his patience was rewarded. “I have been thinking,” Lancelot sai
d in an almost inaudible voice, “about my mother. My true mother. And the Lady of the Lake.”

  “I once met the Lady of the Lake,” Bernard remarked. “I thought her very beautiful and rather terrifying.”

  “Yes,” Lancelot agreed, “she is both. But she was always very kind to me.” He looked away, the muscles of his jaw working. “Very kind,” he repeated. “Until . . .”

  “Was she really?” Father Bernard inquired curiously. “To steal a child—a noble child, a prince—and keep him from his home and kin—”

  “But she had to do that,” Lancelot interrupted. “It was my destiny.”

  “Was it your poor mother’s destiny to lose both son and husband in one night? She searched for you, my child, throughout that night and for many days after.”

  Lancelot’s eyes shut tight as though in pain. “I know. Lionel—my cousin—told me. He saw her just before she died, and he said she was at peace. He said she was certain I still lived.”

  Father Bernard laid the new bandage gently on Lancelot’s wound. “God granted her that knowledge, and yet that does not absolve the Lady of the Lake of her crime—for it was a crime, you know, and a very wicked thing to do.”

  “You judge her by our laws, and yet—”

  “I do not judge her at all. I leave that to God.”

  Lancelot shook his head. “You do not understand. She is beyond God’s judgment.”

  “No man—or woman—is beyond God’s judgment,” Father Bernard said sternly; then all at once he smiled, his eyes warm and sympathetic. “So you have lost her favor. Very well, then, you shall have to live without it. You are still a knight of Camelot. You are still a man.”

  “But I was never meant to be a man, not like other men. I was meant to be the champion of Avalon. Without the Lady’s favor, I can never fulfill my destiny, and then—then . . .”