by Gwen Rowley
“How very sensible you are, my dear! But I should like nothing better than to meet a spirit! Particularly that of a young and handsome knight!”
Morgause was not so bad, Elaine thought as they walked together toward the tower. Indeed, she was that most pitiable of beings, a beautiful woman who could not accept the fact that she was growing old. Mayhap if King Lot had lived, it would be different. He’d been something of a scoundrel by all accounts, but Brisen had once said that Morgause always spoke of him with great affection. How sad that they could not have grown old together, she thought, and to her surprise, she felt tears start to her eyes as she led Morgause up the narrow, winding stairway.
I should have brought a torch, she thought. “Can you see, madam?”
“Oh, yes.” Morgause, behind her, sounded slightly breathless. “I see very well in the dark. Like a cat,” she added with a little laugh that echoed strangely in the narrow stairway. “Let us begin with the highest chamber. Isn’t that where the ghost is said to dwell?”
“Yes.” Elaine, who had never felt the least uneasiness in this place, felt a strange reluctance to open the door. It had been barred from the outside some years before when a serving lad ran screaming from the tower, swearing he had seen a man in armor floating several feet above the floor. Nonsense, of course, and yet . . .
“Are you sure . . .” she began uncertainly, but Morgause had already reached past her and lifted the bar.
“Quite sure,” she said, and there was something in her voice that raised the hairs on Elaine’s neck. “Quite, quite sure,” she added, and just as Elaine decided that something was very wrong, Morgause flung open the door and pushed her so sharply between the shoulder blades that she stumbled, falling painfully to her hands and knees.
“What—” she began, but she never had the chance to complete her question.
“Farewell, my dear!” Morgause’s voice was harsh, her laughter like a shriek. “Alas, we shall not meet again!”
Elaine was on her feet in an instant, but the door had already slammed shut. Even as she put out her hand, a wall of flame rose before her, reaching to the ceiling.
“What—?” she said again, falling back before the blistering heat. “Morgause! Fire! Help me!”
No answer came. She tried reaching through the flames to seize the latch, but her groping hand met only searing air. She drew it back, frantically slapping at her burning sleeve as she flew to the one narrow window. Before she could scream for help, the fire had spread there, as well.
There was no way out. No hope of rescue, either, for no one save Morgause knew where she had gone. By the time someone spotted the flames, it would be too late. There was no smoke, she noted with the small corner of her mind that was not swamped in panic. The flames were all around her now, but there was no smoke at all.
She returned to the door, steeling herself against the pain, but though she tried again and again to break through the burning wall, there seemed to be no end to it.
She fell back to the center of the floor and went down on her knees. “Pater noster qui es in caelis,” she began, but could not remember what came next. Sweat poured down her face and stung her eyes. I don’t want to die, she thought, not now, not yet.
“Help me!” she screamed with all her strength, though she could scarce hear her own voice over the fire’s roar. She clasped her blistered hands and prayed that if help did not arrive, she would not lose her courage. But even that prayer was denied.
Just before the end, her cries changed. It was no longer help she asked for, or courage, or even a quick death. “Lancelot!” she screamed. “Lancelot!” Again and again she called his name until darkness closed around her.
Chapter 43
MORGAUSE strolled through the garden, stopping now and then to sniff a blossom. When the moon had risen, she pulled her gown over one white shoulder and carefully untucked a small braid from the intricate arrangement on her brow, draping it so it fell artfully into the bodice of her gown. After a moment, she sighed and dipped her finger in the earth, then drew it across her cheek.
When she reached the garden’s edge, she ran, arriving breathless in the hall. “Fire!” she cried. “Fire—in the tower—”
A handful of servants looked up, their mouths agape. Lord Pelleas leapt from his seat at the high table. “Fire?” he repeated, his voice quavering. “What—where—”
“Hurry!” Morgause cried. “Lady Elaine is—”
“What’s ado?” Sir Torre called from the doorway. He was already half undressed, his unbound hair loose about his face. Morgause’s eyes drifted over his broad shoulders and muscled chest, bared to the firelight, before recalling herself sharply to the present.
“Fire—in the tower—” she gasped. “Lady Elaine—the torch fell and caught—she would not come away, I begged her—oh, hurry, hurry!”
Torre was already gone, Pelleas following behind him. Morgause arranged herself on the settee, one arm draped across the back, hoping that Sir Torre might return and be moved to comfort her in her distress. She sighed, imagining the form that comfort might take, and closed her eyes. A moment later they flew open and she sputtered a shocked cry. Brisen stood over her, a dripping pitcher in her hand.
“Where is Lady Elaine?”
Morgause sat up, her eyes narrowing. “Why, you—” Remembering herself, she answered faintly, “In the tower—the torch dropped—”
“What were you doing there?”
“She—she was showing me the haunted chamber.”
“Oh, was she?” Brisen leaned close. “If any harm comes to her—”
“I shall be utterly bereft. But she was the one who insisted on going there in the first place. Then she stumbled, the torch dropped and caught a pile of old linen. I told her to come away, I begged her, but she insisted on plunging in. The flames spread and—” Morgause laid a hand on her brow. “I tried to reach her, but . . .”
Before Morgause could finish, Brisen turned and ran from the hall.
Morgause stood and went to her chamber, calling for her maid. “Pack everything,” she ordered curtly. “We leave first thing tomorrow. And bring me wine. I’ve had a fearsome shock.”
She was lying in bed, sipping her wine and regretting that she would not have the opportunity to test Sir Torre’s mettle on this visit, when the door opened and Brisen burst into the room.
“Why was the door barred from without?”
“Barred?” Morgause widened her eyes. “Oh, no, I left it open—it must have been a draught—” She paused a moment, then said, “Did you reach her in time?”
“We didn’t reach her at all. The bar won’t shift. But she’s alive.”
“How can you be certain?” Morgause asked uneasily.
Brisen’s eyes were sharp upon her face. “Lady Elaine was under my protection. She is alive. Now tell me what you did so I can undo it.”
“I?” Morgause drew herself up against the bolster. “What can you mean? I have told you already what happened.”
“You lied.” Brisen sat down on the edge of the bed. “A clumsy lie, Morgause. Have you forgotten that the blood of the Old Ones runs in my veins, as well?”
“You speak of what you do not understand,” Morgause retorted coldly. “The fate of kingdoms . . .”
“The fate of kingdoms?” Brisen repeated with a derisive laugh. “Oh, is that what this is about? I would have said you care only for yourself and your ambition—had I an opinion on such matters, which I do not. I am but a simple country lass these days; no longer do I meddle in the destinies of kings. But Elaine is different. She is dear to me, Morgause. I thought I made that clear at Camelot.”
Morgause straightened, her eyes flashing. The air crackled around them as she gathered power around her like a shimmering cloak. One lift of her hand, and Brisen’s head snapped back, striking the bedpost with a crack. Morgause relaxed against the bolster and had just reached for her wine when Brisen’s eyes fluttered open, and she dragged herself upright. The ma
id’s face was ashen, her hands shaking as she pushed the hair back from her face. The dark strands now held a streak of white, starting at the center of her brow and running like a silver ribbon through the loose plait hanging past her hips.
A small price to pay, Morgause thought, reaching for her wine, to learn respect for her superiors.
Brisen drew an unsteady breath and leaned forward, one hand braced upon the wall beside the queen’s head, dark eyes inches from Morgause’s. Silly girl, had she not learned her lesson yet? Apparently stronger measures would be needed.
Morgause made to lift her hand again and found that she could not. Nor could she look away. The girl is better than I thought, she reflected with amusement, and reached for the power that always lay in wait.
Only to find it far beyond her grasp.
“What did you do?” Brisen asked distinctly.
“Called fire into the tower,” Morgause answered, cursing herself but unable to hold back her reply.
“And what do you mean by the greatest knight in the world?”
“I have no idea what you are talking about.”
“The placard,” Brisen said impatiently. “’Tis plain enough what it says, but—”
“What placard?”
“The one at the foot of the tower, the plinth with silver letters. Tell me what it means!”
“I cannot. It has naught to do with me.”
Brisen leaned forward, her gaze so compelling that Morgause drew a hissing breath of pain. “You don’t, do you?” Brisen said at last. She straightened and put her hands on her hips, then laughed. “You fool, calling on forces beyond your ken—I would think at your age you would know better. Lady Elaine lives, and one day she will be free.”
“And when might that be?” Morgause asked.
“When the greatest knight in all the world releases her.”
“When that happy day arrives, I shall be the first to drink the lady’s health,” Morgause replied, lifting her hand to cover a yawn. “But in the meantime, I would like to get some sleep.”
Brisen laughed again, the sound pounding against Morgause’s throbbing temples. “You won’t sleep, not tonight or any other night until she’s free. Nonetheless, you will be out of here at dawn.”
Chapter 44
SIR Dinadan picked up his wooden mazer and sniffed, his nose wrinkling with fastidious distaste. “I say, Gawain, I wouldn’t drink this if I were you. It smells of horse piss.” He turned to a passing serving boy. “You! Take this away and bring us wine. Cold meat, as well, cheese—and bread if you have any fresh. I suppose it is too much to hope for fruit.”
“Aye, sir—that is, no, sir—” the boy stammered, accepting the mazer Dinadan thrust toward him and reaching for the second. Gawain’s hand closed over his wrist.
“Leave it. Just bring the wine. We haven’t time to eat.”
“Oh, Gawain, I am famished—” Dinadan began, but Gawain had already waved the boy away.
“You can eat up at the hall.”
“Must we go back there?” Dinadan asked piteously.
“We said we would.” Gawain sipped the ale, grimaced, and set it down. The knight looked weary and disheveled, his golden hair singed around the edges and a streak of soot upon his brow. He turned a small vial—empty now of the holy water it had contained—in his long fingers, and his eyes moved over the village square where they sat at a rickety table outside the tiny alehouse.
Corbenic was a wretched place, Dinadan thought; no proper tavern, no shops to speak of, only a few dusty trees drooping in the heat and a handful of depressed-looking peasants wandering aimlessly about. A group of boys—who should surely have been working at this hour—were gathered by the smithy, obviously up to no good.
The wine, when it arrived, was so thin and sour that Dinadan was tempted to throw it in the serving boy’s face. But after his ordeal in that damned scorching tower, he was too parched even to complain. He forced it down while Gawain stared glumly up the hillside, where the tower crouched above the village like some beast of prey just waiting for the chance to spring.
“It isn’t your fault,” Dinadan said at last. “No one could possibly have shifted that bar.”
Gawain’s eyes fixed suddenly on Dinadan’s face, their expression so bleak that Dinadan felt compelled to try again. “The thing is obviously impossible. All that rubbish about only the best knight succeeding—you are the best, Gawain, no one disputes that . . . now.”
Gawain’s lips twisted in a smile. “Now that Sir Lancelot is gone.”
“Well, yes. And even when he was . . . himself, I doubt he could have broken whatever enchantment has been laid upon the lady. Oh, Lancelot was exceptional in his way, but there was always something a bit off about him, I thought so from the first. He was damned impertinent to you on more than one occasion, and then all that business with the queen . . .”
Dinadan trailed to a stop, suddenly remembering that Gawain had never credited that tale and had sometimes been quite fierce with those who did. “What I mean to say,” he went on quickly, “is that he treated Lady Elaine quite shabbily when he was in his senses, so there’s no earthly reason to imagine he’d do her any good now that he is mad. Besides, a madman can hardly be considered the best knight in the world. It doesn’t stand to reason.”
“Nothing about this business stands to reason.” Gawain tossed back the rest of his ale. “Come on, let’s see Lord Pelleas.”
“Oh, very well,” Dinadan grumbled, heaving himself to his feet and trailing drearily toward the livery stable. “Though I hardly see the point. He must know by now we failed—not that anyone ever expected anything from me. Stand aside,” he added impatiently to the peasants cluttering his path.
They were gathered on the roadway beside the smithy, a group comprised mostly of young men, laughing and jeering and wielding bits of rotting vegetable and offal. Dinadan stepped hastily aside as a turnip whistled past his ear.
“Move, churls,” he cried. “We are knights of Camelot! What is that you’re gaping at?” he added, peering over the shoulder of the nearest boy at an iron cage containing what appeared to be a naked man. “Is it a criminal?”
“It’s the wild man,” the churl said, laughing. “They caught him yestere’en. We’re trying to wake him up.”
“Yes, I see. Look, Gawain, a wild man. Fascinating, I’m sure, but we’ve no time to stop—”
“He’s been lurking in the forest for weeks,” the boy went on, “no one could catch more than a glimpse of him. But then, yesterday, Sir Torre was a-hunting stag—”
“’Twas a boar, you oaf,” another lad cried, “and it gored Sir Torre’s horse. And there was Sir Torre on the ground all topsy-turvy, having lost his spear when he fell, and the boar all set to charge him—”
“And out of the forest comes the wild man,” a third interrupted, “and what does he do but pick up the spear and run the boar through? Killed it dead with one stroke—”
“’Twas a mighty blow,” the second lad continued. “Sir Torre said he’d never seen the like. And so they tried to catch the wild man, but he was terrible strong—knocked down three of the serving men and was going after Sir Torre himself—”
“And then me da felled him with his cudgel,” the third boy finished proudly. “So now we have him, but all he does is lie there. We want to stir him up a bit.”
“Of course you do,” Dinadan said, “and good luck to you. Now, we have business with your lord, so if you’d be so kind as to let us pass . . .”
The boys moved aside, and Dinadan realized that Gawain was not beside him. The knight was standing just before the cage, staring through the bars as though transfixed.
“Gawain,” he called, “let us go.”
“No, wait.” Gawain gestured him over. “Dinadan, look.”
Dinadan trotted over and gazed obediently into the cage. Though he’d never actually seen a wild man before, he supposed this one to be a fairly common specimen: filthy, emaciated, his face obscured b
y a tangled growth of beard and a great deal of matted hair.
“Mmm . . . yes. Quite.” As there seemed no further comment to be made, he took a step away.
Gawain did not follow. His expression was a curious mixture of astonishment and horror as he regarded the iron cage. Puzzled, Dinadan looked more carefully, then shrugged. The wild man was not the least bit wild, just repulsive and rather tedious.
“Lord Pelleas is expecting us,” he said at last. “’Tis unkind to keep him waiting.”
Gawain’s peculiar trance broke. “Yes,” he said, “yes, he is.” They had traveled scarce half a dozen paces when Gawain halted and looked back. “Dinadan—”
“Oh, for God’s sake, come on,” Dinadan said, taking Gawain’s arm and turning him toward the stable.
He hoped Gawain was not about to have a pious fit and insist on doing something about the wretched creature. Not that Gawain was prone to sentimentality, save in one respect, and that hardly fit the case. The knight, so fierce in battle, could not bear to pass a stray mongrel without throwing it a bit of food, and had once returned to Camelot with a bag full of kittens he’d fished out of a millpond. It was one of those oddities of human nature that Dinadan usually found amusing, but a wild man was not something one could keep in one’s chamber and feed on orts.
“You leave him be, Gawain,” he said sternly. “He’s no concern of ours.”
Gawain looked at him for a long moment, his gray eyes strangely clouded. Then his features hardened in the determined expression Dinadan knew too well. “You’re wrong,” he said.
He strode back across the square, shouting for someone to come unlock the cage. Dinadan followed, sighing. There was no point in arguing once Gawain made up his mind. Certainly a handful of churls could not stay his course. After only the feeblest of protests, the blacksmith unbolted the cage. Gawain knelt, slipped an arm beneath the wild man’s neck to lift him, and brushed the matted hair back from his brow, speaking to him so quietly that Dinadan could not make out his words over the excited babble of the crowd.