by Gawain (lit)
“Please, lady, eat,” Gawain said to Aislyn.
“I’ve no appetite. Here, you have it.”
Gawain nodded and speared a slice of mutton on the end of his dagger. He made a show of eating, though in truth he consumed almost nothing, and though he lifted his goblet often, she saw that it was three-quarters full when at last the meal was over.
He sat, smiling with every appearance of enjoyment as a harper plucked his way through three songs. The last was a long ballad about a knight who wooed two sisters, one for gain and one for love. It was a sad tale, and at the end, Aislyn furtively wiped her eyes on her sleeve. She turned to Gawain, only to find his seat empty.
When the harper began a new tune, she took the opportunity to slip away.
Chapter 17
SHE found Gawain in the chamber they shared, wearing nothing but a shirt pulled down to his waist as he dabbed at his shoulder with a cloth. A long gash sliced across his collarbone, surrounded by puffed and purple flesh, with bruises darkening his rib cage.
“That looks nasty,” she said.
“It’s not bad.”
She snorted, coming closer to look. “And now you’ll tell me it doesn’t hurt, either.”
He glanced up at her. “Oh, it hurts plenty. But nothing’s broken.”
“You sure of that?” She ran a hand across his ribs, then nodded. “I’ll bind it for you. That’ll help.”
“Thank you.”
He was quiet as she wound a strip of linen around his rib cage. She was quiet, too, wondering how to approach what she would say.
“About today . . .”
“Yes, I meant to speak of that myself. I am sorry I failed to—”
“But you didn’t! Fail, that is. You won.”
He smiled faintly. “I think you must have been watching a different match.”
“No, I was watching the right one, and I saw what you didn’t. The first time you hit him, he went down—or would have done, if something hadn’t interfered.” She tied the strip off and stepped back, fisting her hands on her hips. “He was falling, anyone will tell you that. They were saying it was a miracle he kept his seat. But it was magic sure enough.”
“It is kind of you to say so, but—”
“There’s no kindness in speaking the truth. I know what I saw.” She sat down on the edge of the bed. “Tell me about Sir Lancelot du Lac.”
“He is the son of King Ban—”
“And you know that for a fact?” she interrupted.
“I know what the king has said. How he knows, I never asked, but I’m sure Sir Lancelot has proved his claim.”
“Hmph. The Lady of the Lake is a mystery, but everyone agrees she is a powerful enchantress at the least. I reckon she gave her foster son a little extra protection before sending him out into the world. That is, if he’s not her real son. How do you know he’s even human?”
Gawain looked startled. “Of course he’s—”
“Have you ever seen him bleed?”
“Yes. He was wounded in his first battle—a glancing blow, but it did bleed.”
“Well, that’s something,” she allowed. “But still—”
“I’m sure he is exactly who he says he is,” Gawain said firmly. “And he won today fairly.”
“He did not. I’m telling you, I saw—”
“Whatever you saw—or thought you saw—goes no farther than this chamber. You haven’t said anything of this to anyone else, have you?”
“Well,” Aislyn said reluctantly, “I did mention it to the king.”
“Oh, God.” Gawain leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes. “What did he say?”
“To hold my tongue or he’d have me gagged. He seemed to think I was saying it to shame you—”
“As it would have done had it gone any further. Just let it be, I beg you.”
“It isn’t right,” she protested. “He’s fey, I tell you, and he beat you unfairly—”
“Fairly or unfairly, it is done. I will not complain of it, and I forbid you to do so.”
“Don’t you think the king should know what sort of knight he’s welcoming to court?”
“Sir Lancelot has given me no reason to doubt his loyalty. He is an exceptionally skilled warrior, devoted to the king—”
“And to the queen,” Aislyn muttered.
“And to the queen,” Gawain repeated steadily. “He is her champion, after all, and her friend, and if the king has no complaint of that arrangement, it is not my place—or yours—to question it.”
He rose stiffly, stifling a groan. The shirt fell to the floor. He bent to retrieve it, then halted, one hand moving to his bound ribs. Aislyn tried not to stare as he eased his way onto the bed.
“I could give you something for the pain,” she offered, “that is, if I had my bag.”
He hunched on the edge of the bed, looking miserable, but shook his head.
“Don’t be a fool,” she said sharply. “If you go and marry a witch, it’s only sensible to let her use her magic to good purpose.”
He turned his head and regarded her intently. “Are you a witch? Truly?”
She snorted. “You seemed sure enough the first time you laid eyes on me.”
“I was wrong to say that. You surprised me, appearing so suddenly that day, but that does not excuse my rudeness.”
“Well, my looks are against me,” she conceded. “Live long enough to gain a bit of wisdom and a few warts, and most men will cry witch without thinking twice. What is a witch, really, besides a woman who’s old and a bit cleverer than the men who fear her? What passes for magic with most folk is just a smattering of herb lore and telling people what they want to hear.”
“For most folk, that might be true,” he said quietly. “But you forget, or perhaps you do not know who my mother is.”
“Oh, I know well enough. And as she’s neither old nor full of warts, they call her an enchantress. A much nicer word, isn’t it, than witch? And before you ask again, I’ll answer your question. I know a bit of herb lore, and I know a bit of magic, too. The one you don’t much care for—fair enough. Having the Queen of Air and Darkness for a mum could sour any man on magic. But that’s no reason to keep me from using my other talents, especially when you need them.”
Gawain braced his arms, making the muscles leap, and eased himself back against the bolster with a hiss of pain. “There’s probably a flaw in that argument, but I hurt too much to find it now. Hand me that leather purse on the table.”
GAWAIN fished inside his purse, which was stuffed full of odds and ends. “What the devil do I have in here?” he muttered irritably, and finally his fingers touched the little key. He handed it to Ragnelle, saying, “Your bag is in the trunk.”
He was faintly ashamed of making such a pother over a cracked rib or two, but there wasn’t anyone to see but Ragnelle. He watched her unlock the trunk, wondering if he’d done wrong. Morgana had been insistent about the bag . . . but he did not need any woman, aunt or not, to tell him how to manage his own wife.
He made to toss his purse on the table, then changed his mind and upended it on the bed. A shower of coins fell onto the coverlet, mixed with a handful of stones he’d picked up to mark one battle or another, a twig—why was he carrying a twig? Oh, it was rosemary—he remembered now, he’d plucked a bit from his father’s grave, meaning to press it, but the leaves had long since crumbled into dust. A bit of twine, tangled with a twist of red-gold . . . oh.
He picked up the braid, which had been twisted into a circle and tied with a bit of ribbon, carefully brushing the rosemary dust from the strands glistening in his palm. He hadn’t looked at it in years. But he always knew it was there, a secret talisman shielding him from pride. From folly.
From love.
He should throw it in the fire. Many a time he’d started to, but something always held him back.
He closed his fingers on the braid as Ragnelle appeared beside him. “Here,” she said, offering him a cup. “Drink thi
s down.” He was careful to give no sign of his revulsion as their fingers brushed; she had been kind to him and he would not offend her willingly.
“I thought it would be bitter,” he said, handing back the empty cup. “My mother’s potions—”
“I am not your mother.”
He sighed, relaxing back against the pillow. “God be thanked for that.”
“You don’t like her much, do you?” Ragnelle asked as she tidied her things away. “Your own mother. Why not?”
“I have my reasons,” Gawain said shortly, his fingers clenching on the braid.
“What are they?” Ragnelle asked, pulling the stool beside the bed and sitting down.
“It is a long story . . .”
“I’ll stop you when I’m bored,” she said, and began to gather the scattered coins from the counterpane.
“My mother has certain . . . ambitions.” He stopped, wondering what he was thinking of to speak of such things to a stranger.
Even if she was his wife.
“Oh, aye,” she said easily, “’tis common knowledge your father led the rebellion against King Arthur all those years ago, and there’s not a woman in Britain who didn’t suspect your mother was behind it. She’s the Queen of Air and Darkness, after all, and your father—well . . .”
“He was just a man,” Gawain finished. “Though in truth, they were of one mind over the rebellion. But once defeated, my father accepted the king’s pardon, and his terms.”
Unlike my mother.
“You could be king of Britain!”
Gawain’s fingers clenched on the stem of his goblet. “I will never wear the crown.”
“No man is immortal,” his mother said, “and the king has many enemies.”
He leaned across the small table between them, scattered with the remains of the private meal they had just shared in honor of his homecoming to Lothian. “Any enemy of my king—whomever that might be—will reach Arthur only by stepping over my corpse. So you see, I will never wear the crown of Britain. I have rendered my king my oath of fealty—as you bade me, Mother—and I will honor that oath unto death.”
Unto death. The words seemed to echo in the little chamber. Morgause stared at him, eyes narrowed.
“So you would turn traitor to your family?”
“Arthur is my family.” Gawain stood so abruptly that his chair overturned. “All I know of loyalty and honor I learned from him.”
Morgause buried her face in her hands. “Oh, Gawain, that you could say such things to me! You loved me once— do you not remember? That you should look at me like that—so coldly—and say such cruel things. I cannot bear it!”
Gawain regarded her suspiciously. “You mustn’t talk treason, then.”
“Is it treason for a mother to love her son? Is it treason for her to want the best for him? When I look at you—and imagine what a king you would make—” Her shoulders shook with sobs.
“It will never be.” He bit his lip, then righted his chair and sat down again. “Don’t cry, Mother.”
“But you hate me now—do not deny it, I can see it is the truth. You were such a good child, Gawain, my little golden boy—do you remember when I used to call you that? I was only fourteen when you were born, just a child myself—”
“Aye, I know.” Gawain sighed.
“Everything would have been different if my father had lived! It was so terrible when Uther came to Cornwall,” she said rapidly, dabbing at her eyes. “I cannot tell you how terrible it was. He murdered my poor father, bewitched my mother, smashed up my home—”
Gawain patted her shoulder awkwardly. “But that was Uther, Mother. Not Arthur.”
“I know, it’s only—when I see him on the throne—and then I think of you, serving Uther’s brat . . .”
“Arthur is not his father,” Gawain said firmly. “He is a good man and a great king. You must let go of the past, Mother, before your hatred leads you to do something we will all regret.”
Morgause drew a long, shuddering breath. “Yes. Yes, you are right. I see that now. Can you forgive me?”
Gawain stood, relieved, and bent to kiss her cheek. “Aye, Mother, of course I can. Why don’t we both forget this conversation ever happened.”
Gawain’s limbs were heavy, and it was very peaceful in his chamber as Ragnelle sorted through the pile on the bed. She dropped the coins back into his purse, then the stones, as well, and began to untangle the twine.
“And your mother?” she prompted. “Did she accept King Arthur’s terms, as well?”
Gawain smiled grimly. “She merely changed her tactics.”
“Really?” Ragnelle asked, her eyes bright with curiosity. Strange, but he’d never really noticed her eyes before. The lids were drooped and wrinkled, but the irises were a very clear light green. “What did the Queen of Air and Darkness do?”
“She knew I was the king’s man, but she still hoped to win me to her side,” Gawain said. “So she used a maiden— her apprentice—to do her work. The maiden was . . . very beautiful. I knew her only as my mother’s guest, I had no idea she was . . .”
“What?”
“A sorceress.” He laughed shortly. “I suppose you’d call that a pretty word for witch.”
“It’s all one to me.” Ragnelle wound the twine around her fingers. “So what did she do, this beautiful maiden? Put a spell on you?”
“No. She was meant to, but—no.”
“Botched it, did she?” Ragnelle’s eyes glinted before she lowered them again to the twine. “What happened? Did she turn you into a toad? Vanish in a puff of smoke?”
Gawain managed a wan smile. “She did not even attempt it.”
“Then how did you find her out?”
“Aislyn told me. That was her name,” he said, running his thumb across the soft strands in his hand. “Aislyn. She told me all. How she was meant to seduce me, then use foul sorcery to bind me to her will. Which would, of course, have been my mother’s will, for Aislyn was completely in her power.”
“She told you all that, did she?” Ragnelle asked. “Now why would she do that?”
“She said . . . she said it was for love of me.”
Ragnelle snorted. “A likely tale!”
Gawain bristled at her tone. “Is that so impossible?”
“Did you believe it?”
“No.”
“Well, then, there we are. I imagine she thought herself discovered. You suspected her already, didn’t you?”
He shook his head. “I had no idea.”
Ragnelle set his purse on the table. “Then what did she have to gain from telling you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Oh, come now, you’re not trying! Mayhap your mother sent her—”
“No,” he said decidedly. “Aislyn came on her own.”
