by Gwen Rowley
“Lady Elaine,” he said, his voice cutting through the silence. “Are you in need of assistance?”
Smoothly, almost casually, he lowered his hand until it rested upon the pommel of his sword.
Elaine looked at the villeins, marveling at the change a few seconds had wrought. What had been an angry mob had dwindled once again to a small group of very frightened peasants. At their head was Will, who had named himself reeve without the permission of his overlord. Now he stood, strangely shrunken, humbled in the presence of a knight.
For a moment she was tempted to answer yes and bring the lot of them to justice. And yet … they belonged to Corbenic. They might not be much, but they were all she had, and to whip or brand them would hardly increase either their willingness to work or their ability to do so.
Her eyes moved over the group, fastening on the few who were brave enough to hold their heads up, silently forcing them to acknowledge that their fates rested in her hands. Last of all, she looked at Will, and not until he had bent his head did she look up at the knight.
“No,” she said. “I thank you, but there is no need to concern yourself. I was just having a discussion with our new reeve—” Will’s head raised with a snap “—about how quickly this field could be planted.” Her legs were oddly jerky as she turned and took a few steps toward her palfrey. “So we are agreed that you will begin at once, Master Reeve,” she said over her shoulder, “and tomorrow we shall expect you in the hall for supper to report upon your progress.”
“Aye, m’lady,” Will said. “Tomorrow it is.”
Elaine reached her palfrey and stood looking at it, praying that her shaking legs would serve to mount. She was aware of the knight moving toward her, but before he reached her side, one of the men slipped from the edge of the crowd and knelt in the mud, offering his knee as a step.
She took it, remembering to thank the man when she was safely on her horse. “Master Reeve, one more thing,” she called. “Bid the shepherd choose one of his flock for slaughter and have Cook prepare a stew. Tell her it is by my order.” Her gaze swept the field once more. “Whoever works shall eat.”
She turned toward the forest and cantered into the shelter of the trees. Only then was she aware that she was breathing in quick, gasping sobs.
“Lady Elaine—”
She dashed a sleeve across her eyes and forced herself to smile, slowing so the knight could pull up beside her. He had saved her, and she should be grateful, but the truth was she wished he’d go away. He was too handsome, too well-bred, too much for her to deal with at the moment. “You gave me quite a start back there,” she said brightly. “Wherever did you come from?”
“I was in the practice yard with your brother Lavaine—”
“Dressed like that?”
The question popped out before she stopped to think. But he had thrown back his cloak, and she saw that he was clad in silk—pfellel silk, in fact, gossamer fine and so fabulously expensive that even Aunt Millicent could afford no more than a single scarf. The knight’s tunic was very simply cut, the thin fabric clinging to the hard breadth of his chest. His arms were corded with muscle, bare save for a silver band above his elbow. The gleaming metal was wrought in an intricate design of oak leaves, as was the silver embroidery about his high collar, the pattern repeated yet again in the silver belt slung low about his hips. She had thought him handsome before, but now she realized that such a common word fell far short of the mark.
He glanced down at himself with a faint air of surprise, as though he had no idea what had prompted her question, then shrugged his broad shoulders as though what he wore was of no consequence at all.
What was such a man as this doing at Corbenic? Could he possibly be real? No, there was some hidden flaw, there must be. Yes, he was handsome, obviously rich, brave and courteous, and possessed of an impeccable sense of timing. But any man who would ride into a practice yard with the entire worth of Corbenic upon his person could hardly be called sensible.
“What was going on before, out there in the field?”
She repressed a shudder. “It was a bit awkward—our reeve is new, and not quite settled in, but I think we understand each other now.”
He shot her a look so keen that she was forced to revise her estimation of his intelligence. “I think it was more than a bit awkward. Lady Elaine, why were you all alone? Surely that was a duty your steward should have undertaken.”
“Yes, of course, but he has not been well.” Before he could reply, she went on quickly, “Whatever brought you out there in the first place?”
“Your father asked your brother Lavaine to find you. I offered to undertake the task myself. And I am very glad I did.”
So was she. Lavaine would never have handled the situation with such aplomb. He would have been terrified and so ashamed of his fear that anger would have been his only recourse. What would have happened next was something she could not bear to think upon.
She tried to summon a smile for the knight, but her lips trembled so that she knew the effort was a failure. “Thank you,” she said, and to her horror, felt her eyes fill. Bad enough that she had acted as thoughtlessly as any damsel in a third-rate ballad, the ones she had always taken such pleasure in despising. To dissolve in tears before her rescuer would be the final humiliation.
“It was nothing,” he answered, looking a bit alarmed at the threat of some awkward display of emotion. “Shall we go back to the hall? I know I would like a cup of wine, and I would be honored if you would share it with me.”
Such a pretty little speech, she thought, so courteous and kind. “I know!” she said, smiling. “You must be Sir Gawain!”
He started, looking as surprised as if she’d struck him. “I am not.”
“I didn’t really think you were,” she said quickly, “it’s an expression. You know—as courteous as Sir Gawain.”
“I see.”
Whatever he saw, it did not seem to please him overmuch. For a moment she wondered if she’d stumbled upon the truth, but in the next breath dismissed the notion as absurd. Sir Gawain was said to be quite tall, with hair as fair as falling rain, while this knight was dark and not above the middle height.
“We’re very partial to Sir Gawain in these parts,” she went on, speaking rapidly to cover her confusion, “and consider him the best of King Arthur’s knights.”
She had surprised him yet again. He actually stopped his horse and turned to her. “The best?”
“Well, leaving Sir Lancelot aside, but him we don’t regard.”
The black brows rose another fraction of an inch. “You don’t? Why ever not?”
“My brother Torre rode his first joust against Sir Lancelot. It was his last. Oh, I know such accidents befall a knight with no blame on either side. But later, as I waited by the surgeon’s tent, all the talk was of a remark Sir Lancelot had made, that he would as lief have stayed at home as waste his skill on such raw country lads.”
The knight frowned, his dark eyes hooded as he stared down at the reins in his hands. “That was very wrong of him.”
“Yes, it was terribly unkind. And most unjust. What happened was no fault of Torre’s, I assure you. Some fool left the gate ajar; a child ran onto the tourney field waving a kite, and his mount startled—”
“That was your brother?” the knight interrupted. “I—I remember hearing of it.”
“It was a bad fall,” Elaine went on. “His leg was shattered. He very nearly lost it—and would have done, if my woman Brisen had not stayed the surgeon’s hand.”
“It is his shield I am to carry,” the knight said, the words not quite a question.
“Yes. He is quite lame. It was such a disappointment—to all of us, of course, but especially to him. He was so promising, you see, he’d won all the local squire’s tournaments easily. And he was betrothed—well, promised—but after, her parents said—and now he’s so dreadfully unhappy.”
What was the matter with her today? She had thought hersel
f long past weeping over Torre, yet the knight was looking at her with such astonished pity that fresh tears stung her eyes. “I’m sorry. I can’t imagine why I’m telling you all this. What were we talking about?”
“I don’t remember.”
She laughed shakily. “Oh, it was Sir Lancelot. A subject we generally avoid.”
“I’m not surprised.”
They reached the edge of the forest, and the knight pulled up his charger, looking toward Corbenic with something almost like dread upon his face.
“I—I grow weary of halls and company,” he said, “and this is such a pleasant wood. If you don’t mind, I would rather stay out here for a time.”
Well, she could hardly blame him for that. Such dismal company as hers would put any man to flight.
“I don’t mind in the least. There is the tower, you can hardly miss it from any part of the wood—and we dine at sunset. I’ll have your chamber readied.”
“Wait,” he said. “Would you—’tis a pretty day for a ride, and I’m sure you know all the best paths. That is, if you would like to …”
When he smiled, that strange dizziness came over her again. Was it possible … no, it couldn’t be. What could a man like this possibly see in her? She was nearly one and twenty, after all, far past her first youth, and if a month of regular meals had put a bit of flesh upon her bones, she did not delude herself that it had erased the damage done by years of near starvation. Yet he was looking at her as though he genuinely hoped she would accept. All at once her heart lifted, and it seemed anything was possible, anything at all, even that she might have caught the interest of a young and wealthy knight, and having caught it, could keep it for her own.
“I would like to,” she said. “Come, we can water our horses by the river.”
Chapter Nine
Beneath the overhanging branches of the oaks, the river flowed through light and shadow, rippling in little eddies over glistening stones. When they reached the boathouse, Elaine halted and dismounted.
“Here,” she said, “this is a good place.”
They led the horses to the water and tethered them to a branch. The knight spread his cloak on a patch of soft earth while Elaine went to stand before the boathouse, a small thatched building with a few crocuses blooming beside the door. Elaine smiled a little to see them there, remembering Torre scoffing that they would never grow.
“No one is at home?” the knight asked behind her.
“It is deserted now,” she said, “since the Saxons left.”
“The Saxons?”
“They came when I was ten,” Elaine said, her eyes moving past the boathouse to a patch of mounded stone beyond. “We had no time to muster a defense, scarce time enough to flee from bonds or death. So we came here.” She gestured toward the door. “And here we dwelt for seven years.”
“Had you no kin to go to? No friends to take you in?”
“My father was injured,” she said. “A Saxon sword cleft his helm in twain. They left him for dead, but Torre—he was eleven then—stole out by night and bore him hither. Father was insensible for many days, and when he woke, he was—he was not himself. And then my mother—” She swallowed hard. “She miscarried. She and the babe both died.”
“I’m sorry,” the knight said. He moved to stand beside her, and their fingers brushed. “I lost my mother, too. I was—fostered—from home when I was just a babe, and she died while I was gone. I cannot remember what she looked like, or her voice, or anything about her.”
He looked so sad that Elaine was tempted to take his hand but did not quite dare to do it. “Can your father not tell you?”
The knight shook his head. “He died soon after I was born. But come, sit down. You were telling me why you did not go to your kinfolk or friends.”
“Father was slow to recover,” Elaine said, sitting down upon his cloak and drawing her legs beneath her. “My mother’s death—when he understood—he could not bring himself to leave her. We always meant to go one day, when Father was … stronger. But somehow the time was never right.”
“I see,” the knight said so sympathetically that she had to take a long breath before she could go on, making her voice deliberately cheerful.
“And then we were saved. Three years ago, King Arthur drove the Saxons out and restored us to our home. But it was not what it had been. The Saxon chieftain used Corbenic to house his warriors, and all they knew of managing villeins was how to beat them. Many ran off; those who remained kept out of sight, tending their own plots while the common lands lay fallow.”
“Then I would think they would be grateful that their lord has returned,” the knight said.
“We lost all but the land, and these three years have been … difficult,” she said with an inward smile at this understatement. “The forest has encroached upon the fields, and we lack the labor for the clearing. Each year we lose a little more, leaving less land to plant—and giving the villeins all the more excuse to tend to their own plots. It is what my father calls a downward spiral.”
“What remedy does your father suggest?” the knight asked, leaning back upon one elbow.
“To find the Holy Grail, of course. Then all will be well.” She smiled at his confusion. “The Holy Grail—the Sangreal—is the cup Our Lord used at the last supper. Legend has it that his foster father, Joseph of Arimathea, bore it hither after the crucifixion. My father had a vision of the Grail when the Saxons struck him down. He believes it is somewhere in Corbenic and cares for nothing but to see it with his living eyes. He is a very learned man,” she added, plucking at the new grass, “and a very good one.”
“I’m sure he is.”
A rather awkward silence fell, and Elaine cast about for some way to change the subject. “I’m sorry I have nothing to offer you—or, wait, I might at that.”
She jumped up and went into the boathouse. The light from the open door lay in a rectangle upon the earthen floor, leaving the rest of the chamber in shadow. As her eyes adjusted, she made out four pallets, still neatly tucked against the walls. The single table was clothed in a thin film of dust.
“You lived here for seven years?” the knight said behind her.
Elaine could scarce believe it herself. “A bit cramped, but the roof was sound, and it was pleasant to have the river so close.” Torre still came here often, when some savage mood drove him from their hall, and knowing him, he did not come empty-handed. Opening the cupboard door, she said, “I thought so.”
She drew out a jug, nearly full, and two cups, and bore them back outside. “Come, I’ve been running on too long. Tell me something of yourself.”
“There is nothing much to tell,” he said, smiling as he resumed his seat.
“You said that you were fostered young. Were your foster parents kindly folk?”
“I do not remember much about them,” he said with such finality that she knew the subject to be closed.
“Then tell me about Camelot!” she suggested.
“What would you like to know?” he asked politely but with a marked lack of enthusiasm.
“Anything will do.”
He looked up at the branches overhead, then at the river. At last he looked at her and shrugged. “I don’t know what to say. Most of the tales I could tell you are already known.”
Elaine made one more attempt. “What of your own adventures?”
“They’re not worth speaking of.” As though realizing that his answer was just short of rudeness, he smiled at her so brilliantly that she forgave him on the spot.
“Here,” she said, pouring wine into his cup. “My mother’s dowry, or what’s left of it. Her family traded in Provence, so they sent her off with tuns of wine. Luckily, the Saxons did not think to look for the cellars.”
He swirled the wine in the cup, sniffed it, and took an experimental sip. “I’ve never tasted better.”
“You are extremely courteous,” Elaine said, laughing. “Are you sure you aren’t Sir Gawain?”
“ ’Tis true I ride disguised, but even Sir Gawain would be hard put to shrink half a foot and alter the color of his hair.”
She glanced at him, surprised at his tone. “Surely it is a compliment to be compared to such a knight?”
“Of course,” he said with an ironic smile. “Who would not want to be Gawain? So brave and noble, so courteous and—” He broke off, yawning. “Forgive me. Just the thought of all that perfection is exhausting.”
“Oh, fie, sir,” she chided, smiling, “perfection is too strong a word, though Sir Gawain is a noble knight.”
“So he is. A very noble knight,” he agreed soberly, though his eyes glinted with a wicked merriment. “Indeed, there have been times, sitting in the hall while he revels us with some improving tale, when I have been so overcome by Sir Gawain’s … nobility that I feared I might fall face-first into my ale and drown.”
Elaine laughed, then was instantly ashamed. “This will not do sir,” she said with a severity that was only part in jest, “no, it will not do at all.”
“Tell me, lady, by what stroke of fortune did Sir Gawain win a champion so fair?”
“Sir Gawain was with the king when they took Corbenic back. Indeed, ’twas he who slew the Saxon chieftain, hand-to-hand in single combat, and many a grievous wound he took for the sake of folk he did not even know.”
She smiled at the memory of the one time she’d seen Sir Gawain, a mere flash of sunlight glinting off a helm as he rode back to Camelot. “No matter what they say at court, Sir Gawain will always be First Knight to me, even if that Sir Lancelot did knock him off his horse.”
“Alas for poor Sir Lancelot that he was not here that day!” the knight said with a rueful twist of his lips. “Then you might have known that he is no such monster as you think. ’Tis true he oft speaks rashly, but after, he is always sorry. And I do not think—indeed, I am quite certain—that had he realized how gravely your brother had been injured, he would never have spoken as he did.”