by Gwen Rowley
Lavaine’s jaw dropped. “No! You are—? Oh, sir, I will not say a word. The great du Lac,” he whispered, awestruck.
“Not great, just a knight with some small skill. Look there,” Lancelot said, pointing over the charging knights to the royal pavilion. It was draped with royal purple, and above the carven throne a single diamond caught the light and threw it back in a thousand glittering facets. “Do you see him there, your king, all robed in red? Look on him and you see greatness.”
“Yes,” Lavaine whispered. “I see him, the dread Pendragon. Now—oh, sir, if I should be struck blind today, I would not be sorry—no, I wouldn’t, not a bit, not now that I have seen …” He looked from Arthur to Lancelot, then, blushing, at the earth between his feet.
Despite all, Lancelot nearly laughed. The poor boy was so dreadfully in earnest, yet there was something touching in his innocent regard. All at once Lancelot felt better; the fog of fear and sorrow dissipated, scattered like mist before the sunrise. I am Lancelot du Lac, he thought, a knight of Camelot, and if I am no more, I will give no man cause to say that I was less. He raised the sleeve to his lips before winding it about his helm.
“While you still have the use of your eyes,” he said to Lavaine, trying and failing to repress a grin, “turn them to the engagement and let us see how matters stand.”
Lavaine laughed, a little shamefaced, and obeyed. “Look how strong the king’s knights are!” he cried. “Those northern lords cannot withstand them. See how they are driven back. Oh, sir, we must hurry, or it will be done before we strike a blow. Come, let us take our place among your friends and kin.”
“A paltry adventure that would be!” Lancelot laughed and signed the marshal over. “We shall fight for the northern kings,” he said, holding out his spear so the marshal might bind it with a ribbon proclaiming his allegiance. “Come, Lavaine,” he urged, “let us join the weaker party and see if we can change their fortune.”
Without waiting for an answer, he charged into the fray.
Lavaine followed. No sooner had he taken the field than a knight confronted him, demanding that he proclaim his name and allegiance. “Lavaine of Corbenic. I fight for the northern kings,” he managed, the words rasping in his parched mouth.
“Then you shall not pass.”
“Who denies me passage?” Lavaine returned.
“Sir Lucando Butler.”
The preliminaries over, the two retreated for a space, then charged. To his astonishment, Lavaine found that Lancelot was right. He felt nothing but the keenest excitement as they crashed together—and when he found himself still upon his horse and his opponent on the ground, he laughed aloud and turned to find another challenge.
In the time it had taken Lavaine to ride his first joust, Lancelot had unseated three knights and was preparing to engage a fourth. The tales are true then, Lavaine thought, momentarily diverted from the press of heaving horses and clashing armor all around him. Nor was he the only one. Several of Arthur’s knights had stopped to watch Lancelot’s advance.
“Who is he?” Lavaine heard them cry, one to another, a question none could answer.
Then the press moved closer, and Lavaine was once again in the thick of it, facing his own opponent. Sir Bedivere did not give up easily; it took three charges before the matter was decided. By the time Bedivere was off his horse, Lavaine’s charger was winded. Drawing aside to give the beast a moment’s respite, he became aware of three knights beside him, passing a waterskin from hand to hand.
“Of course it is him,” one said decisively. “It must be. No one rides like Sir Lancelot.”
“Yes, Gawain, I believe it is. Lancelot, disguised … and bearing a lady’s sleeve upon his helm. Well, well, so much for his injury!”
“There is no dishonor in riding with a blank shield,” Sir Gawain said reprovingly. “Nor in accepting a lady’s favor. But come, our companions have need of us.”
He rode off, leaving the others behind. “Look you, Dinadan,” one said to the other, “I have a thought. What if we—?”
Sir Dinadan shook his head and said something too low to hear. Both knights turned to look at Lavaine, and then went off together.
Lavaine watched them for a moment. They rode a short distance, then separated, though neither returned immediately to the fight. Instead, they rode among the king’s knights, stopping every now and then to speak with one of their companions. No doubt they were spreading the word of Lancelot’s arrival, Lavaine thought, and then he had no time for thought as he was challenged once again.
This was his hardest-fought battle. By the time he brought down his opponent, he was exhausted, and his mount was lame. Dismounting, he led it aside and looked around to see Lancelot preparing to ride against another knight—Sir Gawain, Lavaine realized, judging by the shield. He paused a moment, eager to see this contest, but before Lancelot had begun his charge, he was set upon by a band of the king’s knights.
Four—no, five—no, eight charged him from all sides, and Lavaine’s shout of warning was lost in the thunder of hoofbeats. He strained to see what was happening, but Lancelot had vanished within the press. A moment later, a cheer went up from the king’s side.
“Unhorsed! He is down!”
Lavaine ran to the nearest knight. “Give me your horse!” he cried.
“Stand aside, boy,” the man, some king of Scotland by his arms, said, and lifting his shield, he dealt Lavaine a blow that knocked him sprawling. Lavaine scrambled to his feet and leapt upon the Scottish king, dragging him from the saddle. Quite forgetting to draw his sword, he raised his fist and knocked him to the ground, then mounted his horse and forced his way through the press, leaping from the horse before it had halted to land beside his fallen friend.
“Sir—” With shaking fingers, he fumbled at the lacings of the helm.
“No.” Lancelot’s hand shot out and grasped his wrist. “Help me mount again.”
“Are you wounded?”
“It is nothing.” Lancelot’s breath came quick and shallow; his face, beneath his visor, was parchment pale and slicked with sweat.
“But—”
“Get me to my horse!”
Lavaine grasped his hand and pulled him to his feet. It was horrible to watch him drag himself up the side of his great charger, but Lancelot would hear no dissent. King Arthur leaned so far over the balustrade of his pavilion that it seemed he was in danger of tumbling out. Only when Lancelot was on his horse did the king resume his seat. When the knight took up his lance, a great cry went up, not only from his side, but from the stands, as well.
Now the force of Lancelot’s charge was redoubled. He fought like one possessed, cutting a swathe through Arthur’s knights, and one by one they fell beneath his implacable assault. It seemed no time at all until the marshal threw down a white scarf from his high seat. Trumpets blared, and the knights stilled upon the field.
“Victory,” the marshal cried, “to the northern lords. And the diamond to the knight with the red sleeve upon his helm, the knight with the white shield!”
Lavaine cantered to Lancelot’s side. He sat unmoving, his helm drooping nearly to his chest. “Sir, you have won!” Lavaine shouted. “Hear how they cry out for you! Sir, look, the king is waiting, you must go to him—”
“No.”
Lavaine leaned closer, certain he had not heard aright.
“No,” Lancelot repeated hoarsely. “Lavaine, help me—”
Then the others were upon them, pressing close. “Go, sir,” they cried, “the diamond is yours!”
“No—” Lancelot gasped, “no diamond—give me air—”
“But you have won it!” they cried. “It is your prize!”
Lancelot raised his head. “My prize—” he drew a hissing breath. “Death,” he said clearly, and as the knights drew back, astonished, he set spurs to his charger and burst through them.
Lavaine followed after. Lancelot’s horse slowed; at last it stood trembling at the edge of the field.
“Farther,” Lancelot gasped, “do not let them find us.”
Bewildered, Lavaine led him deeper into the forest until Lancelot gave a terrible cry and pitched headlong from his saddle.
Lavaine’s hands were shaking so, he could barely unbuckle Lancelot’s armor. Blood seeped between the fastenings; his hands slipped upon the straps. When at last he lifted the breastplate, he could only stare in shock at the broken wooden haft protruding from Lancelot’s side, the spear tip buried deep within the torn flesh.
“When—how—”
“Bors. Beneath my shield. When they brought me down.”
Lancelot made a movement as though to lift himself but fell back with a groan, his hand groping blindly for his helm. He drew the red sleeve from its crest and clenched it in his fist. “Draw it out, Lavaine.”
“I cannot!” Lavaine was close to tears. “I will kill you if I draw it—”
“I will die if you do not,” Lancelot said steadily, then his face contorted, and he cried, “For God’s sake, help me, get it out—”
“Yes, all right—” Lavaine’s breath came in gasping sobs as he put two hands on the wooden shaft. “Too much blood—I cannot get a purchase—” He wiped it with the edge of his tunic and tried again. “Now—steady, sir—” He gave a great shout as he pulled the spearhead from Lancelot’s flesh.
A gush of blood burst from the wound, soaking Lavaine’s hands and spattering his face. With a hoarse cry, he threw the spearhead aside. God help me, he thought. God help me, what do I do now? He needs a surgeon, not me, I know naught of healing. But there was no surgeon to be found. The small glade was empty save for the two of them.
“You did well, my friend,” Lancelot whispered. “Thank you.” He brought the sleeve to his side, clasping it hard against the gushing wound, then his head fell back upon the leaves and his eyes closed.
I have killed him, Lavaine thought. I have killed Sir Lancelot. With trembling fingers, he touched Lancelot’s neck, a sobbing moan bursting from his lips when he found the pulse beating beneath the pallid jaw. Not dead—not yet. But he soon would be.
Stop the bleeding, Lavaine thought, staring transfixed at the spreading pool of blood. That’s what I must do. But how?
He pressed the sleeve against the wound, staring in terror as it instantly soaked through. God, don’t let him die, he prayed. Help me, send someone to find us.
But no one came.
“It is up to me,” Lavaine said aloud. “If I do nothing, he will die. But what am I to do?”
All at once, the answer came to him. He pressed the wadded fabric against the wound, and using his knife, cut strips from his tunic to bind it round the unconscious knight’s ribs. A clumsy bandage, soon soaked through, but he daren’t think of that. He heaved Lancelot facedown across his horse and led him toward the hermit’s dwelling.
Chapter Seventeen
“Aye, it was Sir Lancelot,” Gawain said, throwing his helm across the pavilion and running a hand through his sweat-soaked hair. “I never saw his face, but I am certain ’twas he.”
“What went on out there?” Arthur demanded. “Who set upon him like that?”
“Agravaine,” Gawain said miserably, “Dinadan, Ector De Maris, Bors—”
“Bors?”
“Aye, but he didn’t know ’twas Lancelot himself. Agravaine was saying ’twas some base knight fighting in Sir Lancelot’s style, some muddled tale about how this man sought to dishonor Sir Lancelot by mimicking him—I didna catch the most of it, sire.”
“And did Agravaine believe this nonsense?”
Gawain could not meet his eyes. “He says he did.”
“I see.” After a moment, the king said, “How badly was he wounded?”
“He could barely keep his seat. And Bors said—he said his spear is broken, the tip stuck fast in the strange knight.”
Arthur walked to the balustrade and looked over the crowd below. “Find him, Gawain,” he said without turning. “Find him for me and bring him back.”
“Aye, sire, I will.”
Chapter Eighteen
The village was afire. People fled screaming from their cottages, and the air was thick with smoke shot through with flame. There must have been a battle, Lancelot thought as he fought his way through the press. He could not remember which battle it had been, but that didn’t matter now. The village was burning, and he had to find Elaine. As he rounded the corner, he saw the tower of Corbenic, smoke pouring from the highest window.
Wresting the door open, he plunged into the smoke-filled hall, where Torre sat alone at the high table.
“False knight,” Torre said, “you stole my youth and strength.”
“No—no, it wasn’t my fault you weren’t good enough—”
“You knew he wasn’t good enough,” a deep voice said behind him. “No earthly knight can defeat you.”
Lancelot spun around and found himself facing the Green Knight.
“Welladay, here we are again,” the Green Knight said, “I had thought to be rid of you by now.” He gestured toward the wall of the tower and a portion of stone fell away, revealing a dark passageway. “Go on, manikin, that way is yours.”
“Where does it lead?”
“A good question. But I fear you must find the answer for yourself.”
Lancelot took a few steps toward the entrance. Far, far away, flames licked against the walls and a faint echo of anguished wails was carried up to him on a searing blast of air, along with the foul stench of rotting flesh.
“I told you the Lady kept you in Avalon too long. You have no soul now.”
“I do!” Lancelot drew his sword and advanced on the Knight, but he only laughed and said, “Prove it. Find the Grail.”
A whirl of green grew and swirled about the hall. Fire licked at the beams, and from a great distance, Lancelot heard a woman scream.
“Elaine!” he cried, “I will find you—”
And he raced up the stairway to the tower, flames licking at his heels. Through the smoke, he glimpsed Elaine—or no, it was another maiden, holding something in her hands that shimmered with a light too bright to look upon. He flung an elbow across his eyes, shielding them from the terrible beauty of that unbearable light … And then the maiden was gone, and he was alone in the burning tower. He turned back, but the steps were gone, there was no way out, he was trapped, choking, burning beams crashing all around, and the floor gave way beneath him.
When he woke again he was cold, so cold that knew he must be dead. He tried to open his eyes, but they were weighted shut. He remembered the corpses in the crypt at Norhaut with coins upon their sunken lids. There lay his tomb, buried in the earth beneath the enormous marble slab he had once lifted with no effort. Now he was inside it, lying on the marble bier, and at his feet was a silver plaque he’d read on the day he had discovered his name. “Here will lie Sir Lancelot du Lac,” it proclaimed in letters silver bright, “son of King Ban of Benwick.”
This, he thought, is hell. Not the fiery pit, but this frozen emptiness where he would dwell alone forevermore.
“Sir Lancelot!” a voice called urgently, but it was too late; Sir Lancelot was dead. Why would they not let him rest? They slapped his cheeks and waved burnt feathers beneath his nose, and though he felt the blows and breathed in the acrid stench, he could not move nor speak. A deep voice intoned unfamiliar words, pausing now and then while they renewed their efforts, urging him to answer questions he did not understand, but in time they gave up and went away.
Chapter Nineteen
“It was meant to be a jest,” Guinevere said, the words coming thickly from her numb lips. Her bower was filled with people, all staring with avid curiosity from her face to the king’s. Never had they seen Arthur in such a fury. Only rarely did h
e lose his temper, and then it was a quick, hot flash that soon subsided. And never, never had he been angry with his queen. Guinevere did not know the man who stood before her, his face stern and his light eyes burning with an icy flame.
“A jest?”
“You said—his reputation—not fair to the others—do you not remember? And so he wanted to prove … We thought you would be amused,” she whispered.
“Did you? Well, Guinevere, I would have been far more amused had I been let in upon the joke.”
“Lance—he w-wanted to surprise you.”
But he hadn’t wanted to. That had been Guinevere’s idea, not Lancelot’s at all.
“Did you give him your sleeve?” Arthur demanded.
“My sleeve?” Guinevere repeated blankly. “No, of course not.”
He had not asked for one. He never had. And he surely would not have broken with his custom on the day she’d sent him out to fight disguised. He had been too angry. But she hadn’t cared.
“He wore a lady’s favor yesterday,” Arthur said, but Guinevere scarcely heard him. She was too busy remembering how she had not thought of Lancelot at all, but only of herself and her own need. Now he was wounded, perhaps dead, and she would never have the chance to tell him she was sorry. She had killed him.
And Arthur would never, ever forgive her for it.
The way he was looking at her now, as though he hated her—she had lost him, lost him forever, and through her own selfish folly. She could not bear the cold contempt in his eyes. She raised shaking hands to cover her face, tears sliding between her fingers.
The slam of her bower door told her that Arthur was gone. She rose and stumbled blindly toward her chamber. Most of her women followed, communicating surprise and sympathy and in some cases, satisfaction, in silent glances.
Only one stayed behind. She slipped out the door and found Sir Agravaine waiting in the corridor.