Lancelot

by Gwen Rowley

  Dinadan pushed his way through the throng. “Gawain, do have a care there, they say he’s vicious—not to mention the lice and . . .”

  Fleas. That was what he meant to say, but the word remained unspoken. The wild man’s eyes were open, and he was staring into Gawain’s face. Those eyes—and the line of brow and nose—surely it was—but no, it couldn’t be.

  And yet it was.

  “Come, Sir Lancelot,” Gawain said, his voice very gentle, “allow me help you to my horse.” And taking the cloak from his own shoulders, Gawain laid it over the wasted form of the knight before lifting him bodily and bearing him through the stunned and silent crowd.

  Chapter 45

  LANCELOT was halfway out of bed before he was properly awake. His legs were caught, and only after he had struggled to free himself did he realize they were not bound, only tangled in a heavy coverlet. He was indoors, lying in a bed. His heart racing, he repressed the urge to run and forced himself to lie back and consider his surroundings. The chamber was not one he knew, yet it did not seem to be a prison. The shutters were open, and a bar of sunlight fell across the rush-strewn floor. Sounds drifted through the window, and slowly he was able to put names to them: the musical clanging of a blacksmith’s hammer, the creak of a windlass as someone raised a bucket from a well. All at once, he realized he was ravenous.

  At that moment the door opened, and a dark-haired woman walked inside, carrying a tray. She took one look at him, shrinking back against the wall, and halted in the doorway. Her words were as soothing as water over stone and equally as meaningless.

  After a time she left the tray and went away. He consumed every crumb and was asleep before his head hit the cushion.

  When he woke again, it was to a blinding rush of images. The cage. The jeering faces. Sir Gawain—but no, surely that had been a dream. Elaine. Cold sweat broke out over his body when he finally realized who he had been searching for and why he had not rested for so long. It was Elaine—how could he not have known her face? Elaine in danger, calling out his name. Where was she? Where was he? How long had he been wandering?

  “How long?” he rasped when the door opened again. The dark-haired woman—Brisen, he thought, Mistress Brisen was her name—started so the dishes on the tray clattered together.

  “You left Camelot two years ago,” she answered.

  “Two years?” He ran a hand across his face, his fingers tangling in his matted beard. “Is this Corbenic?”

  “Yes.” She smiled and handed him the tray. “Eat.”

  Corbenic. Then where was Elaine? Something was wrong, he could see it in Brisen’s face, in the way she moved about the chamber so she might avoid his gaze.

  “Is she dead?” he asked.

  “No. Now eat, Sir Lancelot.”

  And with that she went away.

  Not dead, he thought, his hand shaking so that milk slopped over the cup. If she had been in some sort of danger, it had been months ago. Unless that had been another dream.

  But why was it Brisen who tended him and not her mistress? He remembered their parting, going over and over it again, sparing himself no detail of his deluded ravings. He could see her face so clearly now, the horror in her eyes. It was no wonder she did not come to him.

  When Brisen returned with a few strong lads, bearing a cask and water, he asked no further questions, nor did they trouble him with speech. Once bathed, he submitted without protest as Brisen shaved him and attempted to comb out his hair. In the end, she cut it off, leaving his head oddly cool and weightless.

  Just as she was leaving, Lancelot said, “Galahad?”

  Brisen smiled. “Well and strong. Good night.”

  He nodded and closed his eyes, willing himself to unconsciousness.

  THE next morning when he woke, his mind was clear, and he knew what he must do. He found a trunk at the foot of his bed; his own trunk, which he had left behind in Camelot. He dressed in a robe that had once fit him well, though now his hands swam in the sleeves, and it hung in sagging folds from his shoulders. He sat down on the edge of the bed, hands clenched tightly on his knees as he waited for the knock upon the door. It was not long in coming, and Sir Gawain walked into the chamber. One quick glance showed him that Gawain dreaded this meeting as much as he did himself.

  “Sir Gawain,” he said. “I owe you my thanks.”

  “Think nothing of it, Sir Lancelot,” Gawain replied. “It is my duty to aid a brother knight in need.”

  Lancelot forced himself to raise his head. Gawain stood just before the window, his expression gravely courteous, a beam of sunlight brightening the deep gold of his hair. He looked, Lancelot thought, as if he should be standing on a plinth . . .

  “With Honor carved in foot-high letters at the base.”

  “I’m sorry, did you say something?”

  Lancelot dropped his gaze, embarrassed to realize that he had spoken aloud. “No. Or yes. What I meant to say is that I know that only duty could have driven you to do what you did for me. But you were kind—I remember it, a little, now—far kinder than I deserved. I hope—” he had to stop a moment before he could trust his voice. “I hope you will accept my gratitude.”

  The words had sounded well when he tried them over this morning, but now they seemed all wrong. Gawain did not answer but merely turned to gaze out the window. Lancelot’s head began to ache, and the gray cloud of despair clamped down on him.

  “I am sorry,” he ventured. “I’ve said too much. I only meant—”

  “I know what you meant.” Gawain’s shoulders were rigid. “But you are mistaken.”

  “Oh. Forgive me, my memory is not quite . . . Still, you did all that was right—”

  “Not that, either, I’m afraid.” Gawain’s voice was like ice.

  “I did not mean to offend,” Lancelot said wearily. “I am . . . unused to conversation. Please forgive me if I—”

  Gawain turned sharply. “Stop asking me to forgive you. You’ve done nothing wrong. It is I who should be asking your forgiveness.”

  “For what?” Lancelot asked, astonished. “You acted with honor—as you always do. I know you would have done the same no matter what—or who—”

  “Do you really believe that?”

  “What?” Lancelot put a hand to his head. “That you . . . I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

  “When I saw you, lying in that cage—” He drew a sharp breath. “My first thought was to leave you there. I knew you at once—Dinadan had no idea, he kept urging me to go—and I did just that, I walked away—”

  Lancelot remembered nothing before Gawain had been there in the cage. Why had he turned back? Had he himself recognized Gawain? Called out to him? Sweat sprang out on his brow as he imagined himself begging.

  “I cannot recall,” he said hoarsely. “Whatever I might have said or done, I am sorry, but—”

  For the first time in his memory, Gawain cut in upon his speech. “Are ye no listening, man?” he demanded roughly, his accent thickening as it always did when he was distressed. “I stole away—crept off like some slinking, cowardly beastie and left ye in your sleep. You, a brother knight in dire need.”

  “But you came back.”

  “Aye, I did. But I tell ye, Sir Lancelot, ’twas a near thing.”

  Lancelot almost smiled. Even now, after all that had befallen him, Gawain still called him sir. So had he addressed him in the cage, and it was that, more than anything, that had pulled Lancelot from the dark dreams in which he’d dwelt. There were no words to express what he felt, but he made the effort.

  “Sir Gawain,” he said carefully, “I quite understand why you would have been tempted to leave me to my fate. I would not have blamed you if you had. From the first, I’ve been nothing but unkind to you—and unjust, as well, as Lady Elaine was always at great pains to point out. I’m sorry for it now, and I know I have no right to ask for your help . . .”

  “What would ye ask of me?”

  Lancelot’s grip tightened on his kn
ees. “I understand that El—that Lady Elaine does not wish to have speech with me, but I hoped to see Galahad before I left. Just once—it needn’t be for long—and I won’t—she needn’t worry that I’ll be a nuisance. Would you mind asking her if that could be arranged?”

  Gawain was looking at him so strangely that Lancelot knew he had said something very wrong. “I’m sorry,” he added swiftly, “if you would rather not—”

  “Lancelot.” Now Gawain was the one to look away. That, and the familiar address he’d never used before, sent a thrill of fear down Lancelot’s spine.

  “What?” he demanded. “Is Elaine—she isn’t—”

  “She’s not dead.”

  “What is it, then? Is she ill? Married? Gone away?”

  Gawain laid a hand on his shoulder. “Nay, none of those. Here,” he said, pouring wine into a cup and handing it to Lancelot, “drink that. Ye will need it.”

  Chapter 46

  IT was midmorning before Gawain had finished his story, and by noon they stood together inside the entrance to the tower. Though the day was chill at Lancelot’s back, the air before him was hot as a blacksmith’s forge, molten heat pouring down the steps. Sweat gathered on his brow and stung his eyes.

  “I’ll come with you, if you like,” Gawain offered.

  “No. I must do this alone.”

  Lancelot climbed the narrow, twisting stairway, the heat increasing with every step. By the time he reached the top, he was breathing in choked gasps, and his hands were so slick they sizzled on the iron bar across the door before he quickly drew them back.

  “Elaine!” he called, and waited twenty rapid heartbeats without drawing breath. “Elaine! Answer me!”

  And then he heard it, Elaine’s own voice, though it sounded as though it came from a thousand leagues away. “Lancelot? Thank God! Hurry, please hurry, I cannot—” Her words ended in a cry that filled him with dread.

  He had heard that cry before, had followed it for days and weeks and months through fen and forest. It was the sound of his own madness—but no, he was not mad now, not anymore—this was all real, the red-hot bar, the steam curling from the edges of the door. All real. He was not mad, he would not be mad while Elaine had need of him. Hands shaking, he drew on thick leather gloves and over them his gauntlets, then seized the bar. It did not yield to his attempts, not by so much as an inch.

  No one could shift this—save one. But I am not a perfect knight, he thought, I never was. All there ever was to me was the Lady’s magic, and now I have lost even that. I am only a mortal knight—and if any mortal knight could do this, it would have been Gawain.

  But Gawain had not succeeded. And Elaine was still trapped behind these doors. “Elaine!” he shouted, “Can you hear me?”

  Silence was his only answer, a deep, impenetrable silence more terrifying than her plea for help. With an effort that seemed to tear his heart in two, he wrested the bar free and threw it to one side.

  The door yielded to his shoulder, and he burst into the midst of hell. Flames licked his face; the stench of burning hair clogged his nostrils. Each breath was pain, movement almost impossible. “Elaine! Where are you?” he shouted, and gathering his courage, he leapt into the flame and came out the other side. “Elaine!”

  Then he saw her, lying in the center of the floor in a space perhaps three paces from end to end. Her eyes were closed, her cheeks as pale as marble. Swiftly he knelt and called her name, but she did not stir. Tearing off his gauntlets, he chafed her icy hands between his own and lightly slapped her cheeks. “Wake,” he begged her, “Elaine, look at me.”

  This was not death. The almost imperceptible rise and fall of her breast told him she yet lived. But it was more than sleep, deeper than a swoon. She was bound by some enchantment that he knew not how to break.

  He must bear her back through the fire, there was no other way, and it must be done with no mistake or hesitation. Standing, he turned slowly round. Sweat ran down his face and into his eyes, narrowed against the heat and near unbearable brightness as he tried vainly to peer through the walls of flame. One leap must take them to the door or they were lost.

  Be calm, he told himself. Go slowly. He dragged his heel across the floor, leaving a small mark to serve as a guide. And then he gathered himself into a crouch and leapt into the flame. It met him like a wall of stone, jarring every bone. He reeled back and fell, catching himself upon one hand and knee. When he regained his breath, he made a second mark and tried again.

  And again. And again, until he was bruised and bloodied and the marks on the floor stretched round the circle where Elaine still lay unmoving.

  He gathered her into his arms, holding her against his chest and rocking her like a child. “It is all right, love,” he whispered, “do not fear, I am here now, all will be well.”

  Liar, a voice said in his mind, you’ve failed her yet again.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, “Elaine, I am so sorry.” Bending, he kissed her brow, her cheeks, and then, at last, her mouth. No sooner had his lips touched hers than the floor gave way beneath them, and they fell together into swirling darkness.

  IT was a sound that woke Lancelot, the sound of his childhood, the rushing whisper of small waves breaking rhythmically against a stony shore. He opened his eyes and found himself staring at an impossibly blue sky, dotted with plump white clouds. The grass beneath him was soft and thick and brilliantly green, the air as sweet as incense and intoxicating as rich wine.

  He turned his head and found himself gazing at a woman seated cross-legged in the grass beside him, rich brown hair falling loose over her shoulders and a chaplet of daisies round her high white brow.

  “Welcome home, King’s Son.”

  “Lady? Where is—” He sat up quickly and saw that Elaine slept beside him, her face peaceful and relaxed. “How—?”

  The Lady laughed. “You are here by my will, of course, as is your lady. She is dear to you, I know. As you are dear to me.”

  “Dear?” Lancelot repeated with a bitter laugh.

  “Now, let us not dispute over what is past and done.” The Lady frowned, plucking moodily at a few long blades of grass. “The destinies of men are not easily altered. In their world, even my plans can go awry.”

  Her head bent, she began to weave the blades together. “I do not say this lightly, child, nor was it a knowledge I found easy to accept. But it is finished now. I am done with meddling in the affairs of men.”

  She tossed her web into the air, where it stretched and grew into a glittering net. A wave of her hand sent it floating above the water, where a tiny incandescent being caught it and carried it away. She looked at Lancelot, her expression grave. “My Knight had the right of it; I kept you here too long. You are as unfit to live in that world as on the moon. I have watched you suffer—oh, I have been with you often during your wandering, though you saw me not—and it is enough. Now it is time for you to rest, here in your true home.”

  “Here? Forever?”

  “Not forever, no; you are still a mortal man. But long life and health, rest and ease from care shall all be yours. And your lady, too, of course.” The Lady’s laughter was as sweet as silver bells. “Oh, these mortals, what nonsense they get up to! ’Tis fortunate I had her in my care. For your sake, I kept her safe and made certain only you could set her free. I knew you would not rest content without your lady love! Wake her—she will wake now, no enchantment made by mortals can endure within my realm.”

  “Elaine. Elaine, wake up.”

  Elaine turned her head, sighing, and looked into Lancelot’s eyes. She knew this dream. Every night she prayed it would come to her again, though waking was so bitter that she sometimes feared it might destroy her. But it will not, she promised herself, I will bear it . . . only let it go on a little longer.

  She smiled drowsily as his lips touched hers. Yes, she thought, just a little longer . . . But as she put her arms around his neck, he drew away. “Elaine,” he said again, his voice breaking. “Do
you know me?”

  “Know you?” Her smile faded as she looked at him more closely. He was Lancelot, yet strangely altered, the bones in his face standing out sharply, and his lovely curling hair cropped short. She clutched his hand and it was solid, no dream but flesh and blood.

  “Lancelot!” She sat up and touched his face. “Lancelot, is it—in truth, is it you?”

  “Yes, my love, ’tis I.” He turned his head and kissed her hand. “Elaine, I have so much to tell you, I hardly know where to begin. What is the last thing you remember?”

  She frowned. “Queen Morgause came to visit. She wanted to see the tower, and—there was a fire, wasn’t there? Yes, that’s right, I called you and—and I must have fainted. Oh, Lancelot, you did come for me! I knew you would! But . . .”

  For the first time she noticed that she was not in her bed at all, nor in the tower, but lying in a muddy field beside a swamp. “Where are we?”

  “Avalon,” he said, and laughed. “You never did believe me, did you, but now you can see it for yourself.” He waved a hand to encompass the barren field.

  “Avalon?”

  “There is the lake. I told you of it, do you remember?”

  She remembered well his description of crystal lake of Avalon. Now she looked from the fetid swamp into his glowing eyes and felt her heart break anew.

  “My love,” she said carefully, “we must go home now, to Corbenic, where I can look after you.”

  He turned and gestured toward a patch of muddy reeds, flattened as though they had been trampled. “Lady,” he said, bowing his head, “may I present Elaine of Corbenic? Elaine, this is my foster mother, the Lady of the Lake.”

  When Elaine merely stared, he tugged her hand, shooting her a puzzled look before he glanced away.

  “Oh, no.” Lancelot addressed the patch of reeds. “Of course she can.” He turned to Elaine. “Why do you not greet the Lady? You—you do see her, don’t you?”

  Wordlessly, Elaine shook her head.