“Bless you, Heris; you’re a treasure.” She looks at Mother, briefly. “And a welcome relief from gossip.” Her expression is just a little wicked. “So. Who do you think will win?”
I have to think about that. It’s pretty even this year, though Lancelot may have gained some advantage in replacing me with Gawain. “I don’t really know.”
“Diplomat! Who’ll take single honours, then, since both Gareth and Lance have exempted themselves.”
“Gawain, of course.” She laughs. “Well, maybe Palomides.”
“Agravaine,” puts in Mother determinedly, “is not to be discounted lightly. He looks very good to me.” He would. He’s wearing her favour. “You always underrate him, Gaheris.” I shuffle my feet and do my best to avoid her gaze. She goes on, “Some of my sons are a credit to me, anyway.”
“Yes, Mother.” She glares. I’ve forgotten again, not to call her Mother in public. It reflects badly on her age. “I’m sorry.”
“Well, that’s normal.”
“Agravaine is certainly looking handsome,” my aunt says, hastily. “I’m not surprised you’re proud of him. And you, too, Laurel.”
Mother preens. Laurel, overshadowed, says nothing. Llinos says loyally, “Well, I think Gareth looks marvellous”, and everyone smiles.
“I have such attractive children,” Mother says, complacent. “Do at least try and keep out of my light, Gaheris.”
Gawain has ridden his horse two circuits of the field: now, he reins in before us, and bows. Lamorak follows him, hovering. He looks nervous. Under cover of Gawain’s salutations, I catch his eye, and smile.
He’s white. “Good day.”
“And to you. Don’t look so worried. It’s only a friendly competition. It’s been years since anyone died.”
He gives me a dusty look. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
“You shouldn’t drink so much.”
He looks startled. “No… Gaheris?”
“Lamorak?”
“I was wondering… Since it’s my fault… That you’re not out here, so I…”
“I thought we’d agreed not to apportion blame.”
“No, please… Would you let me carry the Rose-Knot for you?”
The Rose-Knot is my device: Lamorak as yet has only his blank shield. Gawain has already asked me the same question, and received the same reply. “I don’t think so.”
“Oh, but...”
“It isn’t necessary. Or appropriate.”
“But I wanted…” He looks at me, snake eyes pleading.
I have to be gentle. “It’s a kind thought. But I’ll have other days, and this is your very first tourney. You should act in your own name.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Oh.” He hesitates. Gawain has already made his farewells, and is riding back to be mustered in by Lancelot. Lamorak says “Then…”
“Yes?”
“With your permission… If I might address Lady Luned…” She turns, hearing her name, and Mother looks round with her. “My lady, I’m at least partly responsible for depriving you of seeing your lord win glory for you today. As some slight recompense, would you honour me with your token instead, so that I may try to redress the wrong?”
It’s a pretty speech: the smile that accompanies it is devastating.
Luned, turning to me, misses it, giving Mother the full benefit. Lamorak waits a moment, then adds, “Please?”
“Why, how charming,” Mother says. “And so proper. Be kind to him, Luned. I would.”
Luned still hesitates. Lamorak says, “It would be in Prince Gaheris’ name, of course. I mean no impropriety.”
“Charming,” repeats Mother.
He looks so vulnerable… It’s a very smooth act. Luned is wavering: her hand twists in her veil. I look at sly Lamorak, and shake my head. Then I smile at my wife, and say, “I wouldn’t mind, if it’s your wish.”
“Oh, you must,” Mother says, and smiles at Lamorak. “I’d give you my token, were Agravaine not already wearing it.”
He bows. “I’m honoured, your majesty.”
He’s a twicer… Luned has unfastened the veil. Leaning forward, she offers it to him. “Here, then.”
Taking it from her, he makes an issue out of kissing her hand. “Thank you, gracious lady.” Another bow, then a look at me. “Gaheris…”
“They’re nearly mustered. Go on, now.”
“Yes…”
“That’s a very pretty child,” Mother says, as he rides away. “And so gallant. Not like you: you were a late starter.” I keep quiet. “Whoever is he?”
“Lamorak de Galis. Pellinor’s youngest.”
“Is he, now,” says Mother, and her eyes linger on Lamorak.
He doesn’t disgrace Luned’s token. Gawain, too, upholds a private promise, and gives Agravaine a hard fall. Palomides carries the palm. The new knights all give good accounts of themselves, and all escape injury, so no one must be left behind when they leave, two days later, for their year’s errantry.
They always go at dawn. In the cold and damp, it’s usually only close kin who rise to see them off. Even so, despite my shoulder, I prevail on Evan to wake me, and make it down. Bedwyr grins at me, and Ywain raises a brow.
He’s there for Gereint. I greet them, and spend a few minutes discussing his intended route. Beside me, Mador de La Porte is lecturing Patrise and Astamore. Lamorak is all but invisible between his brothers.
“You’re early,” says a voice in my ear. Kay. “Learning the ropes? Very diligent.”
“Something like that.”
“Hmm.” He’s looking at Lamorak. “Worthy. Most worthy.”
“My best quality.”
“Really?” He pulls a face, and we both laugh.
“Ouch. Well, maybe my second-best.” Aglovale has turned to speak to Osian: over his shoulder, I see Lamorak looking round. The snake eyes are anxious. Then he meets my gaze, and, quite suddenly, his face clears. No smile, but some other thing… Think of Llinos, seeing Gareth safe home…
No.
Percevale, too, has noticed me. Being Percevale, he bows, and offer me an arm. Once accepted, he conducts me to Lamorak, and leaves us alone. There’s a small silence.
“They should patent him… Are you ready to go?”
“Not really.” Lamorak grimaces. “Travelling in mid-winter.”
“New Year’s the right time for making beginnings.”
“Is it?” He looks pensive. “Is it right to begin with a parting?” I’ve no immediate answer to that. It’s not an angle I’d ever considered. “Well, it’s not really a parting. You’ll be coming back soon enough.” Most of them, anyway. Almost every year, there’s one or two…
Don’t think of that.
He smiles, twisted. “So I will.” I’ve heard Agravaine sound more sincere. “There’s something to look forward to.”
He should be excited. Not this tension. Behind us, I hear Patrise’s quick Irish voice bubble and laugh. Amran is grinning as he listens to Bedwyr. Suddenly Lamorak takes hold of my good arm and stares straight at me. “Oh, Gaheris, I can’t.”
“Don’t be daft.”
“But if I go… I won’t…”
“I thought you were going to be the third-best knight in the world.”
“Oh, that! What’s that, compared to being without…” He trails off, but I’ve a glimmer of a notion as to his problem.
“If she loves you, she’ll wait.”
“What?”
“Whoever it is you can’t do without.” He looks unconvinced. “She’ll still be here when you get back. If that’s what’s bothering you.”
“Sort of.” I can’t make sense of his expression. “And if… she… doesn’t wait?”
“Then she doesn’t deserve you.”
“Oh, God, you would say that!” His laugh is a little hysterical. “Though I expect you’re right.”
“I’m quoting Gawain, so I must be.”
“I’ve n
ever thanked you, have I? For all your time and help.”
“It’s nothing.” I don’t like to be thanked. Pink doesn’t mix with sandy hair and freckles. “Forget it.”
“Never.” His intensity unnerves me. “I’d count that dishonour.”
“It really isn’t that important. So, do you have everything you need to take with you?”
“Yes, almost.” He releases my arm. I step back. “Plus a lot of advice from Percevale that I really don’t need.”
“I can imagine. I recall Agravaine giving our Gareth a half-hour lecture on pavilion etiquette alone.”
“He didn’t mention that one.” Lamorak looks wicked. “Shall I ask him?”
“Percevale? Saints, no!” I think. “Aglovale, though…”
“Indeed?” The snake eyes narrow. Twisting round, he taps his brother on the shoulder. “Loval, what’s all this I hear about your lady- killing exploits?”
“What?” Aglovale looks stunned.
“I have very good authority. My lord prince Gaheris tells me…” My lord prince Gaheris is doing his damnedest to look innocent.
Aglovale makes his excuses to Osian, and joins us. “My lady-killing exploits? That’s a good one, Liam, after what you’ve got up to round here. And as for you, Gaheris…”
“I was just making polite conversation.”
“Oh, well, that explains it.” Aglovale de Galis is an odd one. Even Agravaine has never been able to pick a fight with him. Now he favours me with an amused glance. “Gaheris is an expert.”
“No, I’m not. I’m married.”
“A married expert…”
“All right, all right. I’m sorry. I was only trying to explain to Lamorak about pavilions.”
“The first rule is never to get into a bed in one unless you’re quite sure it’s empty first.”
“Or looking for trouble.”
“Or for Lancelot.” Our parfait gentil knight has made a fool of himself that way a time or two: Aglovale and I catch each other’s eyes, and laugh. Lamorak looks cross. Aglovale pats his shoulder. “All right, little brother. The grown-up knights will stop behaving like children.” Lamorak doesn’t look convinced. “I’m sorry, Liam.” Behind him, several of the others are already mounted. Patrise is adjusting a stirrup. “All set?” Aglovale asks.
“I think so.” Lamorak sounds nervous. “At least…” Abruptly, he stops, and hugs his brother.
Aglovale aims a mock punch at him. “Off with you, then. I want my breakfast. Give ’em hell, all those recreant knights… Have you said goodbye to Piers?”
I step back some more, and try to wave to Gereint. He doesn’t see me.
It’s only as he’s about to leave that I realise I’ve said no farewells to Lamorak. He looks the part; the compleat knight-errant. He’ll be fine. The cold is hurting my shoulder. I watch a moment or two more, then turn to go. There’s a great turmoil of hoof-beats and goodbyes: I’m on the stair before I notice my name being called.
Lamorak has ridden his horse to the foot of the flight: we’re almost on eye-level. “Gaheris?”
“Yes?”
“You didn’t say goodbye.”
“Goodbye, then.”
“Yes.” He bites his lip. “I will see you? Next year?”
“God willing. Maybe even in the summer, if our paths cross.”
“I hadn’t thought of that.” His face lights up. “The summer, then.”
“Perhaps.”
“I can hope.” He hesitates. “Gaheris?”
“Yes?”
“I wanted… He reaches a hand out. I come down a step or two to clasp it. “Will I make it?”
“Who knows? I think so.” The others have all left. “If you ever set out in the first place, that is.”
“Well, I have to.” Again, that pause. “Could I… would you…?”
“What?”
“It’s just that…” Quite suddenly, he leans down from his horse, and tugs one of my gloves out from where it’s tucked through my belt. The other falls to the ground. “Can I have this?”
I’m not comfortable. It makes me irritable. “What for?”
“Please, Gaheris.”
“I’m not sure I…”
“It’s to remind me.”
“What about?”
“Of… of the right way to parry. Shield, not elbow.”
This is ridiculous. He has on his spaniel look. “Oh, all right. But it’s silly.” He smiles. I add, “God speed you.”
“Thank you. You’re not cross?”
“Only a little.”
“I’m sorry, then. I’ll see you. In the summer.” He turns his horse’s head towards the gate.
“That’s not certain,” I call after him, but he doesn’t seem to hear.
Kay has to pick up my other glove for me, from where it lies on the ground.
Four
It’s not a long winter, nor a cold one. My bones heal clean, and I’m kept busy by my new duties. Brother Medraut proves to be the worst aspect of these. He’s the most apt of the new squires, but his tongue would cut stone. I’m torn between fraternal pride, and a pure desire to wring his neck. Llinos’s child is a girl, and Gareth insists on calling her ‘Lancella’, for his hero. The rest of us laugh at him, except Agravaine, who wanted her named for Mother. The latter stays with us until Easter, which is a delight for some, and a burden for many. I’m not the only one breathing the easier for her departure in early spring.
Intermittently, there’s word of our new knights. Someone bumps into one of them, or they send tidings back. All alive, all doing well. The first of the overthrown foes to come and pledge himself to Arthur is sent by Gereint, to Gawain’s delight, but one comes from Lamorak not long after. From then on, he seems to send one almost every other week. They all bring the same message: “Sir Lamorak de Galis has vanquished me, and sent me hence to swear eternal allegiance to his lord King Arthur. Oh, and I’ve a message from him for Prince Gaheris of Orkney.”
After the third or fourth, Kay gets to calling them “Lamorak’s love letters”, and I’m obliged to give him a fall on the wettest part of the tourney-field.
I’m too busy to ride out that summer, and it’s Christmas before I see Lamorak again. He rides in on Christmas Eve, with Palomides’ brother Safere, and Astamore. They’re the last, save for Amran, and they’re made much of. It’s hard to tell which of the girls clustered around Lamorak is the special one.
He’s grown a beard, and has the remains of a bruise along one cheek bone. He’s taller, too, standing nearly on eye-level with me. Not that I see so much of him: there are a lot of people bidding for his time, and I have my hands full with the trainees. He is most often with Safere, and sometimes Tristan, who’s honouring us with his company this year. Every so often, I feel myself watched, and look up, to find eyes on me. Occasionally, it’s Lamorak; more frequently it’s Safere, which perturbs me a little. I don’t know why.
Agravaine finds this funny, for some reason.
Mother chooses to spend the festival with Aunt Morgan, which only adds to the pleasures of the season. Medraut takes himself off to visit her, with cousin Ywain. Kay and I open a book on how many quarrels they’re likely to have. The rest of us Orkneys combine with a number of the other Northerners for the New Year tourney, and astonish everyone except Gawain by taking the day. He wins the solo prize, too, after disarming Lancelot and wrong-footing Bedwyr. Even Agravaine is laughing as the hall is decked with Orkney pennants: Gavin’s Pentangle, Agrin’s Sunburst, Gari’s Lion-and-Lamb, and my own Rose-Knot. He has Bors to his credit, and a set of bruises to remind him. My own bruises bear testimony to a show of determined aggression by Sagremore and Safere. The latter refuses to shake hands, after, and stays away from the feast. Agravaine finds that funny, too.
It’s two mornings later that I find Lamorak lying in wait for me in the south vestibule. He puts a hand on my arm, and stops me. “Come riding with me, Gaheris?”
The snake eyes are bright and guileless.
“Good morning, Lamorak.”
“Yes, yes. Will you?”
“I have things to do. Duties. Later, maybe.”
He takes his hand away, abruptly dignified. “Forget it. I am sorry to have troubled you, Prince Gaheris.”
It’s far too early in the day for moods. “Have it your way, then.”
“Oh, I wish!”
“What?”
“All I wanted was a chance to ask you in private just why you’ve been avoiding me. But if you’re too ungenerous to grant even that…!”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You know what I mean!”
“No, I don’t.” We’re beginning to attract attention. “Do calm down, Lamorak.” I hold a hand out to him: he ignores it.
“You’re deliberately trying to humiliate me!”
The Orkney temper is not always an asset. I have to struggle to keep my voice level, answering. “No. I assure you I am not doing that.”
“You’re a liar.”
If Agravaine said it, I’d hit him. Lamorak isn’t my brother. Ten or twelve witnesses have heard the insult… As lightly as I may, I say it. “No, I don’t think so,” and I start to walk away. I’m shaking. Now would not be the best time for a display of Orkney temper. All the same, I don’t understand, entirely, what is happening.
“Don’t walk away from me,” Lamorak calls after me. I keep going. I don’t trust myself to answer him. Behind me, voices are starting to murmur, and Lamorak shouts my name again. Gareth would have handled it right. Gareth would never find himself in the middle of a public quarrel… Half the court has heard me called a liar, and seen me take it… I slam a fist a few times into a convenient hay-bale, and swear. Gaheris the incompetent does it again. If Agravaine needed an excuse to warm up that old feud, he has it now.
Wonderful.
My hand hurts.
It takes me a few minutes to get myself back in control. Then I grit my teeth, and go back inside in search of Lamorak. I find him the refectory, glaring into a goblet. Safere is with him. So are a number of other people, including (lovely) Tristan. All I need is his indiscretion… Safere looks up, and his eyes narrow.
I’m unarmed. Perhaps it’s for the best. When I stop in front of the table, Safere makes a gesture to wave me away, but I ignore him. “My lord Prince Lamorak.”
Serpent Rose Page 5
