Knights of the Round Table 03 - Gawain Page 13

  Gawain tried to reconcile the two loyalties warring for supremacy over his heart, but they were so opposed that any treaty seemed impossible. Matters came to a head over his knighting, an occasion Arthur wanted to mark with elaborate celebrations. In the space of six months, Gawain gained three inches and lost half a stone, and finally sent a message to his parents begging them to negotiate for his release. The reply, written in his father’s hand but no doubt dictated by his mother, was short and sharp. He was grown to a man’s estate, it said, and they expected him to act accordingly. “Do what you must,” it finished.

  Ten days later, Gawain knelt before the king and rendered Arthur his oath of fealty. Once the deed was done, he did not look back. An oath taken was taken. A promise made must be fulfilled.

  So it was with Dame Ragnelle. He wished Arthur understood that there was nothing to be gained by complaining of what could not be changed. But Arthur was a romantic, something Gawain had not been for years.

  His thoughts drifted back to a dream he’d had last night—a strange dream, very vivid. He was tempted to relive every moment of it, but he wrested his mind firmly to the present.

  No matter how enticing a dream of love might be, in the end it was no more than an illusion, and no one knew the danger of illusion—and of love—better than Gawain. But they are one, he reflected, for love is always an illusion, a trap to lead good men to ruin and disgrace. Give him reality any day, even if reality was a muddy road beneath a darkening sky, with a difficult negotiation to look forward to and Dame Ragnelle to welcome him home when it was done. For right here, right now he was awake, aware, utterly himself and completely in control of his own thoughts and actions.

  It might not seem much to other men, but to Gawain it was enough.

  Chapter 15

  AISLYN was in a foul temper by the time she stumped up the stairway toward the royal pavilion. She had spent the past two days searching for her bag, and once she realized it must be in the trunk, in trying first to pick the lock, then using every spell she knew to open it. All she had to show for her trouble was a broken bodkin and a headache.

  She would far rather have been resting—hiding—in her chamber, but as the queen herself had sent a page to bring her to the tournament, she thought it prudent to attend. Guinevere sat beside Arthur’s empty throne, and on her left hand was Sir Lancelot, brave in a scarlet cloak and cap with a long white feather that curled over one shoulder.

  “Are you not competing, Sir Lancelot?” Aislyn asked, surprised to find him there.

  When Lancelot turned to her, the wind caught his plume. Guinevere batted it away from her face.

  “Since the king is gone away, our gracious lady asked me to judge the outcome,” Lancelot replied politely.

  “Lance,” the queen complained, “can you not remove that dratted cap? The feather keeps getting in my eyes.”

  “Remove it? Madam, I would have you know this cost me a small fortune. I will turn my head away.”

  He was in high good spirits, as was Guinevere. The two of them were whispering like children, then breaking into gales of laughter. Aislyn’s spirits lifted a trifle, for it had been years since she had seen a tournament, and never one half so fine as this. The knights were gathering below, Sir Kay’s on one end of the field, Sir Pellinore’s on the other. She leaned forward in her seat when the marshal dropped his scarf and the two sides charged.

  Gawain had been right. It was like a battle. They came together with a fearsome clash, and it was impossible not to be caught up in the excitement. “Oh, well done, Sagramore!” Guinevere cried. “Sir Kay is down—he will have hard words for his groom tonight, I trow!” Aislyn turned this way and that, trying to follow Guinevere’s pointing finger, but it was such a press of heaving steeds and shouting men that she wondered how Sir Lancelot could possibly decide the winner. She turned to ask him—only to find another man sitting in his place, wearing the scarlet cloak and cap.

  A great burst of laughter erupted from the audience and she saw a knight ride into the melee, wearing— She blinked and rubbed her eyes, but she had seen aright. The knight was wearing a yellow gown over his armor, the skirts ruched up over his legs and fluttering behind him as he galloped into the fray.

  It had to be Sir Lancelot. The tales of his prowess had not been exaggerated, Aislyn thought. He rode like a fury, knocking knights aside as though they were straw men, only to pull up his charger before two knights who were engaged. One fell; the other—Sir Dinadan, she realized from his shield, turned to find Lancelot ready to engage him.

  Aislyn was on her feet now, hands twisting as she waited for the charge. Lancelot put heels to his horse, but at the last moment he turned aside, making a show of smoothing down his skirt as Dinadan’s steed swept by him. Having arranged the billowing fabric to his satisfaction, Lancelot lifted his spear as though ready to engage his opponent, giving an exaggerated start when he realized Dinadan was no longer facing him. He raised himself in his stirrups and turned his head this way and that, one gauntleted hand shading his visor as he sought his vanished opponent.

  The other knights had drawn back to watch, and the stands rang with cheers and laughter as Lancelot finally spotted Dinadan and with a flourishing bow, invited him to joust.

  It was over in a moment. Dinadan went down amid a burst of laughter from the crowd. Guinevere sat forward in her seat, a hand pressed across her mouth and tears of merriment streaming down her cheeks.

  Ah, well, Aislyn thought, Dinadan had asked for it. She was relieved, though, when he stood and waved to the crowd, then with a bow as exaggerated as Lancelot’s had been, saluted the victor before mounting his horse and turning for the sidelines. He was halfway there when Lancelot and another knight—Aislyn could not see who it was— came up on either side of him and escorted him off the field and into the forest.

  “Where did they go?” she asked Guinevere.

  “Off to drink, no doubt, and make up their quarrel.”

  Aislyn wondered why they couldn’t wait for the feast to drink together; it seemed odd that Lancelot had abandoned the field when he surely would have carried off the prize, which turned out to be a two-handed cup filled with silver coin, presented by the queen to a rather stunned-looking Sir Sagramore.

  Maybe Lancelot was so wealthy he did not care, though he must be very wealthy indeed to turn down such a prize as that! She’d have to ask Dinadan about it at the feast.

  But Dinadan was not in his usual seat in the hall. Nor was Sir Lancelot. The first course was finished, and the second, before Dinadan arrived, though Aislyn did not recognize him at first. He was escorted on either side by Sir Lancelot and another man—the Saxon, Gudrun—who held him firmly by the arms.

  And he was wearing the yellow gown.

  His armor was beneath; it gleamed through the many rents in the saffron fabric, which was stained now with earth and what looked like blood. She could not read his expression, for his head was bent, his tangled hair obscuring his face.

  “My queen!” Lancelot cried. “I have brought a new damsel for your service!”

  “G-good my lady,” Guinevere choked, “you are welcome here. Come, sit by me.”

  Dinadan wrenched free of his captors. He turned, gathering the tattered hem, but on his first step he stumbled, half falling in a dreadful parody of a curtsy.

  Knights beat upon the tables with their fists, convulsed with mirth, and the ladies shrieked with laughter. Guinevere bent double, one arm clasped across her middle, half sliding from her seat. Aislyn was reminded of a bear-baiting she had seen as a girl. Everyone had laughed at that, as well—but she had run off to be sick behind a bush.

  She felt the same nausea now, the same pity and rage. But this time, she could do something about it.

  She stumped into the center of the hall and stood before Lancelot, hands fisted on her hips.

  “What’s this you’re playing at?” she demanded. “For shame, Sir Lancelot, to treat a brother knight so!”

  Lance
lot looked momentarily taken aback, but he soon recovered. “Why, Dinadan, it seems you have made a conquest! Does Sir Gawain know of this?”

  “Watch yourself, lad,” Aislyn said quietly. “Your tongue is outrunning your manners—and your sense.”

  “What is this?” the Saxon asked, raising his hand. “Begone, before I fetch you a clout to remind you of your place.”

  Aislyn eyed him up and down. “Am I meant to be frightened? Of you?”

  Lancelot caught the Saxon’s wrist. “Gudrun, don’t,” he said in a low voice. “The king wouldn’t like it.” He glanced about the hall, then smiled. “Lady Ragnelle, if you want this . . . damsel for your own service, you only need appeal to our gracious queen.”

  The queen exchanged a glance with Lancelot and smiled. “Lady Ragnelle,” she said, “I will grant thy boon.”

  Aislyn rolled her eyes and reached for Dinadan’s arm.

  “In return for a favor from you,” the queen said.

  “What’s that?” Aislyn asked suspiciously.

  “We all so enjoyed your dance the other day,” Guinevere said. “Do you perform it again for us, I beg you.”

  Dinadan raised his head. One eye was swollen nearly shut and blood oozed from a gash on his cheekbone. “Don’t,” he said to Aislyn. “I can take care of myself.”

  “Quiet, you,” Gudrun growled, jerking him away. “Let the old woman dance for us. Go on,” he cried, raising his voice, “Dance!”

  Aislyn didn’t know why she should mind. She’d been more than willing to make a fool of herself in the garden. But somehow that was very different than someone else forcing her to do it.

  “Either you dance,” Gudrun added, pulling Dinadan forward so abruptly that he stumbled, “or he does.”

  Aislyn cast a look about the hall, certain that someone would protest. But all she saw were the avid faces of people half starved for amusement, people who had lived so long in luxury that they had forgotten what it was to be poor and powerless—if they had ever known.

  But Camelot wasn’t supposed to like this! It was meant to be different. Better. A beacon, Gawain had called it, and only now did she realize how very much she had wanted to believe him.

  But he’d been wrong. This place was rotten to the core. When she could simply walk away, it had been easy to laugh at their pretension, but now it wasn’t funny anymore. Tears rose to her eyes, tears of helpless fury and shame and of sorrow for Gawain’s dream of Camelot.

  “Well?” Gudrun demanded. “Why are you still standing there?”

  Aislyn nodded. No point in slobbering, she told herself. Get on with it.

  She put her hands on her hips and tipped her head back to look up at the queen. “Where’s the music? You can’t expect me to dance without music!”

  Gudrun clapped his hands. “Dance!” he cried. “Dance!”

  Others took up the cry, crashing fists or tankards on the trestles to the rhythm Gudrun set. “Dance!”

  When Aislyn set her jaw and hopped from one foot to the other, they howled like beasts. She had just taken her second step when a voice sliced through the tumult like a blade.

  “What in God’s name is going on here?”

  Aislyn stumbled on the next step as she whirled, her heart lifting when she saw Gawain’s golden head above the flushed and sweating crowd. His face was set, only the flashing of his eyes betrayed his emotion as he strode between the trestles to stop before the dais. “Madam,” he said, bowing to the queen, “the king sends you greeting and bids me say he will be with you on the morrow.”

  He turned, his gaze passing over the group in the center of the floor. “Sir Lancelot,” he said. “Pray explain the meaning of this.”

  Lancelot’s cheeks were poppy red, but he managed an insolent smile. “It is a merely a jest,” he said. “A joke between friends.”

  “A joke?” Gawain repeated incredulously, his gaze moving from Dinadan to Aislyn. “A jest?”

  “We were having a bit of fun,” Lancelot went on. “A thing you wouldn’t understand.”

  A few people laughed, but the laughter was uncomfortable. They knew they had done wrong. Yet they were angry, too, like children caught out in some mischief. They would not thank Gawain for this, she thought, nor forget how he had shamed them tonight.

  “You are right, I don’t understand,” Gawain answered. “Perhaps Sir Dinadan would explain.”

  “Ask your lady,” Dinadan said tightly. He tore the remnants of the gown from his shoulders, stepped out of the puddled fabric and walked from the hall. The people, silent now, parted to let him pass.

  Gawain turned to Aislyn, his brows raised in question.

  “They were making mock of Sir Dinadan,” she began steadily enough, “and I—but then . . .” She blinked hard, and when her vision cleared, she saw Gawain raise his hand and slowly, with great deliberation, strip off a glove.

  For a moment, Aislyn thought—hoped—that he would strike Lancelot across the face with it, but he merely let it fall onto the yellow gown.

  “Sir Lancelot,” he said with icy courtesy, “will you meet me in the lists tomorrow?”

  Lancelot bent to pick up the glove, looking as though he’d been handed the keys to paradise. “Sir Gawain,” he answered with a sweeping bow, “it will be my pleasure.”

  A cheer greeted Lancelot’s words, and Aislyn shook her head. Fools. Fools and children, that’s all they were. And now they had found a new champion, one who would not challenge them to be better than they were, but pander to the worst in them.

  If Gawain was aware of the cheering, he gave no sign of it. “My lady,” he said, offering his arm.

  Was he mad? He could have made a magnificent exit, head high and dignity intact. That was impossible with her hobbling along beside him. But he did not hurry her. The moment they were through the door, the laughter burst out, Lancelot’s rising above the rest.

  Gawain was silent as they walked through the corridors to his chamber. “Please excuse me,” he said when they reached the door.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To the chapel.”

  “Aye. But don’t you be staying up too late, now.”

  “I won’t.”

  She watched him go down the hallway. “Sir Gawain,” she called after him, and he turned, the torchlight falling on his face. “Mind you beat that rascal tomorrow.”

  “I will do my best, but . . .” He smiled and his shoulders moved in the slightest of shrugs. “In destinies sad or merry, true men can but try.”

  Of course he will win, she told herself as she stepped into the chamber. He is the best, isn’t he? If there is any justice in this sorry world, Sir Lancelot doesn’t stand a chance.

  She stripped to her shift and hoisted herself onto the bed with a groan. She was weary half to death, her joints afire. If only she had her bag, she could have brewed something to ease the pain. But Gawain had taken it from her. Anger flared anew, then died when she remembered him striding into the hall, and in her mind, bugles and banners heralded his entrance.

  What a tangle it all is, she thought drowsily, wrong and right so twisted together that it is impossible to pick out the knot. That Lancelot is dangerous . . . Gawain himself is dangerous . . . yet she could not deny that she’d been proud of him tonight.

  He would not lose tomorrow. He could not.

  ’Tis but a joust, she told herself, drifting on the edge of sleep. Two men riding at each other with sticks. It doesn’t matter who knocks the other down. There was no reason to feel that the fate of Camelot was hanging in the balance . . .