Knights of the Round Table: Lancelot

by Gwen Rowley

Galahad let out a gurgle of delighted laughter. For the first time in what seemed like days, Elaine smiled. “You’re very good with him.”

  “He’s a fine lad,” Gawain said. “You must be very proud of him.”

  “Yes. Thank you.” Elaine’s eyes filled, and she looked away quickly, hoping he hadn’t noticed.

  “Now, here is what I suggest,” Gawain said, suddenly very brisk. “Sit down and rest yourself—no one should disturb you here—and I will arrange for some refreshment. Sir Lancelot went off after the king; likely they’re down in the mews. I will see he joins you shortly. Would you like your brothers to stay, or shall I—”

  But Elaine was no longer listening. Over his shoulder she had seen a man walk out of the shadow of the trees. He moved slowly, his dark head bent, but even before he looked up, she knew that it was Lancelot. He did not see her; he was staring straight ahead.

  Gawain turned to look over his shoulder. “Ah,” he said, his voice neutral. “Here he is now.”

  Elaine took a step forward, her hands clenched between her breasts, every muscle trembling. She tried to call out to him, but no sound came from her lips.

  Lancelot turned as if he meant to walk into the orchard. But he stopped at the first tree, braced a palm upon its bark, and rested his brow against his outstretched arm, every line of his body etched with despair.

  “Shall I … ?” Gawain asked in a low voice, but before Elaine could answer, Lancelot turned his head, and their eyes met.

  For one terrible moment, she was sure he had not recognized her. His expression did not change nor did he move. Then his arm fell slowly to his side; he straightened, the dark wings of his brows drawing together in a frown. Elaine’s heart lurched—the air left her body in a sickening rush. Lancelot’s eyes grew very wide. Then he was running up the slope, a blur of gold and crimson against the green grass. He vaulted lightly over the wall, only to halt half a dozen paces from her.

  “Elaine?” he said, as though even now he was not quite certain she was really there.

  She nodded helplessly, and before she stopped to think, her arms rose, reaching for him. He did not move, or smile, or speak again. A blazing rush of heat suffused her face, and her arms fell stiffly to her sides. She was aware of Gawain rising to his feet beside her, of Torre and Lavaine moving forward, and she knew that she must speak, say something, anything to defuse this unbearable tension, but before she could force her numb lips to move, Lancelot took a few steps forward, one hand outstretched.

  “Elaine?” he said again, and she saw his hand was shaking as he reached out and touched her cheek, his callused fingertips rough against her skin. “You—it really is you—” he said, and then he made a sound that was only half laughter and seized her in his arms, crushing her against him, burying his face against her neck.

  “Of course it’s me,” she said. “Did you think I was a wraith?”

  “I thought I was—it doesn’t matter now, you’re here—” He drew back and looked into her face as though assuring himself that this was true, and then he laughed and kissed her cheeks and brow and eyes before his lips found hers.

  Elaine forgot the others. She forgot everything in the wild rush of joy sweeping through her. How could she have ever doubted him?

  “Lancelot,” she said at last, drawing away. “Lancelot, wait—no, wait, look at me, I have to tell you something.”

  Galahad, ignored by everyone, gave a sharp, demanding wail.

  Lancelot raised his head. “What—”

  He looked around, bewildered, his eyes narrowing when he noticed Gawain, who immediately thrust the baby into Elaine’s arms. “Forgive me,” he said, “I did not mean to intrude.”

  “Who—?” Lancelot said, staring from Galahad to Gawain. “What—?”

  “Lancelot,” Elaine said swiftly, “this is your son.”

  The moment the words were spoken, she wished them back again. This was not how she had meant to tell him. Every trace of color drained from his face, and she instinctively tightened her hold on Galahad, gripping him so fiercely that he let out an indignant squeak.

  “My son?” Lancelot repeated hoarsely. “My … ?”

  “Ours,” Elaine rushed on. “He was born just before Easter. His name is Galahad.”

  “Galahad?” Lancelot raised his eyes to her; they were shimmering with tears. “Our—oh, Elaine,” he whispered, “is it so?”

  She nodded silently.

  “You were—and I left—why did you not tell me?”

  “I did not know.”

  Lancelot touched one of Galahad’s curls, then pulled his hand away. “Look at him, Elaine,” he breathed, “is he not beautiful?”

  “Yes,” she said, laughing through her tears. “He is. Do you want to hold him?”

  Lancelot drew back. “Oh, no—do you think I should? He’s so small.”

  “Nonsense, he’s enormous. Take him—he won’t break, I assure you. Just put your hands here—and here—that’s right.” He held Galahad stiffly before him, an expression of such mingled pride and terror on his face that even Torre, who had been regarding Lancelot with wary disapproval, burst out laughing.

  Then they were all laughing, standing among the roses with the fountain singing and the sunshine warm upon their heads. Slowly, carefully, Lancelot drew his son closer until Galahad’s bright curls rested on his heart. Elaine leaned against him, her cheek upon his shoulder, as they gazed down on their child.

  The others fell silent, and as one they turned and left the garden. Torre was last, and as he shut the gate behind him, he blinked, a little dazed, as though he had stared too long into the sun.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  It was only much later, as she and Lancelot lay entwined, that Elaine realized they had not spoken a word since they left the garden. Brisen had been waiting at the gate to take Galahad to his wet nurse, who they had lodged in a small tavern in the village. Lavaine and Torre were nowhere to be seen. Lancelot had simply led her to his chamber and just as simply she had gone, moving as if in a dream.

  The dream had shattered only once, when he untied the laces of her gown with shaking fingers.

  Galahad’s birth had altered her in ways that went far beyond the physical, though it was the outward changes that were uppermost in her mind as Lancelot eased her gown from her shoulders and bent to her. Even as she gasped at the piercing sweet sensation of his lips against her breasts, a small part of her was aware that they were not as firm and high as they had been the last time Lancelot kissed them.

  She tried to lose herself in the pleasure of the moment, yet when he sought to remove her shift, she resisted, knowing too well what he would find. During the weeks following Galahad’s birth, the flesh had melted from her bones, sharpening cheek and chin and digging hollows above her collarbones. Her hipbones jutted outward, yet between them, the soft skin of her belly sagged like an empty wineskin. It helped matters not at all that their separation had only heightened his beauty. For the first time she saw him as the warrior he was, the muscles of his arms and thighs and belly as sharply defined as though they had been cast in bronze. But he was so sweetly insistent that at last she allowed him to draw off the shift.

  As she stood naked before him, she tried to steel herself against his disappointment, masked though it might be by concern. As the silence lengthened, she grew a bit indignant—after all, it was in bearing his son that she had changed. She stole a glance at him beneath her lashes, searching his face for any sign of disappointment and finding none. But surely he must notice! How could he not when was devouring every inch of her, first with his coal-bright eyes, then with feather-light touches of his callused fingertips and finally—God help her—with his mouth?

  It was then her self-consciousness vanished. She was as she was—and, sweet blessed Lady, what she was, had always been and always would be: his. And he was hers to do with as she would.

  His skin was warm and smooth as he slid onto the bed to lie beside her. He cupped her face in his ha
nds, looking deep into her eyes as he had done so many times before, as though seeking something he could never bring himself to ask for.

  There was nothing she could give him but herself, but that she offered without reservation, and it was enough. Slowly, his eyes never leaving hers, he joined with her.

  When they were one, his smile wrenched her heart, it was so filled with astonishment and gratitude, as though he could not quite believe that anything so wonderful could possibly be happening to him. It fit so precisely with her own feelings that once again she knew beyond a doubt that the two of them had been fashioned for each other.

  What need had they of words? None, she thought dizzily as he began to move within her, first slowly and then with a gathering urgency as his lips brushed hers in a kiss made all the sweeter for its uncertainty. What they shared could never be explained. It simply was, as natural as the soft rain tapping against the windows and as much of a miracle as the child they had created.

  “The birth,” he said at last, drawing her more closely into his arms, “was it … ?”

  “Rather awful,” Elaine said. “It went on and on—in the end, Brisen had to turn him.” She shuddered at the memory, and his arms tightened around her.

  “I’m sorry. I wish I’d been there.”

  “Better you were not. I wasn’t feeling very kindly toward you at the time.”

  “Elaine, if I had known—”

  “You would still have had to go. And even if you’d been with me, there was naught you could have done. I think it is the same for all women at such times,” she added, smiling as she touched his cheek. “Men have all the pleasure and none of the pain …”

  “All the pleasure?”

  “Well, half,” she amended.

  “Just now, was it … all right?”

  “Not bad,” she said carelessly, then laughed. “It was wonderful, you noddy.”

  “You got my gifts?” he asked. “The sheep and swine and—why are you laughing?”

  “I’ll tell you later. The gifts were very thoughtful. But I would rather have had a message.”

  “I did not know what to say,” he admitted. “I hated leaving you like that. And after the way we quarreled, I wasn’t sure you’d want to hear from me. I am so sorry—”

  “So am I. Let’s not talk of it. Tell me of the battles!”

  He grimaced. “They were battles. The king won. That’s what matters.”

  “You haven’t changed, have you?” she asked, laughing. “At least I cannot accuse you of conceit!”

  “I would much rather hear about you,” he said swiftly. “Are you sure you are well?”

  “Do I look so very different?”

  “Yes. You are far more beautiful than I remembered, which I would have sworn impossible. But I would like to see a bit more flesh upon your bones.”

  “Then you will have to let me up so I can eat.”

  He heaved a sigh. “Yes, I suppose … or no, I’ll have something brought to us. If you would like.”

  “Mmm, yes, I would.” She stretched, feeling every muscle thrill with pleasure. “Wake me when there’s food,” she said, and turning on her side, fell instantly asleep.

  Lancelot pulled on a chamber robe and belted it loosely around his waist. Elaine lay upon her side with one knee drawn up and one hand extended, palm upward. He stood by the bed, watching her, then went down upon one knee and took a lock of her hair between his fingers, gently so as not to wake her. He raised it to his lips and inhaled the scent he had dreamed of for so long.

  He could not lose her. Not again. Nothing had changed; all the reasons he had given himself to stay away were as true as they had been before, yet everything was different. There was more at stake than his broken heart or even Elaine’s sorrow if they were to part. He was a father. Elaine had given him a son. The three of them were bound by ties even death could not dissolve.

  I will be careful, Lancelot vowed. Elaine will never know that I have changed. No darkness will touch her or Galahad, I swear it. Please, God, he pleaded silently, please protect them from all harm.

  Think you God will heed any prayer you utter? A mocking voice demanded in his mind. He thought again of the knights he had slaughtered during the campaign, the others he had struck down in the lists with his inhuman strength. Torre, Gawain … Gawain upon the battlefield, singing as he challenged death; Gawain, whose courage could no more be doubted than his honor—or his kindness, as he had proved again today. Oh, Lancelot had wronged him, creeping into Camelot like a thief in the night to steal the glory Gawain had worked so hard and long to earn.

  No, Elaine must never know. And she would not. Even if I tried to tell her, Lancelot thought, she would not believe me. She would think me mad. God knew he had felt close to madness this past year, mad with misery and shame as Arthur heaped honor upon honor on his head. Today’s feast had seemed the final blow.

  I will not go mad, Lancelot vowed. Elaine’s love will protect me, just as her token did. So long as she believes in me, all will be well. His eyes stung as he bent to kiss her brow.

  No pages lingered in the passageway, so he started for the stairway where they often sat in a small alcove at the top. Finding no one on duty there, either, he realized it must be far later than he’d thought. But surely someone would still be in the kitchens.

  He went down the twisting stairway, the stone cold against his bare feet. He briefly considered turning back to dress, but what were the odds of meeting anyone at this hour?

  He passed through the darkened hall, quietly so as not to disturb the servants and guests sleeping on the floor. On the far side, he went through a curtained doorway into another corridor that led toward the kitchens. The stone was rougher here, interspersed with pools of shadow where tiny alcoves had been set into the walls. These were often used for assignations, though now they held various cooks and stewards, gently snoring. It must be very late indeed, he thought, then shrugged, thinking he was surely capable of cobbling together some sort of meal without assistance.

  He was just wondering if there would be any plums—Elaine had a fondness for them—when a figure stepped out from one of the alcoves and stood before him. He started back, and the woman—for it was a woman, he saw now, near as tall as he was—leapt in the opposite direction.

  “I’m sorry,” Lancelot said, half laughing, though his heart thudded painfully in his chest.

  “No, no, it is I who should apologize,” she said, her sweet, rather husky voice pitched low. “I did not expect to meet anyone.”

  “Nor did I.” He flattened himself against the wall to let her by, and she brushed against him—deliberately, he thought, for there was more than enough room for her to pass—in a wave of sweet, heavy scent.

  “Why, it is Sir Lancelot!” she said, pausing just in front of him.

  “Yes,” he answered, not altogether pleased at being recognized and surprised that any lady caught in such a compromising position would want to linger. With a touch of malice, he said, “I don’t believe I’ve had the honor … ?”

  She moved so the flickering torchlight fell upon her face. “Morgause of Orkney. We’ve met before,” she purred, “do you not remember?”

  He remembered very well indeed. It had been several years ago. He had nearly fallen from his seat when she glided into Arthur’s chamber and the king introduced her as his half sister, the queen of Orkney. It was not that she looked far too young to have borne Gawain, let alone Gawain’s numerous brothers. Nor was it her beauty that struck him dumb, though she was very beautiful indeed. What had rendered him nearly incoherent with embarrassment was that he had already met her once before, though at the time he had dismissed their meeting as a dream.

  Some months before Queen Morgause walked into Arthur’s chamber unannounced, Lancelot had been out adventuring. The day was hot, the sun shimmering over the fields, and a few bright butterflies danced among the wildflowers. He had lain down in the shadow of a hedgerow and plunged into a heavy sleep.


  He woke—or dreamed he woke—to find four ladies standing over him, shaded by a canopy of purple silk. It seemed they had been there for some time, for cloths had been laid upon the grass behind them, spread with a feast of great magnificence. The ladies were all crowned, and each of them was exquisitely garbed and jeweled. They introduced themselves as the queens of Northgalis, the Outer Isles, Wales, and Orkney, and said he must choose one of them as a paramour.

  Though the dream was utterly fantastical, it was oddly realistic in its details. Lancelot had been befuddled, gritty-eyed, and clammy with sweat, his mouth parched with thirst. The ladies’ faces were all beautiful, but frightening, too, for the canopy cast eerie violet shadows upon their features.

  “I—I—” he stammered thickly, “forgive me, did you say … ?”

  “We would like to lie with you,” one of the queens—she had brown hair and blue eyes—explained kindly.

  “To swive you,” a black-haired, green-eyed beauty clarified, as he continued to gape at them in silence. She turned to the others and said, “I don’t think he understands.”

  A tall, auburn-haired lady leaned down and grasped him firmly between the legs. “Oh, I rather think he does.” She stroked him, her long, white fingers trailing over his swelling manhood in a lingering caress. “Mmm,” she said, straightening. “I think he could serve us all.”

  “But that was not the wager,” the last queen, who had a wealth of butter-yellow hair, protested. “He has to choose. You shouldn’t have touched him, Morgause,” she added reproachfully, “it isn’t fair now.”

  The queen thus addressed shrugged. “It’s fair if you do the same. He won’t mind,” she added, gazing at Lancelot through half-closed eyes. Her face was wide across the cheekbones, tapering to a small, pointed chin. When she smiled, she looked like a cat.

  Lancelot sat up, vainly hoping to hide the evidence of his arousal. “Madam,” he said, “Such a choice as you require of me is one I cannot make.”

  “Ooh, he does want us all!” The green-eyed lady laughed and reached for him.