by Gwen Rowley
“Will you be riding out?”
“No, I’ll just fly her on the creance today.” He held out his arm to her and called down the table, “To the mews!”
A small crowd of knights and ladies left the hall. Elaine walked at their head, her hand tucked into the king’s elbow.
Chapter Thirty-Six
“You’ve come to scold me, haven’t you?” Guinevere said, after she had dismissed her women and she and Lancelot were alone. “And I deserve it. I was horrid to your Elaine.”
Scold her? Lancelot wanted nothing of the sort. What he wanted was to shake her hard, as though that might force some sense into her empty head.
“Why?” he demanded furiously.
“I was … upset. That’s no excuse, of course—I’ll beg her pardon, I swear I will, only …” Her voice trembled and she swallowed hard. “Only don’t be angry with me.”
Only yesterday, Guinevere had seemed quite well—better, in fact, than Lancelot had seen her for some time. He had breakfasted with her and Arthur, and she had kept them both laughing with her complaints about King Bagdemagus’s boorish son, who, among his many sins, had committed the unpardonable offense of belching in the presence of his queen without apology.
Today her glow had faded. She looked weary and distraught as she plucked restlessly at the folds of her gown. But that, Lancelot reminded himself firmly, was none of his affair. Guinevere was a woman grown, a queen, and she must learn to help herself.
“If you apologize, we shall forget the whole incident,” he said.
“Very well, Lance,” she said so meekly that his anger began to fade into the familiar dead weight of pity. “Let me just fix my hair, and I will go down with you. Have you heard the latest on Tristan and his lady love?” she said with a smile as false as it was brilliant as she pinned a flower among her raven braids. “King Mark is suspicious, but that is nothing new! Why he doesn’t simply banish Tristan from Cornwall is beyond me. You should talk to Tristan, Lance, before he goes back there, convince him to give her up before something dreadful happens.”
“Even if I could bring myself to such impertinence, I doubt he’d listen,” Lancelot answered coolly.
“No, I don’t suppose he would,” Guinevere agreed. “He truly loves her. Did I tell you that I met her?” she went on quickly, plucking at a lock of hair, “the fair Isolde? She was here two weeks ago with Mark, and as lovely as we’ve heard, though just between the two of us, she’s wretched company. All she does is sigh and droop and turn those great sad eyes to Tristan—and he’s no better; he just looks back at her with his whole heart in his face, and it really is a shame, because anyone can see they only live for one another.”
“It is an unfortunate situation,” Lancelot said neutrally, holding open the door so she might pass through. They went together toward the hall, Guinevere taking two steps to his one, her eyes anxious as she searched his face.
“Yes, it is unfortunate. And the worst of it is that they seem to revel in their misery. Oh, I know what they say about the two of them swallowing a love potion and all, but, honestly, Lance, even if Tristan can’t help himself, she could make some effort. Mark isn’t so bad. Of course he isn’t as good-looking as Tristan, but he can be quite sweet. Why, just before he left, he said to me—”
“I don’t want to hear about King Mark,” Lancelot said, cutting off the flow of words. “Or his queen, or poor benighted Tristan.”
Guinevere laughed as though he’d made a jest, the skin tightening about her eyes. “No, of course you don’t. I’m sorry. But there’s so little else to talk about. It’s just the same thing every day, you know, laundresses and seamstresses and Sir Kay with his menus and the mischief that my ladies get up to every time I turn my head. Such a lot of geese they are, and what with all the marriages I must arrange to rescue their good names, I scarce have a moment to draw breath! The Blessed Lady be praised that so far I have got them all well settled, though, honestly, I never imagined maidens so gently reared could be so rowdy. And the knights! Why, just the other day, I came into the bower and found Sir Dinadan behind the tapestry with … with …”
They had reached the doorway to the hall. Guinevere stood, one hand pressed to her throat, her eyes fixed on the high table. Arthur had already welcomed Elaine, Lancelot saw with quick relief. They looked quite companionable, chatting away, sharing a goblet and trencher. As Lancelot watched, Arthur laughed. It was a real laugh, not a mere politeness, and a moment later Elaine burst into a laugh as merry as his own.
“I—I feel unwell,” Guinevere said in a high, strained voice. “I must … make my excuses, Lance …”
Lancelot turned to see her stumbling back up the passageway, one hand to her face, the other outstretched to guide herself along the wall.
Let her go, he thought. Whatever her trouble, she must bear it alone or confide it to her lord. He forced himself to take another step into the hall, then with a muttered curse, he turned and followed Guinevere, catching up to her in the corridor outside her chamber door.
“Guinevere,” Lancelot called, “stop.”
“Go back,” she said, fumbling at the latch. “It is all right, I was just a bit … but I am better …”
He followed her inside and shut the door, glancing about quickly to make sure they were alone.
“Look at me,” he ordered. “No, don’t turn away. Now, tell me what the matter is.”
“Can I really? Will you promise not to say a word?”
“When have I ever betrayed your confidence?”
“Yes, of course. Well, then …” Guinevere drew a long breath, then burst out in a rush, “Yesterday—well, before that, I thought I was—I hoped—” She shook her head. “No, it was more than just a hope. I had conceived. I meant to tell Arthur last night, before the feast, but then—then—” her slight frame shook with sobs. “He would have been so happy!”
“Oh, Guinevere,” he said helplessly. “Are you sure you were not mistaken?”
“Not this time. I was sure—women know these things—but I could not hold onto it. Why?” She began to pace the chamber. “I’ve asked myself a thousand times, why? What am I doing wrong that I cannot keep a child?”
“But—sit down, you aren’t well, you must rest. Here, now, take this wine.” He sat down on a hassock beside her chair. “These things happen. But it doesn’t mean you can’t—that you won’t do better next time,” he finished lamely.
“That is what I told myself the first time,” she said, dragging a hanging sleeve across her eyes. “And the next. But now … I thought the third—they say it is a charm, but—” She raised the cup and sipped, then with a sudden gesture threw it against the wall and leapt to her feet. “God damn him!” she cried. “He cursed me, and now I am barren!”
“He? Who cursed you?”
“My fa—King Leodegrance,” she spat. “When he told me who—what I really am.”
Lancelot could only stare at her in shock. Never once, in all the years that had passed since they set out for Camelot upon Guinevere’s wedding journey, had they referred to Guinevere’s parentage. That she would do so now revealed a disturbance that frightened him.
“I always knew he hated me,” she went on, her train whipping behind her as she whirled. “Always. But I never knew how much. And then he told me. He told me everything, all about my mother and King Ban, things I did not want to hear. I couldn’t bear it; it was all so horrible, so—sordid.”
“I know,” Lancelot said. When Leodegrance had told him the same tale, he hadn’t thought it of much importance. Now, after years at court, he understood far better. If the truth were ever known, Guinevere and Arthur would never recover from the scandal.
“Before we left for Camelot,” she went on slowly, “Leodegrance said he had reconsidered. He swore he would tell Arthur, break our betrothal, shut me away in a nunnery forever. I begged him—” She wrapped her arms around her middle, shaking. “At last he said he would keep silent—for the honor of his house. But
he said he would be damned for foisting a base-born whore upon his king, and if God was just, I would never bear my lord a child.”
“That is nonsense,” Lancelot said. “If God granted every prayer made in anger—”
“But he was right,” she said, tears welling in her eyes. “He is damned—and so am I, for not telling my lord the truth about my birth.”
“Then why don’t you just tell him?” Lancelot burst out. “I’ve begged you to before, and now—”
“I can’t! He would annul our marriage, send me away, lock me up forever—”
“Of course he wouldn’t,” Lancelot said. “You are being very foolish.”
“No, I am not. Just think, Lance. What good is a queen who cannot give her lord an heir? Now Arthur feels honor bound to keep me, but if he knew I had deceived him, he would have the perfect excuse to cast me off and seek another bride.”
“What folly! He would never put you aside!”
“If you believe that, you are the fool!” Guinevere cried. “He would do what is best for Britain.”
Lancelot was silenced. Arthur could well do such a thing if he believed it would serve the interests of the realm. Indeed, Arthur might feel he had no choice.
“Even if he did annul the marriage,” Lancelot said, “I’m sure he would allow you to go home.”
“Home? To Cameliard? Where Leodegrance still reigns? I couldn’t bear it! No, I’d rather die. And I would. I’d jump from the tower before I let him send me back there—or pack me off to a nunnery. I won’t leave him, I can’t, I couldn’t bear it—”
“Stop it,” Lancelot ordered sharply. “You will not jump from any tower. Never say such a thing again. Now sit down and drink this,” he ordered, pouring a cup of wine and thrusting it into her hands.
Apparently this was the right approach. She raised the cup in shaking hands, splashing wine onto her gown, but Lancelot saw her throat work as she swallowed.
“Drink it all,” he said sternly, and she obeyed. “Now, are you more reasonable?”
“Yes,” she said meekly.
“You are still a young woman, Guinevere, with years before you in which to give your lord an heir. And look at the other things you have accomplished! Everywhere I go, the people talk of the good works you’ve done, your kindness and your charity. They are proud of you; you bring joy into their lives. Even your foolish pageants make them laugh, though they may never see them. All of Britain loves you.”
She turned her head to gaze out the open window. “Not quite all,” she whispered.
Following her gaze, Lancelot saw a group of knights and ladies gathered in the courtyard. Among them, his fair head rising above the rest, was the king. “Does he not treat you kindly?”
“Yes.” She nodded vehemently, tears spilling over her inky lashes and trailing down her cheeks. “Yes, he is wonderful—he gives me all respect—”
“Respect,” Lancelot repeated, beginning to glimpse the outline of her unhappiness.
“Yes, always. And courtesy, as well. He is—is all that is good—”
“Has he taken a mistress? Is that it?”
“No—or, at least, I do not think so. But you know how it is, no one would tell me. And I’m glad of that. I don’t think I could bear it. If—when—he does, I can only hope he will be discreet. But I—I believe he will be. He would never do anything to shame me before the court.”
“No,” Lancelot said slowly, “he would not.”
“So I have nothing to complain of, do I? I should be on my knees right now, thanking the Blessed Lady for my good fortune. ’Tis only … if I could just give him a son,” she added in a whisper, “I swear by all that’s holy I would never ask for more.”
“You will,” Lancelot said. “Given time—”
“Of course.” She smiled tightly. “I am just being silly. After all, I am a queen, and all of Britain loves me.”
All save one. He heard the echo of her thought as though she’d shouted it aloud.
“Why should he not love you?” Lancelot said, hardly realizing he’d spoken aloud until Guinevere answered.
“Oh, love!” She smoothed straggling tendrils back from her face. “What is love, really, but a foolish fancy dreamt up by minstrels? Come, tell me, Lance, do you love your Elaine?”
He could not give her the answer she so plainly wanted, but he would not lie. When the silence had gone on just a bit too long, Guinevere gave an unconvincing laugh. “Ah. Well. She is one of the lucky ones, then, isn’t she?”
“Not so lucky, I think,” Lancelot answered wryly. “I fear I’m not much of a bargain.”
“Don’t be silly, you’re quite the catch. Everyone says so.”
“Mmm. But they don’t know me, do they?”
Guinevere laughed again, this time more naturally. “True. You’d best marry her quickly.”
“God grant that I will.”
“I never thought to hear you speak so piously! You have been spending too much time with Sir Bors!” She sighed, her fingers plucking restlessly at the brooch at her breast. “I know I should like Bors better … He is just the sort who will be granted a miracle, but I am not so good that I can count upon such favor. So far as I know, there is but one way to get a child, and to greet my lord with swollen eyes and splotched skin would run counter to my purpose. So run along, Lance, there’s a dear, and let me mend the damage I have done.”
What she said made perfect sense—yet he could scarce believe that she had said it. Surely this was not Guinevere, so proud and wild! Had she really been reduced to this, a woman who must plot and scheme to bring her husband to her bed?
“Why do you stare at me so strangely?” she demanded. “What are you thinking?”
“Nothing,” he said at once, but it was no good. She could always read his thoughts. “Guinevere, don’t cry, I didn’t mean to make you cry. I’ll go now, and you shall make yourself beautiful—”
“Not beautiful enough,” she whispered, and then she laid her cheek upon his shoulder and wept as though her heart would break.
Lancelot patted her back, wishing he could find the words to ease her sorrow, knowing they did not exist. For she was right. Much as he enjoyed seeing Elaine robed richly and hung with jewels, such trappings had naught to do with love. That was in her scent, her smile, the way his heart lifted when their eyes met. It mattered not if she was garbed in velvet or clad in a muddy shift with her hair straggling damply down her back. He wanted her. He could not help but want her—not just her body in his bed, but she, herself—no more than he could choose to want another in her place. It was as simple—as inexplicable—as that.
His attention was caught by a sound, muffled by the distance, coming from the courtyard below. Looking down, he saw that the small crowd had dispersed, all save one who lingered. Sir Agravaine stood looking upward, his small eyes stretched wide and his mouth agape, one hand extended toward the open casement.
It was then Lancelot saw the second man, halted by Agravaine’s cry on the edge of the courtyard. He turned back, his gaze following Agravaine’s pointing finger, his eyes meeting Lancelot’s over Guinevere’s bent head. Before Lancelot could move or even think, the king turned away abruptly and strode off toward the mews, the falcon baiting furiously upon his wrist and Agravaine hurrying in his wake.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
“It was nothing,” Lancelot said.
He knelt before Elaine, her hands in his. He knew he was holding her too tightly. Her wrists were so slender, the bones too fragile to bear his fevered clasp. But the moment he eased his grip, she tried to pull away.
“The queen was upset—distraught,” he went on quickly, “I comforted her. Whatever you may have heard, it was no more than that, Elaine, I swear it.”
“Why was she upset?” Elaine asked. “Was it because I lured you to my bed with love potions and pretended to be her so you would lie with me?”
“What?”
“Oh, come, Lancelot, don’t tell me you haven’t hea
rd! Everyone else has, after all! How I tricked you and lied to you and—”
Lancelot sank back on his heels. “No,” he whispered hoarsely.
“—how distraught the queen was to hear of your infidelity. But they say she forgave you when she learned how basely you had been deceived.”
He could only gaze up at her blankly. The sunlight falling through the window behind her made a halo of her hair, so bright it almost hurt to look on it; her face was shadowy and indistinct. “It isn’t true,” he said at last.
“I know it isn’t true,” Elaine said, and each word was a sliver of ice that sliced into his skull. “I was there, remember? But how did such a story come to be?”
“I do not know,” Lancelot said, bewildered. He blinked hard and put a hand to his brow, rubbing the throbbing space between his eyes.
“Are you sure you did not start it?”
He flinched as though she had struck him. “You do not think that of me; you cannot!”
She pulled her hands from his. “Why was the queen so distraught?” she demanded.
Lancelot shook his head blindly. “I cannot say. But Elaine, it had naught to do with you. Or me. She is … unhappy.”
“That much I’ve already gathered.” She stood abruptly. “I have had my fill of Camelot. I’m going home.”
“Elaine, I love you,” he said desperately, “there is no other.”
The look she turned on him was chillingly familiar. Just so had Arthur looked at him that day in the queen’s chamber so long ago and again, today, from the courtyard below Guinevere’s window. Liar, that look said. Oath-breaker.
But he was innocent! He had done nothing wrong, betrayed no vow. Yet Arthur believed he had. Arthur had been hurt, and he, Lancelot, was responsible. Was that not in itself betrayal? He did not know, he did not understand how this had come about or what it meant. He only knew he could not bear that Elaine should look at him like that. He seized her wrists and rested his throbbing brow against her hands. “Elaine,” he whispered, “please. Please take me with you.”