by Gawain (lit)
Gawain rose and picked up the sack of kittens, then held out a hand to help Aislyn to her feet as a gust of wind showered them with cherry blossoms. He brushed them from her hair, smiling down into her eyes. He was going to kiss her, she was certain of it. It was just as she and Morgause had planned.
But she had not counted on this strange confusion. He bent to her, and at the last moment, she realized she couldn’t simply stand there like a block of wood, she had to tilt her head—and so she did, jerking stiffly to one side just as Gawain moved in the same direction. Their noses bumped—what was the matter with her?—and he drew back.
Anger and mortification swept through her. She had never been so clumsy in her life! But she was oddly breathless, almost dizzy—with annoyance, she told herself, though that did not explain the strange fluttering in her belly, as if a hundred butterflies were trapped inside, trying to escape. He smiled and bent to her again—and again she turned her face in the wrong direction at precisely the wrong moment.
He pulled back and regarded her quizzically. “I never realized this could be so complicated. Unless—would you rather I did not—”
“No! I mean, I wouldn’t rather—that is, I would like . . . if you would . . .” What was she blethering about? Luckily, he seemed more amused than concerned by her raving. He bent slightly and set down the sack of kittens, then laid his hands gently on either side of her face.
“Let’s begin again,” he said, laughter in his voice.
And then he kissed her.
She had never known a kiss could be so sweet. Or that the mere touch of mouth to mouth could undo her so completely. She was falling, tumbling, a dizzying plunge that should have terrified her, but did not. For Gawain’s arms were around her, as strong and solid as he was himself.
He kissed her cheeks, her eyes, and then her mouth again, and the hard, cold kernel of bitterness she had carried for so long in her heart dissolved like snowflakes in a flame.
It seemed that she had wandered through an endless nightmare, but now, at last she was awake. What cared she for dark magic and cold power? She had everything she’d ever wanted, right here beneath the cherry tree.
When at last they drew apart, they gazed deep into each other’s eyes, and all their questions were asked and answered without a word. He pulled her hard against him then, his cheek resting on her hair, and her eyes filled as she buried her face against his shoulder. What had she just done? What was she to do now? Not the task Morgause had given her, of that much she was certain. But she didn’t want to think about the future. She wanted nothing but to stay here forever, safe in the shelter of his arms.
His fingers trailed down the small braid at her temple, threaded through with green ribbon, and she lifted her head to look into his eyes.
She touched his cheek, his lips, and he smiled, kissing her fingertips and winding her braid through his fingers. He glanced down at it, began to speak, and checked himself.
“What?” she demanded. “What were you about to say?”
“I thought—a lock of your hair—knights carry them into battle, and I—but—”
“Take it,” she said, laughing.
He drew his dagger. “Are you sure?”
“Here.” She took the dagger from him and sliced through the braid. He accepted it and pulled it through his fingers, stroking the green ribbons that bound it before twisting it into a circle and tucking it into the purse at his belt.
“Aislyn, I—”
He hesitated and she held her breath, waiting for him to go on.
“I will carry it always,” he said, and though it wasn’t what she’d hoped to hear, when she looked into his glowing eyes, it was enough.
A bitter smile curved Aislyn’s lips as she finished braiding a lock of the crone’s white hair and tied off the tangled love knot with a bit of string. She wished there was a looking glass, but of course Gawain couldn’t be bothered with anything so frivolous. Still, she was sure she looked not only repulsive, but ridiculous.
Smiling, she entered the hall a few minutes later, where a single trestle table was erected at the lower end with bread and meat and cheese laid out upon it. Various members of the household helped themselves and carried their meals away with them, for only the lord and his family sat down to break their fast. The high table was empty save for Gawain, Sir Lancelot, and the king.
“Good day!” Aislyn said, plumping herself into the seat beside Gawain. “I’m behind my time, it seems. But a new bride needs her rest, you know. Isn’t that so, sire?”
The king stared at her, nonplussed. Sir Lancelot choked on his ale. Gawain shot her a dark look, but merely offered her a loaf of bread.
“The king was just telling me of his adventure yesterday,” Sir Lancelot said, breaking a rather awkward silence. “Go on, sire, what did Somer Gromer Jour say when you gave him the answer?”
Gawain stiffened beside her; he and the king exchanged a quick glance, then Arthur said carelessly, “Oh, nothing really. What was there to say?”
“The whole thing seems rather silly,” Lancelot remarked. “What was the point of it?”
“I don’t know,” Arthur said. He gazed at Aislyn, frowning, then shrugged. “Perhaps one day we will learn more of this fellow, whoever he might be, and his purpose.”
Gawain was looking at Aislyn, as well, with an expression she could not fathom. “So what shall we do today?” she asked brightly.
“The queen is planning an entertainment in the garden,” Sir Lancelot said, his sober expression belied by the merriment in his dark eyes.
“What, with dancing and all?” Aislyn said, thinking that a few more aches would be well worth the opportunity to dance upon the green. The same thought seemed to be in Gawain’s mind. He pushed his half-eaten porridge away, looking queasy.
“Sir Gawain and I are going hunting,” the king said firmly.
“Today?” Ragnelle rested her hand on Gawain’s arm. “Oh, sire, you wouldn’t be so cruel. It’d be a rare shame to part us so soon after the wedding. Don’t you agree, Sir Lancelot?”
Sir Lancelot, thus appealed to, went very red and was seized by a sudden fit of coughing. Arthur scowled at the young knight, and Sir Lancelot choked out a hasty excuse before he fled.
“Must’ve been something he ate,” Aislyn remarked. “Are you finished?” she added to Gawain. “Then why don’t you show me about?”
“But—” the king began.
“We’ll see you in the gardens later, sire,” Aislyn said, fluttering her fingers. “Mayhap we can have a dance.”
Gawain said nothing, but she thought she heard his teeth grind as she led him from the hall.
“So what did he say?” she asked when they were alone in one of the galleries. “Somer Gromer Jour?”
Gawain paused, leaning one broad shoulder against the stone wall as he regarded her through hooded eyes. “He seemed completely stunned for a moment, then he said, ‘My sister told you that.’ Tell me, have you a brother?”
Launfal. In league with Morgause? No, it couldn’t be; not Launfal! He’d always been such an innocent. But innocence did not last long at Morgause’s court.
“Happens I do,” Aislyn said, “though it’s been some time since I’ve seen him. He would be about my age, for there was not even a year between us. D’ye think he might have been Somer Gromer Jour?”
Gawain shook his head. “No, he was a young man. Judging by his voice and bearing, I would guess him no more than one-and-twenty.”
Which would be Launfal’s age, or near enough. Stupid little nit, how could he have gone over to the enemy? It was difficult to believe that her frail, unworldly little brother had succumbed to Morgause’s blandishments. Aislyn might have done so herself, but she’d always believed Launfal too good to be taken in by evil. Of course, it had been five years since she had seen him and people changed. If he was Morgause’s creature now, he had changed more than most, and at the thought an odd little pain lanced through her, somewhere in the region of
her heart.
ONCE they reached the gardens, Aislyn cast off her melancholy and flung herself into the queen’s revels with abandon. She refused Gawain’s offer to serve her, but snatched an iced cake from a platter. “A new bride needs her nourishment,” she said thickly, stuffing another morsel into her mouth. Those near enough to hear turned to stare at Gawain in horror, and he went brick red, his eyes narrowing into ice-gray slits. Aislyn met his gaze defiantly as she accepted a goblet of wine from a page. She lifted it in his direction before she downed it in a single draught.
“My lady,” he began, tight-lipped as she tossed the empty goblet to the startled page and helped herself to another from a passing squire’s tray.
“Ooh, music,” she cried, “come, Sir Gawain, let us dance!”
“No,” he said curtly. “Why do we not sit—”
She lifted her skirts to reveal her spindly shanks and cut a little caper. “Sit? Today? No, no, I’m feeling far too merry!”
Before he could reply, she spun away into the center of the green, knocking into a knight, who stumbled forward, catching his balance on the nearest lady, who drew back with an indignant squeak.
“Pardon!” Aislyn called cheerily, elbowing her way into the center of the green. Her dance, she thought, was a masterpiece of buffoonery. As she whirled and capered, the other dancers drew back to watch. Most of the knights attempted to contain their merriment, but in the end, they couldn’t help but laugh. The weepers—those half a dozen maidens who had wailed throughout the feast the night before and were now huddled red-eyed and dejected in a bunch—were reduced to fresh tears, though this time of merriment.
Gawain simply watched, his face like stone. When Aislyn at last succumbed to exhaustion, he stepped forward, gave her his arm, and led her to a secluded turf bench set beneath an arching trellis overhung with vines. She leaned on him and sank onto the seat with relief. Holy Mother, but her back was aching! And her legs, and especially her feet. Even her toenails hurt.
“Can I get you—” Gawain began.
“No.”
She belched behind her hand, cursing the crone’s weak stomach. All the wine and rich food weren’t sitting very well. And that frolicking about hadn’t helped matters, either.
Gawain must be praying she would keel over . . . which seemed terrifyingly likely at the moment, for her heart was pounding like a kettle drum. But he gave no sign of the rage he surely must be feeling and merely looked at her with something that in any other man she would have taken for concern. It was a show, of course, a trick. But who did he think he was fooling?
Not the king, who was looking almost as ill as Aislyn felt herself. Surely not the queen, sitting a bit apart from the others with Sir Lancelot, the two of them whispering behind their hands. Not Sir Dinadan, either, who fixed Aislyn with his bright eyes, his expression so reproachful that she could not hold his gaze. It could only be himself Gawain deceived. No one else believed his ridiculous pretense of sympathy.
Aislyn least of all.
“Well, that was jolly,” she said. “It’s been some time since I had such fun!”
Sir Lancelot led the queen to the center of the green. Others followed, arranging themselves in two lines. As the music began, Lancelot called, “We’ve room for one more pair, Sir Gawain! Do you and your lady join us!”
Something flickered in Gawain’s eyes, and for a moment Aislyn thought that this was it, he was finally going to lose his temper, but then he mastered himself and said, “I think not.”
Aislyn was tempted to press the point, but she could not bring herself to do it. All she wanted now was to find some cool, shady chamber where she could soak her feet.
“Would you like to retire for a time?” Gawain asked.
“What, and miss the fun? Or do you just want me out of the way so you can dance with one of them?” she said, jerking her chin toward the weepers.
“I do not dance,” he said indifferently.
Liar. She’d seen him outdance every man at the court of Lothian; whirling around the targe, leaping to land neatly with one foot on either side of the spiked shield. She’d danced with him herself, their bodies moving in unison to the pipes and drums until dawn dimmed the torchlight. They had gone laughing to the stables then, and raced their horses over the hills, the rising sun on their faces and the wind in their hair . . .
Even the memory exhausted her. It seemed like something that had happened to someone else in a far-off age; a girl she could remember, but one that seemed to have no part of her.
Gawain belonged to that time. Her Gawain, the dazzling young knight who had galloped into Lothian five years ago and laid waste to the glittering edifice of her ambition. The man beside her now was a stranger. She did not love him— she didn’t even like him. A great weariness overwhelmed her until she felt as ancient as the crone’s form she wore. What point was there in punishing either of them for things that had happened in another life to two entirely different people?
“I think I will have a lie-down,” she said. “Nay, you needn’t come with me.” Without looking at him again, she hobbled from the garden.
BY the time she reached Gawain’s chamber, Aislyn could scarce drag herself inside. What am I to do now? she thought, dropping down upon the bed. Her jest had fallen flat; she had no desire to linger here at Camelot . . . and yet, there was nowhere else she would be safe. If I were to change back and confess all to the king . . . Yesterday, that might have served, but today it was too late. She and Gawain were wed . . . or no, he was wed to Dame Ragnelle . . . it was all muddled in her mind, and she was no longer quite certain who she was . . . Sighing, she closed her eyes and succumbed to sleep.
It seemed but a moment later that she bolted upright to find the chamber filled with shadows.
“Who’s there?” she cried.
Gawain started back, stumbling over one of the cats. It yowled and vanished through the window in a streak of black and white. “Ragnelle! I didn’t see you.”
She slid from the bed, groaning as her feet hit the floor. “Why were you cursing?”
“I barked my shin. Go back to sleep.”
She squinted against the sudden light of a candle, taking in his disheveled hair and flushed cheeks. He sank onto the trunk and rubbed his shin.
“Out making merry, were you?” she asked, eyeing him with interest.
“Not particularly, no.”
“You look sodden,” she said. “And here I thought you never drank to excess. Beneath your dignity, isn’t it?”
He rested his elbows on his knees. “I am not sodden. But after today, I haven’t much dignity left to lose.”
So he had minded. Well, that was something, anyway. It was a comfort to know that her suffering had not been entirely in vain. “Ah, well,” she said, sitting down upon the chair, “’twas all in fun.”
“Fun? Oh, right. Particularly the part about a bride needing nourishment,” he said, raking his hair back from his face.
She chuckled. “Aye, that was amusing.”
“Was it?” he said coldly.
“Oh, go on,” she said, exasperated. “Why don’t you say what you are really thinking?”
“You have no idea what I am thinking.”
“I’ll wager that I do. I made you angry today, didn’t I? Go on, admit it. And then there’s that Sir Lancelot,” she went on, without giving him a chance to answer. “Why don’t you give him a good hard smack? You know you want to, and I daresay it would do him good. But no, you just let him go on, making jokes at your expense! You’d best take care or people will start wondering—” she broke off, realizing that she’d said more than she intended.
