by Gwen Rowley
When all eyes were riveted upon Tristan, Arthur spied a slender, auburn-haired woman slip though the doorway and sink unobtrusively into an empty seat. She glanced around and met Arthur’s gaze.
Morgause. What was she doing here? It must be three years or more since Arthur’s half sister had come to court, and Gawain had given no hint that she planned a visit. Likely Gawain hadn’t known; if he had, he would have made some excuse to absent himself before his mother arrived. The two were barely on speaking terms these days. Arthur wrested his gaze from hers and turned determinedly to the front of the hall as Tristan’s long, pale fingers struck the first chord on his harp. A moment later he had forgotten Morgause completely.
When Tristan began to sing, the hall fell silent. Not a single person spoke or even moved. From the lowest scullion who had crept into some shadowed corner of the hall to the king himself, all were transfixed.
His song was a simple one. It told of green meadows and birds upon the wing, butterflies among the blossoms on the wold. He sang of summer’s end, when chill winds sent bright petals dancing over stubbled harvest fields.
Youth and hope and innocence—gone, all gone, fled like springtime’s promise before an autumn gale.
Arthur stared straight ahead, no longer seeing Tristan but the long spring of his childhood, when the world was new and each day a marvelous adventure. He thought of running bare-legged in the fields, the hounds jumping and barking all around him. He thought of Sir Ector, dead this past spring, red-faced and laughing in the first snowfall of the year, while his lady, Orma, scolded her husband and sons to come in from the cold before they took an ague. Ector had seized her around her solid waist and whirled her into the courtyard, planting a smacking kiss upon her rosy cheek. How they had all laughed! Even Merlin, leaning in the doorway, had been smiling his rare sweet smile as he watched them dancing in the snow.
Could I have really been so happy? Arthur wondered. Yes, his heart cried, I wanted nothing but to be Kay’s squire and steward of his lands. Never, never did I think to leave the home and fields and family that I loved. But then Kay forgot his sword, and I ran off to fetch it …
Sometimes, even now, all that had happened since seemed like a dream. The wars and deaths and treaties and betrayals, the kingdom under his command and the thousand weighty matters awaiting his decision were insubstantial as a puff of thistledown. At such times, Arthur was certain he would wake to find himself curled up beside the fire in Sir Ector’s hall with half a dozen hounds beside him, Kay arguing good-naturedly with Merlin over some lesson he had skimped, while Dame Orma sewed their shirts and threatened to make them do their own mending if they couldn’t be more careful of her handiwork.
But now I am a king, he thought. A great king—or so they tell me. I have a dozen shirts and no one dares to scold me when I tear one. Britain is secure, the people safe to till their fields. We make music in my beautiful castle, filled with the bravest knights in all the world, presided over by the loveliest queen who ever graced a table. I lack nothing for perfect happiness. Therefore, as Merlin would have said, logic dictates that I must be happy.
Muttering a quick excuse, Arthur stood and left the hall, half blinded by the illogical tears welling in his eyes.
Guinevere was dry-eyed as Tristan’s song faded into silence, one hand resting lightly on her girdle. Spring will come again, she thought, but not this spring. Never this moment, this month, this …
Tomorrow she would remember how desperately she needed an heir. Now she only thought of the spark of life of which she’d dreamed so vividly the night before—the son with Arthur’s light blue eyes and sunny smile who called her “Mother” and brought her crumpled flowers—snuffed out before he ever had the chance to live.
She turned her head just as Lancelot turned his, and their eyes met across the hall.
“Oh, what is it?” she cried softly, startled out of her unhappiness by the naked misery in his eyes. “What is wrong?”
As though he’d heard her words, he shrugged again and looked away, picked up his goblet, and set it down again untasted. Dinadan leaned toward him, drawing his attention to a page who hovered at his elbow, holding out a scarf. He was a handsome little lad, with light hair and a merry, gap-toothed smile. His mother must be so proud of him, Guinevere thought, her throat aching with a wild pain. How could she bear to send him from her side?
Lancelot stood abruptly and walked from the hall, leaving the company to stare after him in shock. It lasted but a moment before the talk broke out, voices rising in excited speculation as they stared after the First Knight, then toward the queen, sitting all alone at the high table and staring at the seat Lancelot had abandoned, tears sliding down her cheeks.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Lancelot was halfway to the stable before he stopped himself. He turned back to the hall, gave a sharp exclamation of disgust, and began to pace the small garden. Twelve steps carried him from end to end, twelve steps and he was back where he had started.
“Elaine,” he said, hoping that to speak her name aloud would ease some of the terrible pressure inside him. “Elaine,” he said again, the word ripped from him on a groan.
He would go to her, he thought, beg her to forgive him—but for what? For being what he was, what he could not help but be? No, Elaine was lost to him. He had made his choice in the hay-scented barn in Corbenic, though at the time he had foolishly believed it was no choice at all. He only realized what he’d done when he faced his first opponent on the battlefield.
The Green Knight had spoken truly: du Lac had no soul, no hope of heaven, and honor was something he could never know. That belonged to his companions, who rode laughing into battles from which they knew well they might not return. He had seen it, too, in the eyes of the men he himself had slain. Their faces haunted his dreams: grim campaigners with years of experience carved upon their brows, merry-hearted lads still bearing their first shield. They were all dead now, gone forever from this middle earth, struck down by a force against which no amount of skill or courage could avail them.
The great du Lac. The Lady’s poppet. A manikin who’d once dreamed it was a man.
There was no place for such as him in Elaine’s world, where the sun rose always in the east and set into the west. She would never believe that he had dwelt in a land beyond the sun, where night and day were subject to the Lady’s whim.
Nor did he want her to believe it. He wanted her to stay exactly as she was, untouched by the dark magic that ruled him. Let her go, he told himself. You have no right to so fine and fair a woman when all you have to offer is an empty shell.
His place was here, at Camelot. For this he had been born, his path laid out for him before ever he drew breath. To go on fighting the inevitable would only drive him mad.
“Lance?”
He jumped, then turned to find Arthur just beside him. “You startled me,” he said with an unconvincing laugh.
“I called you twice. Why aren’t you inside? Are you ill?”
“No. It was just the crowd—the noise. But why are you out here?”
“Tristan’s song.” Arthur grimaced wryly. “Looking back is a pastime for old men. I’ll come to it soon enough, no doubt—but not today.”
“I should think you would enjoy looking back,” Lancelot said. “Surely you have nothing to regret.”
“Of course I have regrets,” Arthur snapped. “You know I hate it when you talk like that, as though I am some sort of saint.”
Lancelot stared down at the ground. All at once he was tired, so weary that he wanted nothing but to cast himself upon his bed and sleep. “I am sorry,” he began.
“And don’t apologize for my bad humor.”
“I—” Lancelot clamped his lips shut before he could apologize again.
Arthur passed a hand over his face and sighed. “Forgive me. I am a beast today, but ’tis no fault of yours. Shall I leave you to your peace and quiet?”
“No,” Lancelot said. “Stay.”
Arthur smiled. “Good. We’ve hardly had a chance to talk since you returned. King Bagdemagus sent me a gyrfalcon. Would you like to see her?”
Lancelot returned his smile. “Yes.”
“I hear you saved Agravaine’s life in battle,” Arthur remarked as they walked together toward the mews. “That was the second time, wasn’t it?”
“Bad luck, isn’t it?”
Arthur lifted one brow. “For him or you?”
“A bit of both,” Lancelot answered with a halfhearted grin, “though I was talking about Agravaine. From the look on his face, I think he’d rather I’d left him as he was.”
“He didn’t thank you, I suppose.” Arthur sighed. “Poor Agravaine. He seems to think you do it a-purpose, just to embarrass him.”
Lancelot gave a short laugh. “Does he imagine I follow him about, waiting until he gets into trouble so I can get him out again?”
“No, that is Gawain’s job. Between Agravaine and Gaheris, they keep him very busy.”
Lancelot knew what was coming next, and before Arthur could ask yet again why he and Gawain could not seem to get along, he said quickly, “I like Gaheris. We rode together for a time in Gaul.”
“I like him, too,” Arthur said.
They walked in silence down the pathway to the mews. But while their silences were usually comfortable, Lancelot suddenly felt he could not bear this one a moment longer.
“There is another brother, isn’t there?” he asked. “A year or two younger than Gaheris?”
“Gareth.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“I’m looking forward to having him here,” Arthur said.
Before that terrible silence could fall again, Lancelot made another effort. “Gaheris said that Gareth can hardly wait to come, but Queen Morgause doesn’t want to let him go just yet.”
Arthur stopped to examine a climbing rose. “So I’ve heard.”
“I suppose it’s only natural. He is her last, isn’t he?”
“No,” Arthur said, leaning forward to inhale the blossom’s scent. “Not the last. There is one more after Gareth.”
“What’s that one called?” Lancelot asked.
“Mordred,” Arthur said softly, reaching out to pluck the rose. “She called him Mordred.”
“Is he—”
Arthur drew back his hand with a sharp hiss of pain.
“Are you bleeding?” Lancelot asked.
“It’s nothing.” Arthur shook his hand out. “Stupid of me. Listen, Lance,” he said, suddenly brisk and businesslike, “I meant to tell you that there’s a rumor Sir Turquine is up to his old tricks.”
“I’ll go have a look,” Lancelot offered.
That should keep him busy for a time. By then, with any luck, something else would have come up. He’d heard the Saxon treaty troops had grown restless while Arthur was away. Perhaps Arthur would send him there, as well. He’d always gotten along surprisingly well with the Saxons.
Yes, that was the way, do one thing, then the next, and hope that in time he could—not forget Elaine, he knew that was impossible—but learn to live with this pain that seemed unbearable. Yet it must be borne, and to wallow in his misery was contemptible. So long as he did not look back, or allow himself to hope, or wish for what could never be, he could still be of use to Arthur.
“Lance!”
Lancelot realized they had reached the mews. Arthur stood by the open door, waiting for him to pass.
“What is it?” Arthur asked, looking at him with concern. “Are you sure you aren’t ill?”
“No. No, I’m fine.”
“You’re not.” Arthur put a hand on his shoulder. “You’re shaking, Lance, and pale as a wraith. What is the trouble?”
Lancelot twisted away. “Don’t,” he said in a low voice. “Just … don’t. Please.”
“Don’t what?” Arthur asked quietly.
“Don’t ask me questions—and don’t look at me like that! I’ve said I’m fine, and I am.”
“ ’Ere now, who’s shouting out there?” a voice called from within the mews. “You’re upsetting the king’s gyrfalcon.”
Lancelot passed a hand across his face. “I’m sorry. I—I’d better go.”
Before Arthur could comment, he turned and fled back the way they’d come.
Chapter Thirty-Three
The herald, having blown his trumpet and announced the arrival of Sir Torre, Sir Lavaine, and Lady Elaine of Corbenic, stood back for them to enter the hall of Camelot.
Elaine had hoped to slip in unnoticed and send word to Lancelot, but there was no chance of that now that they’d managed to arrive in the middle of a feast. After the brightness of the afternoon, the hall was too dim for her to make out individual faces. All she could see was a sea of eyes turned toward them as they hovered uncertainly just inside the doorway in a patch of pale yellow sunshine.
“Lady who?” the people whispered, loud enough for her to hear. “Could it be—no, not her, ’tis impossible. She cannot be the Lady of the Red Sleeve!”
“Well, this is rotten luck,” Lavaine murmured, and much to Elaine’s surprise, she laughed.
“That’s the way,” Brisen said, warmly approving. “Don’t mind them.”
“I don’t. Here, give him to me.”
Elaine took her son in her arms and smiled sweetly at the assembled company, who fell abruptly silent. “Kind people,” she began, “can someone tell me—”
“Good day, Lady Elaine,” a low voice interrupted her. “Welcome to Camelot.”
Elaine found herself looking into a pair of violet eyes framed by thick, sooty lashes, large and luminous eyes that shone more brilliantly than the jewels flashing on the high brow of Britain’s queen.
“Madam,” she murmured, making the queen a reverence.
“We did not expect you,” Guinevere said.
“No.” Elaine smiled blandly as she straightened. “May I present my brothers, Sir Torre and Sir Lavaine.”
“Sir Lavaine is no stranger here,” Guinevere said, casting Lavaine a smile that brought a warm blush to his cheeks. “Sir Torre, you are very welcome.”
“Mistress Brisen,” Elaine went on, “late of the Duchess of Cornwall’s service.”
Guinevere nodded graciously. “I believe we met once before, Mistress Brisen, when my lord took a summer fever.”
“I am honored that you remember,” Brisen said, sinking gracefully to the floor.
And then there were no more distractions. Guinevere looked at the baby in Elaine’s arms. Her lovely face grew chill.
“My son.” Elaine met the queen’s eyes. “Galahad.”
Guinevere’s expression did not alter. Only the sudden dilation of her pupils betrayed her shock.
“Madam, I apologize for disturbing your revelry,” Elaine went on steadily. “Can you tell me where I might find Sir Lancelot?”
A heated buzz broke out amongst those nearest to the door, spreading like wildfire across the hall.
“Sir Lancelot is not here at the moment,” Guinevere said. “I shall have him sent for.”
She turned and walked back to the high table.
“What, we’re not to sit down?” Torre muttered.
“Apparently not,” Brisen said.
People seated in the back of the hall were standing, craning their necks to get a glimpse of this fascinating new diversion. Elaine kept her head high, though she felt a hot blush creeping from her neck to her forehead. Galahad woke and began to fuss.
“Shall I … ?” Brisen said.
“No. Thank you.” Elaine’s lips were oddly stiff; she compressed them into a tight line to still their trembling.
She had not slept the night before; her mind had been too busy conjuring a hundred different versions of her arrival at Camelot. Many of them had been unpleasant, but not even the worst could begin to compare to this reality. Galahad, who seldom cried save when he was hungry, let out a piercing wail. When a ripple of laughter passed across the hall, the
courage that had carried Elaine this far began to waver, then collapsed. She bent her head and stared helplessly at the stones beneath her feet, wishing they would open up and swallow her.
“Lady Elaine.”
Sir Gawain stood before her, resplendent in a robe of blue and silver, his face rigid and his gray eyes burning. He held out his hand, and Elaine, shifting Galahad, took it. He raised it to his lips and made her a deep bow.
“I am so pleased to see you again,” he said. “Sir Torre, Lavaine,” he nodded to them courteously as he offered Elaine his arm, “would you like to wait in the garden? I was just going there myself. The air in here,” he added, flashing a look of icy contempt across the hall, “does not agree with me.”
It was only when the door was closed behind them that Elaine began to shake.
“Thank you,” she said, “that was a bit … awkward.”
Gawain’s lips twitched. “A bit, yes. Here, step inside,” he said, unlatching a low gate leading to a small pleasance nestled between two wings of the castle. Roses overhung a stone wall that overlooked the forest below. A small fountain bubbled into a marble pool where golden fins flashed between water lilies.
“Sir Torre.” Gawain gestured toward a group of stone benches. Torre looked to Elaine, who nodded, then moved off toward the benches with Lavaine and Brisen. Galahad squirmed, crying fitfully, and Elaine bounced him in her arms as she walked toward the low wall, crooning nonsense syllables.
“May I?” Gawain said, and scooped the child into one arm with practiced ease. “That’s enough, now, we’ve all heard you. You’ve nothing to complain about.”
Galahad stilled. The two studied each other with mutual interest.
“Well, you’re a handsome fellow, aren’t you?” Gawain said. He sat down on the wall and held out a finger that Galahad seized in one small fist. “A good grip, as well. The king will be pleased to have you at his table in a few years.”