Knights of the Round Table 03 - Gawain Page 4

  “Yes,” Aislyn breathed, almost dizzy with the thought. “Yes, madam, I would.”

  “You will find me very generous to those who serve me well,” Morgause said. “As for those who do not . . .” She dropped Aislyn’s hand, her eyes suddenly hard. “Let us hope you have no cause to find out.”

  Chapter 3

  “ I am not saying she should leave empty-handed,” Arthur argued. “She can have a manor—two manors—a duchy—”

  “She refused all those before,” Gawain said patiently, “and I have given her my word.”

  Arthur flung himself into a seat. “I know, you are right, but have you considered that you are my heir? What if I die tomorrow? Do you seriously expect to put that—that— thing on the throne as queen of Britain?”

  Gawain had considered this already, during the ride back to Camelot. It was the reason he had requested this audience with Arthur, fearing that the king had not thought of it himself. “It is a problem,” he said.

  “A problem? It’s a bit more than that, Gawain.”

  “Then you will have to name another heir.”

  “Another—? Who, Agravaine? He’d have the clans at each others’ throats in no time. Gareth? Gaheris? They’re just boys!”

  “No younger than I was when you—”

  Arthur crashed his fist down on the table. “You are my heir and as your liege lord, I forbid this marriage.”

  “It is too late for that,” Gawain said quietly. “We accepted her help—”

  “You mean I did.”

  “I mean we did. No other choice was possible for us or for Britain. She named a price; I agreed to it. There is no honorable way to withdraw.”

  Arthur buried his face in his hands. “How could I have allowed this? How could I have let you—”

  “I am not the first man to marry from expediency, or even the first to wed a woman older than myself. It is a common enough arrangement, Arthur.”

  “She’s not old—she’s ancient. She is . . . loathly. But I don’t suppose she can live forever,” Arthur said, the words coming muffled from behind his hands.

  “I expect not.”

  “You could send her off to Orkney.” Arthur raised his head, his expression brightening. “You’d never have to lay eyes on her again.”

  “That I cannot do,” Gawain said. “I’m sorry—I thought you heard. It was a condition. She said that once we married, we could not live in separate households.”

  “And you agreed?”

  “I did.” Gawain looked down at his folded hands, his chest tightening at the thought of leaving Camelot. “If she is so repugnant to you,” he said carefully, “I could go with her to Orkney—”

  “No! It’s bad enough I’ve spoiled your life, I won’t have you exiled, too. I need you with me.” Arthur sighed heavily. “I suppose we’ll just have to put up with the loathly lady.”

  The pressure in Gawain’s chest eased. “I am sorry, Arthur,” he began.

  “For what? Saving my life? Don’t be a fool.” The king stood and walked to the door. There he hesitated as if he meant to say more, but in the end he walked out without speaking.

  Gawain stared at the closed door, then bent his golden head and rested his brow on his clenched fist.

  Chapter 4

  AISLYN had just put the veil over her head when one of the queen’s waiting women arrived to escort her to the hall. She didn’t know the lady’s name; the haughty bitch hadn’t bothered to introduce herself, obviously not finding the crone worth the effort.

  So this is Camelot, Aislyn thought, following the lady’s slim, straight back and wealth of bobbing curls as quickly as she could manage on her aching feet. I can’t say I care for it so far.

  Her opinion was improved when she reached the hall. The company was very fine—as fine as ever she’d imagined. The ladies were all young and pretty—though none are as beautiful as I, a small voice whispered in her mind—clad in flowing gowns with ribbons and flowers twined into their hair. Their hands were soft, their faces bright with youth and innocence as they chattered together, their musical voices interspersed with many a burst of laughter as they glanced sideways at the knights.

  The objects of their admiration lounged about with studied unconcern, as dashing a collection of young bloods as Aislyn had ever seen. A few were dressed in tunics that rose daringly above the knee, a fashion she had not seen before but wholeheartedly approved, though most wore more conventional robes. Their deep voices provided a pleasant counterpoint to the light laughter of the ladies.

  “You don’t think it’s the Saxons, do you?” Aislyn’s escort cried, joining a small group of knights.

  “What else?” one said, his face glowing with excitement.

  Aislyn stood forgotten in the doorway, watching them go through the eternal ritual of courtship: a sigh here, a smile there; a scarf dropped as if by chance, its owner waiting anxiously until her chosen knight retrieved it or passed by, pretending not to see. She drank it all in greedily, the sounds and scents and brilliant colors, and longed with all her heart to be among them. Oh, to wear such gowns again! To braid her hair with silken ribbons and walk proudly into such a company—why, she could capture any of these knights with just a smile!

  Every one of the five years that had been lost to her was like a coal burning in her heart. At twenty-one, she knew herself still beautiful, but she would be among the eldest of these maidens. The first blush of her youth was gone forever, stolen by a faithless knight, and nothing could ever bring it back.

  A small ripple passed across the hall and silence fell.

  “Good people.” That was the king’s voice, coming from the far end of the hall. Aislyn pushed through the crowd until she glimpsed him standing on the dais before his throne, looking as grave as though he was about to announce a death.

  “I have called you hither,” he said mournfully, “to witness the marriage of my nephew, Sir Gawain.”

  The ladies gasped. The men looked at each other with much shrugging and shaking of heads. “Where is Dame Ragnelle?” the king called out.

  Heads turned; people stood on tiptoe, looking about. Aislyn drew a deep breath.

  “Here I am, Your Grace!” she called. “Step aside, now, let me through.”

  The crowd fell back before her, leaving an aisle leading to the far end of the hall, where Gawain stood beneath the largest window Aislyn had ever seen, a shaft of sunlight burning in his hair. He looks like his own ghost, she thought, and for a moment her heart smote her. Then she remembered the night he rode away from Lothian—

  The cobblestones cut into her knees, but Aislyn scarcely noticed. She could not move. She could not think. She could only kneel where he had left her, each heartbeat like a hammer blow. Gone. He is gone. What will you do now? It seemed an iron band encircled her chest, pulling tighter, tighter . . . she struggled vainly to draw breath, but even when the last air had been driven from her lungs the relentless pounding still went on. Fool. He has betrayed you. Where will you run now? Grief gathered like a wave—and then it broke, crushing her beneath it as a wrenching sob tore through her and ripped her heart in two.

  —and smiled beneath her veil. On either side people were whispering behind their hands as she hobbled up the aisle. Let them wonder. Let them speculate. Whatever they were expecting, they couldn’t possibly be prepared for what was hidden by this veil—the same veil she had once placed over her wealth of red-gold hair with trembling hands, imagining the moment when Gawain would lift it. How they would all stare, that foolish girl had thought, knowing she would strike them dumb.

  Well, they’d be stricken dumb today.

  At last, Aislyn reached Gawain. “Took me a bit, but I’m here now,” she puffed.

  “So am I.” He looked down at her gravely, then turned to the priest. “Good Father,” he said, “let us begin.”

  The words were said, the vows made. And then at last the moment came. With hands that shook only slightly, Gawain raised the veil.

&n
bsp; Someone gasped. Another cried out in shock. Several ladies burst into tears. Gawain gazed down at her in silence, his expression showing nothing. This was it, the moment of her triumph. Oddly enough, it felt very like that moment in the courtyard, for her heart was thudding and she could not catch her breath. But this time she did not waste a moment weeping. Instead, she laughed, a harsh and ugly cackle that tore at her like rending sobs.

  Chapter 5

  “STILL alive?” Queen Morgause spoke in her most dangerously soft voice. The two knights who had accompanied her champion exchanged nervous glances, and as one they stepped back from the entrance to her pavilion and melted into the shadow of the trees. “Did you tell me he is still alive?”

  “Eh? What’s that you say?”

  Somer Gromer Jour—Lord of the Summer’s Day, as she had named him in a flight of fancy—stood before the queen, resplendent in mail so finely linked that it rippled like water when he moved. His helm was of the bucket variety, silver-washed and gleaming, with only a narrow slit at eye level.

  Morgause gripped the arms of her chair. “Did you say the king is not dead?” she asked, raising her voice.

  The knight pulled off his helm to reveal a lad of some twenty summers, with curling auburn hair flattened to his skull. His face was pleasingly proportioned, his features regular, unremarkable save for his eyes, which were wide-spaced to an unusual degree. The effect was rather more attractive than otherwise, and at first glance he was quite a good-looking young man. Indeed, he was very nearly arrestingly handsome . . . though somehow he just missed that distinction. Feature by feature, it was difficult to say precisely why, only that there was something oddly lacking in the whole. Perhaps it was in his smile, eager and a trifle vapid, or his eyes, empty of any spark of intelligence and purpose. But Morgause had never been inclined to look deeply beneath the surface of any handsome face.

  “What?” he said again. “Sorry, I can’t hear anything in that helm.”

  “You feckless, witless fool!” she cried. “Do you dare tell me that you failed?”

  “Well, he had the answer, didn’t he?” Somer Gromer Jour—who usually went by the more prosaic name of Launfal—said defensively. “So I had to let him go, didn’t I? I mean, that was the agreement, what?”

  “The answer? He had the answer? But that is impossible!”

  Launfal shrugged. “He did.”

  “Where,” Morgause asked distinctly, “did he get it? Or did you not think to ask?”

  “I asked,” Launfal said hastily. “Of course I did. But he only said that was his affair and no part of our bargain.”

  “Oh, did he really?” Morgause sank back in her seat and drummed her fingers on the armrest of the chair. “Well,” she said after a moment, “I think we both know there is only one place he could have found it.”

  Launfal’s brow furrowed. “Is there? Where?”

  Morgause sighed. For a moment she had forgotten to whom she spoke. “He had it from your sister, you brainless dolt!”

  “Sister?” he repeated slowly. “What, you mean Aislyn? Why would it be her?”

  “I told you—” Morgause broke off, realizing there was no point in reminding him of their earlier conversation. Launfal didn’t understand half of what she said, and what he did understand, he soon forgot. Luckily for him, it was not for his mind that she kept him. “It doesn’t matter now.”

  “I don’t see how you work out it was her,” Launfal said, his broad brow drawn into a puzzled frown. “He’s been asking for a full year now, anyone could have—”

  “He did not know it when he set out from Camelot, my informants were quite certain on that point. So somewhere on the way . . .” She rose swiftly to her feet. “This time I shall have her. Guards!” she cried. “Guards, to me! Saddle my horse, we ride at once! Not you,” she snapped at Launfal, who had donned his helm again and taken a few steps toward the door.

  “Eh? Did you say something?”

  She seized the helm and pulled it from his head. “Not you!”

  His full lips turned down sulkily. “I don’t see why I shouldn’t come. She’s my sister, after all.”

  Morgause regarded him narrowly. “She is.”

  “Well, then, I think I should be allowed to go.”

  There were times Morgause wondered if Launfal could possibly be what he seemed. Once she’d even gone so far as to question his mother—her own servant—and Olwyn had said with undisguised contempt, “The boy is little better than an imbecile. He was a seven-month babe and never quite right in the head.”

  Morgause, braced for a lie, had detected none in Olwyn’s voice or eyes. But still, there was something . . . wrong about Launfal today. She could not put it more clearly than that, but Morgause had not earned the title of Queen of Air and Darkness by ignoring her instincts.

  “You could have been back here long ago, but you lingered, didn’t you? Didn’t you?” she demanded, her voice rising to a shriek. “You knew it was Aislyn! Admit it!”

  He started back, a look of comical astonishment on his face. “Me? Of course not! The thought never crossed my mind!”

  Not many do. Morgause’s lips twitched, her suspicion dying as suddenly as it had flared. What had she been thinking? That he could possibly deceive her? That he would even imagine attempting such a thing? No, Launfal was as he was, no more and no less. And while he did not have much in the way of brains, that was part of his attraction. He was young and strong and beautiful . . . a man fashioned for a woman’s pleasure.

  “Then where have you been? The truth, now!”

  He flung himself to the ground before her. “I was sick. You can ask the others if you don’t believe me. They laughed,” he added resentfully, “but they don’t understand. I can’t bear to displease you, and I was afraid that you’d be angry. But it wasn’t my fault!”

  Even as she cast an impatient glance over her shoulder, knowing she should already be on her way, Morgause could not resist the sight of him down upon his knees. “Say you aren’t angry!” he begged. “You must!”

  She looked into his eyes, so clear and empty, and saw herself reflected there: beautiful beyond the dreams of men, all-powerful and infinitely desirable. She drew the tip of one finger from his temple to his jaw, then dealt him a stinging blow across the cheek. “You presume too much.”

  He seized her hand and pressed it to his lips. “Forgive me, I did not mean—it is only that I cannot live without—”

  “Yes, yes, I know. Very well, you are forgiven. But you are not coming with me. Wait here for my return.”

  “Yes, madam, as you wish. I won’t stir a step.”

  Morgause reached the entrance to the pavilion and looked back with an exasperated sigh. “Oh, do get up, Launfal. You don’t have to stay just there.”

  “Of course!” He scrambled to his feet. “Right. I’ll just . . .”

  He looked around blankly.

  “Why don’t you have a wash?” Morgause suggested. “Then eat something and go to bed.”

  “A wash. Food. Bed.” That was a word he never failed to understand. A pleasant warmth stirred in her belly as he shot her a heated look beneath half-lowered lids. “Don’t be too long.”

  Morgause smiled indulgently. “No longer than I must.”