Knights of the Round Table 03 - Gawain Page 3

  “Go on, sire.”

  “That’s right, Arthur King, you just bend your ear to me . . .”

  She leaned close. A moment later, Arthur drew back and stared at her incredulously. “That’s it?”

  “Aye, that’s it.” She wheezed with laughter. “You didn’t find it for yourself, though, did you?”

  “No,” Arthur said slowly. “No, I did not.”

  “Well, then, off you go. I’ll be waiting here for your return.”

  “And you are certain I will return?”

  “Oh, aye. That is, I’m certain you’ll give that Somer Gromer Jour what he’s after. Whether you return or not . . .”

  “If your answer is the right one, we will be back,” Gawain promised. “You have my word on it.”

  “And I’ll hold you to it. Even if I have to walk all the way to Camelot to find you.”

  “That will not be necessary.” Gawain could not bring himself to look at her again, but he bowed in her direction before turning Gringolet and starting down the path.

  Chapter 2

  AISLYN eased sideways in the saddle, trying to find a comfortable position. The crone was well enough for an hour or two, but after a morning’s ride, every joint throbbed like a separate toothache and her own stench was making her queasy. The thought of remaining in this form for even a few days was not a pleasant one.

  Then she looked at Gawain and decided it was worth it.

  He rode perfectly upright in his saddle, his face set in the expressionless mask he’d worn since he returned from the king’s meeting with Somer Gromer Jour. He’d brought with him a pretty little mare for her, a gesture that she suspected sprung more from his unwillingness to have her share his mount than any generosity on his part. Still, it looked well, and he had been nothing but polite during the ride, once or twice going so far as to ask if she would like to rest.

  It was a good performance. She wondered how long he could sustain it.

  “We are nearly there,” he said. “Camelot is just over the next rise.”

  Aislyn knelt by her window, staring up at the moon, too happy to even think of sleeping. Camelot! She was going to Camelot! She hugged herself, wondering if it was possible to die of joy. She could imagine it so clearly, the two of them riding down the road, Gawain laughing as he took her hand—and there it would be, just as he had described it to her. The new rose garden—“It’s only mud and twigs so far, but one day it will be beautiful”—the proud battlements and lofty towers, the bright—

  Pennants. There they were, splashes of color against gray stone, the standards of visiting nobility hung according to their rank with the crimson Pendragon banner over all, its golden serpent writhing as it snapped in the breeze.

  It was all just as he had said, exactly as she had seen it in her dreams. And here she was riding over the crest of the hill with Gawain beside her, on the way to their wedding.

  She gave an inelegant snort of laughter. If this didn’t teach her to be careful what she wished for, she didn’t know what would.

  THEY did not go to the main entrance, but to a private courtyard apparently belonging to the king. It was a pretty little place, surrounded on two sides by low stone walls twined with trailing honeysuckle just coming into flower. It must smell lovely here, Aislyn thought with an inward sigh. Unfortunately, she could not smell anything but herself at the moment.

  Just as they reached the entrance, Gawain halted. “Sire,” he said. “A favor, if you would.”

  “Good God, do you think I would refuse you anything?” The king shot Aislyn a look of deepest disgust. “Name it and it is yours.”

  Aislyn’s stiff fingers clenched on the reins. What was this? Had Gawain thought of a way out? Or did he only mean to be rewarded for his sacrifice?

  Impossible to tell from his face. When had he become so adept at concealing his thoughts? “Then I would ask that you do not disclose to anyone what has befallen us today, save that you succeeded in your quest.”

  “Not disclose—? But—but how else to explain—” Arthur broke off abruptly. “Yes, all right. Whatever you like.” And for the first time since they’d set out, he smiled.

  Aislyn eyed Gawain suspiciously as they entered the courtyard. What was he up to? Was he going to attempt to buy her off? Have her banished? Wring her neck and stuff her down the well?

  “Arthur!”

  For the first time, Aislyn noticed a young woman sitting on a bench beside the castle wall. She leapt to her feet, the book she had been reading falling from her hands.

  Raven hair waved softly about the pure oval of her face and her eyes were luminous between starry lashes as she ran to the king as though she meant to throw herself into his arms. Two paces from him, she halted, blushing—like a rose, Aislyn thought, a stab of bitter envy piercing her heart—and, taking her trailing skirts in her slender white hands, sank gracefully to the flagstones.

  “My lord,” she said formally. “I was—it is good to have you back.”

  The king, who had started toward her, halted, his arms falling stiffly to his sides. “Guin—my lady,” Arthur corrected himself quickly. “How kind of you to wait for me.”

  “It was no trouble,” Queen Guinevere replied.

  What was the matter with these people? Aislyn wondered, staring from the king to the queen. Did they always act like two villagers in a bad pageant, or only when others were there to see?

  Gawain swung himself from Gringolet.

  “My queen,” he said with frosty courtesy, going down upon one knee.

  Guinevere wrested her gaze from the king to the golden-haired knight kneeling before her. “Sir Gawain,” she said with all the enthusiasm of a woman presented with a posy of dead blossoms. “So you are back, as well.”

  Aislyn’s gaze sharpened. Either the two of you detest each other, she thought, or you’re putting on a very good show. I wonder which it is?

  “Yes,” Gawain said, rising and turning to help Aislyn from her horse. She groaned as her feet hit the ground and Gawain, surprising her, handed her the staff strapped to her saddle. “May I present . . . ?”

  Only then did Aislyn realize that no one had bothered to ask her name. “Dame . . . Ragnelle,” she croaked, using that of a demon in a pageant she’d once seen.

  Guinevere backed up a step, raising one trailing sleeve to her nose, her lovely face twisted with disgust. “What do you mean by bringing this—this—”

  “Guinevere,” Arthur began, “let me explain. You see—” He broke off, obviously remembering his promise. “We can talk about this later,” he finished lamely.

  They were up to something. Gawain had a plan—of course he did, Aislyn should have known victory could never be so easy. He meant to—to imprison her. Of course! She should have thought of that before. Toss her into some dark dungeon, lock the door, and throw the key into the river—

  “Dame Ragnelle and I are to be wed,” Gawain said. “Today, if possible.”

  Guinevere’s pink lips parted in astonishment. Arthur rounded on Gawain, anger and amazement warring on his face.

  “These young men!” Aislyn cackled, hobbling forward to rest a claw on Gawain’s arm. “Think a wedding feast can be conjured from the air! Me and you know better, don’t we, Your Grace? But don’t bother yourself, whatever you can manage will suit me well enough. Let’s face it, dearie,” she said, dropping Guinevere a wink, “at my age, I can’t afford to stand on ceremony.”

  Guinevere’s jaw dropped a little further. She turned to her husband, but Arthur only nodded, still looking at Gawain.

  “If that is what Sir Gawain wants,” he said, tight-lipped. “We shall, of course, oblige him. Won’t we, my lady?”

  “I—I—” Clearly at a loss, Guinevere stared from her husband to his nephew. “Are you quite certain, Sir Gawain?”

  “Quite,” he replied with such frigid dignity that Guinevere was silenced. “Would you be so kind as to see that Dame Ragnelle has all she requires?”

  “Me?” The
word came out as a squeak, and again, Guinevere looked to her husband. This time Arthur met her gaze straight on.

  “I would consider it a personal favor, my lady.” He drew Guinevere aside and added in a lower voice, “Don’t say anything about the wedding yet.”

  “As you wish. Well, then, Dame . . . Ragnelle,” Guinevere said with infinite distaste. “If you would step this way . . .”

  “Ta, love.” Aislyn waggled her twisted fingers at Gawain. “I’ll see you in a bit.”

  She followed the queen inside and up a long corridor. “Not so fast,” she grumbled, “I ain’t as spry as I used to be.” Guinevere slowed, allowing Aislyn to catch up to her.

  The queen’s face was a study of revulsion and curiosity. Eventually, as Aislyn had suspected it might, curiosity won.

  “This is all so sudden,” she said. She attempted a light laugh, though it came out somewhat strangled due to Aislyn’s close proximity. “How long have you known Sir Gawain?”

  “Known him? I can’t say as I know him at all,” Aislyn replied, which was true enough. Once she’d thought she did, but she’d soon learned the folly of that assumption. “What woman really knows her man before they’re wed?”

  Guinevere shot her a startled look. “True, but . . .” She hesitated, pearly teeth worrying her full lower lip. “How did you meet?”

  “’Twas a lucky chance.” Aislyn cut off further questions by the simple expedient of smiling. Guinevere gasped, one hand flying to her slender throat. “I expect you’re thinking I’m a bit old,” she went on, “and I can’t deny I had my doubts. But I said to myself—Ragnelle, I said, you don’t get such an offer every day—or even every century. If it doesn’t worry him, who are you to fuss?”

  Guinevere gazed at her, her face working with some emotion Aislyn could not immediately name. The queen’s lips trembled—was she about to weep? But no, a tiny giggle escaped her before she managed to compose herself. “Yes,” she said. “I see. How very interesting.”

  Interesting indeed. So the act had been no act at all. No friend of Sir Gawain could possibly find this situation comical.

  That’s something we have in common, Aislyn thought, wondering why she could not bring herself to like the queen. But then, she doubted Guinevere had many women friends at all, not looking like she did. Aislyn remembered how that felt, and thought that under different circumstances, she and Guinevere might have gotten on well together. For she—like Guinevere, she suspected—had never known what it was to be jealous of another woman’s beauty.

  Until today.

  Feeling oddly out of sorts, she stomped into a bare chamber with a large cask in the center.

  Guinevere pulled a cord and a moment later, a serving girl arrived. “Fill the bath,” the queen ordered. “Have you anything to wear, good dame?” she added to Aislyn.

  “Happens I do. My bag’s still on my horse.”

  “I will see that it is brought to you. If there is anything you need, just ask one of the serving maids.”

  What I need is to change back before I really am as old as I seem to be, Aislyn thought moodily as the cask was filled. What I need is to find some place Morgause won’t look, and get there. But she couldn’t be safer than she was right here, and until she thought of something better, here she would remain.

  The bath was filled and after much vehement whispering among the serving girls, one was pushed forward. She was a frightened little miss of perhaps fourteen, and gulping audibly, offered to help Aislyn bathe.

  “Go along,” she said roughly. “All of you. I reckon I can manage on my own.”

  Alone, she regarded the steaming bath, longing to immerse her aching joints in its warmth, but she had used the last of her foul asafetida potion earlier. On reflection, though, she thought the point had been made and sank into the water with a sigh, looking down at her slack breasts and wrinkled belly with a shiver of disgust.

  Queen Morgause of Orkney slipped her hand beneath Aislyn’s chin and lifted her face. “You are very beautiful, my dear.”

  Aislyn swayed upon her feet, sick with disappointment. Had she failed, then? Did she have no gift for magic after all? Perhaps what she had done was not so unusual as she had thought; mayhap every maiden at this strange court could gaze into crystal water and see their queen and recite what she was doing, though that lady was in another chamber at the far end of the keep. Had she been inaccurate in her description? Or—sharp fear stabbed her belly—had she imagined the entire vision, her need to see overwhelming her good sense?

  As the queen continued to regard her, she stood silent, willing herself not to weep. What was there to say? Yes, she was beautiful. To deny it would be futile; to express gratitude, a lie. But a fair face had availed her nothing when the battering ram sounded at the gates. It was power she had needed then; the power to rain destruction on the armored men streaming into the courtyard, but all she could do was flee the advancing enemy. What matter if she was the fairest maid in all of Britain? She was still a beggar at Queen Morgause’s court.

  “Do not scorn the power of beauty,” Morgause reproved her. “Only a fool does not wield every weapon at her disposal.” The queen released her and sat back. “You have a rare gift, Aislyn, as did your mother at your age. But as I told her then, there is no point in teaching you if you do not mean to carry on with it. Any of my knights would have you gladly, dowry or no.”

  “No!” Aislyn cried. “I do not wish to marry!”

  Morgause’s brows lifted. “Whyever not?”

  “My father—when he died—you know what happened then! My mother could do nothing to prevent it. And I want no man to rule me,” she added fiercely.

  “What has that to do with marriage?” Morgause asked, amused. “I was married for many years, you know.”

  Aislyn made a helpless gesture. “But you are not like other women.”

  “No,” Morgause agreed with a complacent smile, “I am not.”

  “I want to be like you,” Aislyn said. “Teach me magic— take me into your service.”

  “Come, sit by me,” the queen ordered, gesturing to the cushioned window seat beside her chair. “Some wine? And do try one of these oatcakes—”

  Aislyn was caught between embarrassment and hunger as the queen served her. The weeks she had spent upon the road had left her so empty that she sometimes thought she would never eat her fill.

  “Have another—here, take them all,” Morgause said, handing her the dish. “There, now we are comfortable! I will teach you, and you will do me a small service in return.”

  “Anything!” Aislyn declared, speaking around a mouthful of oatcake.

  “My eldest son, Gawain—you have heard of him, no doubt—was taken from me when he was but a boy. My half brother, Arthur, insisted that Gawain be fostered at his court, for he knew well it would break my heart to be parted from my child. Not content with that, Arthur has twisted Gawain’s mind.” The queen rose suddenly and paced her solar, her slender body taut and shaking with the force of her emotion. “He has turned my son against me,” she said, the words catching in her throat, “against his clan. You will bring him back to us.”

  “Me?” Aislyn squeaked.

  “Yes, you.” Morgause stood before her. “So young and fair—and Gawain is his father’s son. He will want you—I imagine most men do. You will say to him the words I give to you, you will teach him to remember his duty to his own. And in return . . .”

  Morgause took Aislyn’s hand between her own. “Oh, look here, child! I think—yes, I do believe I see a great future for you.” Her fingertip traced Aislyn’s palm. “What is this? A crown? Would you like that, child?”