Lancelot

by Gwen Rowley

  He stared at her as though he had never really seen her before. “Then what do you think happened in Norhaut?” he said at last.

  “You fought and won a battle. That much we can be certain of, as the castle is now yours. As for the rest, it could be that the damsel—the one from the Lady of the Lake—made you believe things that were not real. Father Bernard told me once such a thing was possible, he had seen it for himself in his travels to the east, in the days he was a knight.”

  Lancelot shook his head, not in denial but as though to clear it. “Elaine, if what you say is true . . . then I am mad, for I remember fighting every moment of that battle. And my time in Avalon—it was not as you say.”

  “Are you sure?” she asked gently.

  “Yes.” He put a hand to his head, rubbing the space between his brows. “Or . . . how can I be sure of anything?”

  “You can be sure of me,” she answered, resting her hand upon his shoulder. He seized it in his own and brought it to his lips.

  “Yes. I am sure of you, Elaine.”

  “Then all will be well,” she said simply. “Now, tell me what happened after the battle.”

  “When it was finished, the lady who had brought me there said the castle was to be mine. Apparently some old seer had predicted the whole thing, and it was writ upon a scroll.”

  “There, you see? That is quite impossible.”

  “I saw the scroll, Elaine. It is still in Joyous Gard if you care to examine it yourself.”

  “Oh, I don’t doubt it exists. But it must have been some sort of trick, or—”

  “A lucky guess? I suppose it could have been either, though why they would go to so much trouble to present me with a castle is a mystery. Still, let’s call it a guess—a particularly lucky one, for the scroll specified a nameless knight as their savior from the tyrant. It went on to say that this knight would find his name inscribed below the castle. Before you ask, the ink was dry,” he added wryly. “I checked. In fact, the scroll appeared to be quite old, though I imagine there are ways to manufacture the appearance of age. But again, why would they bother?”

  “I don’t know,” Elaine admitted. Frightened, she reached for his hand. “It’s such a very odd thing to do.”

  “Not nearly as odd as what happened next. The lady led me down through the crypts. Do you know, I’d never seen a crypt before, or a corpse—save for men new slain in battle, which isn’t the same thing at all . . .”

  He was silent for a moment, his eyes dark with some deeply unpleasant memory, then went on, “She took me to a marble slab set into the floor. I lifted the slab—easily, though it must have weighed half a ton—and went down the steps beneath. It was all dust and cobwebs, and at the bottom was a small chamber with a marble bier. At the foot was a plaque that read, ‘Here will lie Sir Lancelot du Lac, son of King Ban of Benwick.’”

  Elaine frowned. “I don’t believe it.”

  “I assure you it is there. I will show it to you if—”

  “Oh, I believe you. But someone arranged it—they must have.”

  “Yes, of course. The Lady of the Lake.”

  Elaine shivered, wondering at the mind that could plan such a thing so far in advance. “How cruel!” she said, very low. “And to what purpose?”

  “That I cannot say.” He lay back in the straw as though exhausted. “I only brought it up in the first place because I wanted you to understand that Joyous Gard is not a place to which I am overly attached. In fact, I haven’t been back since that first time until we went together. It is only joyous when you are in it, Elaine.” He cupped her chin in one hard palm and turned her face to his. “I would as lief stay here, an it pleases you.”

  “Thank you.” She kissed him gently and lay down again, their bodies curling together. “But Lancelot,” she said after a time, “I wonder what purpose it served to keep you in ignorance of your identity for so many years? And why choose such a complicated way to—”

  His mouth came down on hers, silencing her questions. When his hand moved down her neck to cup her breast, she decided they could wait. Only later, when they lay entwined again, the sweat cooling on Elaine’s body, did she remember what she had meant to ask.

  “Lancelot,” she began, and when he did not answer, she raised herself on an elbow to find he was asleep. Sighing, she lay down beside him and rested her head on his chest.

  There was something very peculiar going on. Not magical, of course, though someone had gone to a good deal of trouble to make it look like magic. This was some complex web of intrigue, carefully planned, meticulously executed—but to what end?

  She was certain of only one thing: Lancelot was an unwitting participant in whatever intrigue was being carried out. He looked so young, so innocent, with his hair curling round his sleep-flushed cheeks. For a moment she could see the child he had been, stolen from his grieving mother and denied even the knowledge of his name. All part of a plan, she thought, and suddenly she knew that they—no, she, the Lady of the Lake—was not finished with him yet.

  “You shan’t have him,” she said aloud. “He is mine.”

  She hadn’t noticed how very silent the barn was until she spoke. Though her voice had been little more than a whisper, her last word lingered in the stillness. Mine. The air was strangely heavy, as happened in the moment before a storm, though now the sun shone through the little chinks in the walls, bits of chaff suspended in the beams like faery dust.

  Elaine sat up, every muscle tensed and all her senses straining. As the silence lengthened, she became aware of her own heart thudding audibly and the rasping of her breath. When a gust of wind shook the barn, she started with a little cry. It whistled shrilly through the walls with a sound like mocking laughter.

  Chapter 29

  “WAKE up,” Elaine said urgently. “We must go.”

  Lancelot opened one eye. “Not yet.”

  “Yes, now.” She rummaged in the straw and found his shirt. Tossing it to him, she dragged her shift over her head. “Hurry.”

  “Why?”

  A logical question, and one for which she had no answer. There was no explaining her sudden panic, the feeling that they had to get away at once. “Just do as I say,” she snapped, and he sat up, brows raised.

  “Where are we going?”

  “To—to the fields. We must turn the hay while the sun is strong.”

  “If you like,” he said agreeably. “You’ve got your kirtle on back to front. Here, let me, you’re all in a tangle.”

  “I can do it.” She jerked it off with shaking hands and twisted it around. “Please, just—”

  And then she heard it, the sound she now realized she’d been waiting for. The sound of hoofbeats on the road.

  Lancelot hadn’t noticed. He pulled on his boots and looked at her, still sitting in her shift with her kirtle clutched before her. “Well? Are you coming?”

  He hadn’t bothered with his jerkin, still damp from the storm, and wore only a pair of faded trews with a linen shirt, splashed with drying mud. It was open at the neck, revealing the strong brown column of his throat, and bits of hay were caught among his raven curls. When he smiled and held out a hand to her, tears started to her eyes. “Too late,” she whispered.

  “Too late for—?” He stiffened, looking toward the door.

  The rider had stopped and was calling to someone—Torre, perhaps—asking for Sir Lancelot.

  “That sounds like—”

  “Sir Bors,” Elaine said.

  “Yes, you’re right, it does.”

  Lancelot swung himself over the side of the hayloft and dropped lightly to the ground, calling over his shoulder for her to hurry before he vanished out the door. Elaine pulled on her kirtle and ran her fingers through her hair, dislodging as much hay as she could, then twisted it into an untidy braid. Her hands were steady now, her eyes dry, though she felt as stiff as an old woman as she went carefully down the ladder. When she reached the doorway, she looked back. All was peaceful, utterly serene.
Tiny beams of sunlight turned straw to gold, and the air was fragrant with crushed flowers.

  Damn you.

  She did not speak the words aloud, for of course there was no one there to hear her. No one at all. Slowly, still moving with that odd, jerky stiffness, she opened the door and stepped outside.

  “Elaine!” Lancelot called, gesturing her over to where he stood with Torre and another young man, who turned quickly, smiling as she approached. “Look, it is Bors!”

  “Lady Elaine.” Bors bowed. “I am so pleased to see you again.” His eyes went from her to Lancelot, taking in their crumpled clothing, liberally bedecked with chaff and straw, and a quick blush stained his cheeks.

  “Yes, she’s quite a sight,” Torre drawled, and though Elaine knew she should be mortified, she could not find the energy to care.

  “Welcome to Corbenic, Sir Bors,” she said. “Won’t you come inside?”

  “I’m sorry, but I cannot stop. I am on an errand from the king.”

  Elaine put out a hand to grasp the fence post behind her.

  “Lance,” Bors went on, turning to his cousin, “we’re off to settle this Claudus. The king bade me find you. Here, he sent you this.”

  Lancelot took the square of parchment and turned it in his hands, breaking the seal with such eagerness that the parchment tore a little.

  “Claudus?” Elaine said.

  “Claudus set himself up as Emperor of Rome some time ago and demanded tribute of King Arthur. Of course he was refused, but the king has been keeping an eye on him ever since.”

  After his haste to unseal the letter, Lancelot was showing a strange reluctance to read it. He held the folded square in his hands as Bors went on about Claudus, almost as if he feared to see what was within. At last he unfolded it and read, his expression deeply wary. A moment later he smiled, just a little, then his smile widened to a grin, and at last he laughed aloud.

  “It is good news?” Elaine asked.

  “Yes. It’s all right, he isn’t angry. He said he’s sorry to disturb my convalescence, but needs must. And he sent you, Bors, because he knows the man who could leave his spear tip in my ribs and live to tell the tale is one I love too well to refuse.”

  Bors blushed again. “He is jesting—”

  “Yes, but it is true,” Lancelot said. He looked very merry, but Elaine fancied there was a hard brilliance to his humor. When he looked at her, his eyes seemed fever bright.

  “He remembers you, too, Elaine. Listen. ‘Give the Lady Elaine our thanks for her care of you, and her patience in bearing with your company. She must be a very saint, and if her beauty is even half what rumor makes it, ’tis no wonder we have not seen your face in Camelot. Say to her—or not, as your discretion bids you—that we shall keep you but a little while, and with God’s help, return you all the better for your adventure.’”

  “He is very kind,” Elaine said.

  “Always.” Lancelot folded the letter carefully. “I must go, Elaine.”

  “Of course you must,” she said.

  In the act of tucking the letter into his belt, Lancelot halted. He wore the look of someone trying very hard to remember something . . . or a man straining to make out a distant sound inaudible to any but himself.

  “The ships are provisioned and waiting . . .” Bors went on, but Elaine was not listening.

  Lancelot’s eyes widened. His lips parted slightly, as though he was about to cry out in surprise, but then he checked himself and made no sound save a sharply indrawn breath.

  “I waited until the last to come to you,” Bors finished, “and so I’m afraid we’ll have to go at once.”

  “At once,” Lancelot repeated distractedly. “Yes. I—a moment, Bors, I think I left something . . .”

  He ran to the barn, pulled open the door, and vanished inside. Torre glanced at Elaine, brows raised. She shrugged as though nothing were amiss. “How is Sir Lionel?” she asked.

  Bors grimaced. “Still Lionel, I fear.”

  They passed a few minutes laughing at Lionel’s latest scrape, but soon the subject was exhausted, and Lancelot had not returned.

  After a rather awkward time, when the three of them stood looking at anything but one another, Torre said abruptly, “Do you think he ran off?”

  Bors laughed. “Lance, run from a fight?”

  Elaine laughed, too, albeit a trifle wanly. Another minute passed before Lancelot emerged from the barn, and she knew at once that something had happened. He was once again the knight who had first arrived at Corbenic. Even dressed as he was in his mud-spattered shirt and old trews, he stood apart from the common run of men. He did not glow; such a word was too tame for the fire that consumed him from within. When he reached them, the others seemed to fade, while Lancelot stood out in sharp relief.

  “Sorry,” he said, “I couldn’t find it at once. Bors, I need a few minutes with Elaine. Come, man,” he added with an edge of his old arrogance, “the ship won’t sail without me.”

  Bors glanced at him, surprised, then back to Elaine. “Perhaps I do have time for ale before we ride. Sir Torre, if you would be so kind . . .”

  “Elaine, I’m sorry for this,” Lancelot said the moment they were alone, though he did not look sorry in the least. He looked . . . happy, a little stunned, as though he had received an unexpected gift of great magnificence.

  She had seen that look before, though for a moment she could not imagine when or where. And then it came to her. With a cold shock she remembered seeing just that expression on his face the first time they lay together.

  “The timing is wretched, I know,” he went on, and though he did his best to look concerned, his glowing eyes and ruddy cheeks gave him the lie, “but it shouldn’t take too long.”

  She nodded, not trusting herself to speak, and he took two steps forward to lay his hands upon her shoulders. “Say something; don’t just look at me as though I’ve killed the cat!”

  “You—you are pleased,” she faltered, the words not quite a question.

  “Not pleased to leave you, no—but, Elaine, the king has sent for me. I cannot deny that brings me joy.”

  But it was not the king’s message that had given him that unseely glow. No, that had come after. What had he heard upon the wind? Who had been waiting in the barn?

  She shivered. “Lancelot, I’m frightened.”

  “There is no need. As soon as this is settled, I’ll be back. Do you hear me, Elaine?” he said, giving her a little shake. “I will be back.”

  “You cannot be certain—”

  “But I am. It’s all right now, I’ve been given another chance.”

  Oh, God, she thought, sweet Jesu, let him not mean what I think he does. “By the king?” she asked, her voice seeming to come from very far away.

  His hesitation lasted but a moment, though it was long enough for her to read the answer in his eyes. “Yes,” he said too quickly. “Yes, by the king. All is as it was before, and this time—this time I will do better. So you see, there is no need to worry.”

  But all she saw was a man in the grip of a dangerous delusion.

  “Lancelot,” she said, choosing each word with care, “do nothing reckless, I beg you. Remember your wound.”

  “I’ll remember it,” he promised solemnly, “every time it rains. And I am never reckless—well, almost never.” He drew a finger down her cheek. “Don’t fear, love; no harm will come to me.”

  “You sound so sure. How can you know such a thing?” she asked, striving to sound merely curious.

  He smiled down at her and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “I have fought before, you know. They say I’m rather good at it.”

  There was no one in the barn, she told herself. There is no such thing as a magical lady who can appear and disappear at will. He is confused—mistaken—his mind was twisted when he was just a child. Not his fault. Not madness. He was better, much better until today.

  “Is it . . .” She drew a breath and finished in a rush. “Is it becau
se the Lady of the Lake has said so?”

  His dark brows drew together in a scowl. “Leave off, Elaine. You would not understand. But in the end, it makes no difference. The king commands; I must, perforce, obey. That is how it is with me, how it will always be. Before all I am the king’s man.”

  “Yes, of course,” she said, “I understand that much.”

  “Then you know everything that matters.”

  But she knew nothing at all, save that he had changed in the space of a few moments. He seemed a stranger—the great du Lac—not her Lancelot at all. Helplessly, hating herself, Elaine began to cry. “This Lady—whoever or whatever she may be—is using you. Can you not see that?”

  He frowned, rubbed absently at the space between his eyes. “Leave off, Elaine, I beg you. You know nothing of the Lady, and I do not want to quarrel with you now.”

  “What has she offered you, Lancelot?” Elaine cried. “What payment for your services?”

  He whitened to the lips. “I said leave off!”

  He was slipping away from her, so quickly that she could scarce accept what was happening. His smile looked strained as he held out his hand. “Elaine, I don’t want to go like this. Come, kiss me farewell; Bors is waiting.”

  But when he bent to her, she turned her face away. “Tell me one thing more,” she said, her voice shaking. “Will you see the queen before you sail?”

  “Oak and ash, not that again!” he said impatiently. “I have no idea where the queen is now. Belike she is in Camelot, though she may have gone to the ships with—”

  “Swear that you will have no private speech with Guinevere before you leave. Give me your oath upon it!”

  Who is this woman with the shrill, ugly voice? Not me, Elaine thought, appalled, no, this isn’t me, it can’t be—

  “How dare you tell me who I may or may not speak to?” he demanded. “I have said I love you—I have offered you marriage. What more do you want of me?” He turned away, adding bitterly, “If you really loved me, you would trust me.”