Knights of the Round Table 03 - Gawain

by Gawain (lit)

  She looked over as he came in, her wizened little face as mournful as a monkey’s.

  “Are you well?” he asked as he unpinned the brooch at his shoulder.

  “I am old,” she said. “And there’s naught to be done about it. How was the council meeting?”

  Gawain tossed his cloak onto the trunk and stretched out on the bed. “Long.”

  “Did you settle King Aesc?” she asked, surprising him.

  “How do you know about that?”

  She shrugged. “I hear things. They say his kinfolk are after him to break his treaty with the king.”

  “Aye. Aesc’s been at odds with them for years. Now that there is peace, they want him to join with them, and a good many of his people think he should.” He yawned. “It is a delicate situation.”

  “Can you not offer him something?” Ragnelle suggested.

  “We have, but if we offer too much, we’ll look weak. And his people are already saying they could have more than we will give if they fight us for it. They may be right. If he joins forces with King Ceredig . . .”

  “What about King Ceredig, then? Have you tried winning him to your side?”

  “A dozen times at least,” Gawain answered. “He refuses to even meet with us; he sees no profit in an alliance with Arthur. These Saxons are all the same, they would as lief go to a battle as a feast. But this can hardly be of interest to you.”

  “Why not? I live here, too, you know.”

  He yawned again. “If we have to fight them, then so be it.”

  “And men will die,” she said softly. “And their women will mourn them.”

  “Aye, I suppose . . .” He lifted himself on his elbows to look at her. “We’re not dead yet, Ragnelle. There’s no need to start mourning us today.”

  One twisted hand lifted to brush her wrinkled cheek. “Oh, don’t mind me, I’m just a bit mopish.”

  “Well, I know something that will cheer you. We’ve been invited to the queen’s bower for a private supper.”

  Ragnelle’s face did not brighten; indeed, her misshapen shoulders seemed to sag a little. “I think I’ll bide here.”

  “But these invitations are not easily come by! Ladies have been known to tear the hair from a rival who received one, and grown men to weep at having been missed out.”

  She did not even smile. “You go,” she said. “I’m not feeling up to it.”

  “Not up to the most exclusive invitation to be had in all of Britain?” Gawain raised himself to look into her face, but she turned her head away. “Would you pass up the opportunity to scandalize the queen and her chosen favorites?”

  He was on his feet now, ready to summon Arthur’s leech no matter what Ragnelle might say, when she gave a short laugh.

  “Well, if you put it like that, I suppose I’ll have to go.”

  “Are you certain? Ragnelle, if you are unwell—”

  “Is there something amiss with your hearing?” she huffed, setting Star on the floor. “Or your eyes? The only thing the matter with me is that I’m an old woman, not some hasty-witted dewberry who can dash off at a moment’s notice!”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, “I should have told you sooner, but I forgot. Shall we go?”

  “What, now? I should say not! If you expect to present yourself in that old tunic, you’d better think again! Here you are, a prince, yet you slouch about like some fly-bitten clodpole when I would wager Sir Lancelot—he’ll be there, won’t he?—will be trimmed out in some outlandish finery. Oh, stand aside, you’re only in the way. Aha! I knew you must have something that didn’t look as though it came from the ragpicker.”

  She shook out a gray robe with silver embroidery about the neck and hanging sleeves, and shot him a stern look from beneath her tangled brows. “If you dare tell me you don’t have a silver circlet, I’ll—I’ll—I don’t know what I’ll do, but I promise you won’t like it.”

  “I have one,” he assured her. “Somewhere.”

  “Don’t just stand there, go and find it! And the comb, as well. And you can take your hair out of that braid while you’re at it. No, don’t argue, we haven’t time. I’d like to get there before all the food is gone.”

  THERE had never been so fine a knight—so proud a prince—so bonny a man as Gawain in his severe gray robe with its discreet silver edging. The fabric flowed with him when he moved, each step revealing a tantalizing glimpse of muscled thighs and chest and shoulders. His hair, confined by a plain silver circlet, cascaded down his back like moonlit silk, so soft and cool that any woman surely must long to run her fingers through it.

  Sir Lancelot looked well, too, Aislyn thought, trying to be fair. His crimson tunic was undeniably dramatic, and its elaborate gold trimming set off his dark good looks to perfection. On any other night, he would have captured every eye. But on this night, she concluded with an inward laugh, he merely succeeded in looking overdressed, even a trifle garish in his finery.

  Lancelot knew it, too. Aislyn could tell by the way he kept looking sideways, as though wondering how he could work the conversation round to the name of Gawain’s tailor. He would have to work hard, though, for Gawain cared no more for his wardrobe than for the stir he had created by simply walking into the room.

  Clearly he did not often garb himself as befitted his rank. Which was all to the good, for now that Aislyn came to think of it, she didn’t particularly care for the way Guinevere’s ladies were eyeing him. Her only comfort was that he seemed as oblivious to them as he was to anything he had done to attract their notice.

  He was all concern as he escorted Aislyn to a seat and made sure she was provided with food and drink. But after he had exchanged a few obligatory courtesies with the king and queen and such guests as were assembled, he turned his gaze out the open doors leading to the gardens and there let it remain as the conversation flowed on around him.

  Not that he had missed much. This was a very private gathering, indeed: Sir Lancelot, the elderly King Bagdemagus and three of Guinevere’s ladies were the only guests besides themselves. The evening was overcast and oppressively warm; the sky above the garden was an odd yellowish color and not a breath of air stirred the hangings on the walls. Once the initial greetings were over, no one seemed to have much to say, and apart from King Bagdemagus, no one had an appetite for the delicacies Guinevere had ordered. “Excellent, my lady,” he said when he had finished, and leaning back in his seat, promptly fell asleep.

  Still, Aislyn wasn’t sorry she had come. What good was it to sit alone and brood on the injustice of her situation? At least she was with Gawain when he could have easily left her behind. He had been very sweet before, offering this invitation like a boy carrying a handful of blossoms, torn up by the roots, to his ailing granddame.

  One day they would laugh about that.

  He loved her—or at least he had, enough that he had never thought to marry anyone else. Once Morgana knew the truth, surely she would take pity on them. She must!

  “Shall we have a game of hazards?” Guinevere suggested.

  Arthur yawned. “It’s too hot to think.”

  “Hoodman’s blind? Or . . .” Guinevere’s voice died away.

  “Riddles?” Lancelot said.

  Guinevere looked at him expectantly. “Yes, tell us one.”

  “Me? I—I don’t know any,” Lancelot said. “Do you, sire?”

  Arthur yawned again, slumping in his seat. “I can’t recall any at the moment.”

  Guinevere’s eyes flashed. “If you would rather be abed, my lord—”

  “No, no.” Arthur straightened, blinking. “This is very pleasant, my lady. Very . . . relaxing.”

  Lancelot looked from the Guinevere’s angry face to the king. “I trust the council meeting went well?” he said. “What did you decide about King—?”

  “Not now, Lance,” Arthur said, and silence filled the chamber once again until King Bagdemagus snorted and sat up, staring about him wide-eyed. “Catch it by the ears, that’s the way,” he s
aid clearly, then his eyes fell shut and he began to snore again.

  Lancelot picked up a small harp and plucked a few strings. “Lance,” the queen said, looking at him hopefully, “will you sing for us?”

  “Not I!” he answered, laughing. “I couldn’t carry a tune if it was strapped to my back.”

  He made to hand the harp to Guinevere, but she refused it. “I never learned,” she said. “The sisters did not consider it proper.”

  “Then perhaps . . .” Guinevere’s ladies all shook their heads, blushing like the gooses they were. Lancelot did not even seem to notice their confusion as he turned to the king. “I won’t offer it to you,” he said, “for fear that you might sing.”

  His gaze strayed back to the queen—it never left her long, Aislyn noted, and was far more anxious than seemed warranted by the occasion. Was he in love with her? If so, he was pressing his suit in a very peculiar manner, for he seemed more interested in bringing her and Arthur into accord than in winning her notice for himself.

  “One morning—it was last year, when we were encamped by the river Usk,” he went on, “I woke to the most fearful din. We all sprang from our bedrolls, thinking ourselves under attack—” He ducked as Arthur aimed a good-natured cuff at his head. “But it was only the king bathing in the river.”

  “What, a man cannot even greet the dawn with a bit of a tune?” Arthur said, pretending great affront.

  “A king can do whatever he likes, of course,” Lancelot said, then added in an undertone to Guinevere, “We thought for sure he had taken a cramp—”

  “It wasn’t that bad.”

  “No, sire, of course it wasn’t,” Lancelot said, but he rolled his eyes and added in an audible whisper, “Like an ox mired in the mud.”

  “Rogue,” Arthur said, “you exaggerate. Come, Gawain, defend me! You’ve heard me sing many a time!”

  Gawain, who had been gazing through the open doorway, turned, blinking as though he had been woken from a dream. “I’m sorry,” he said. “What did you ask me?”

  “It doesn’t bear repeating,” Arthur said, his voice gentle as he gazed at his nephew with a small frown between his brows.

  “I’ve never heard you sing,” Guinevere said to her husband, her voice wistful and a little sad.

  “Apparently you should be thankful,” Arthur replied, and though he laughed, it only underscored the almost palpable gloom that had once again fallen over the company.

  Lancelot turned back to the harp, trying vainly to pick out a tune. After he had hit a series of particularly sour notes, Guinevere snapped, “For pity’s sake, stop torturing that instrument!”

  “Right. Sorry.” He turned to set it back on the table.

  “Sir Gawain can play it,” Aislyn said, surprising even herself.

  “Can you?” Guinevere said.

  “What? Oh, the harp.” Gawain took it from Lancelot. “Not well.” He ran his fingers across the strings. “We all learned when I was younger, but it has been years . . .”

  He plucked a few chords, wincing when he struck a wrong note. “No, I am afraid I—”

  “Try,” Aislyn said. Leaning close, she whispered, “It’d be a kindness to the queen.”

  Gawain nodded and sat back, settling the instrument on his knee. “Well, there has been one song in my mind today . . .”

  He cleared his throat in the self-conscious manner of one unaccustomed to performing publicly and began to play, not one of the merry soldier’s songs she had expected, but a delicately haunting melody. He played it through once, and then, surprising Aislyn, he began to sing. His voice was deep and tunable, and though it was untrained, its very roughness added poignancy to the melancholy air.

  I dreamed I walked beside you as the sun set on the barley,

  Then I wakened to lie in my cold bed alone,

  You have left my heart shaken with a hopeless desolation

  And your beauty will haunt me wherever I go.

  Guinevere’s ladies sighed in chorus, leaning forward in their seats.

  The white moon above the pale sands, the pale stars above the thorn tree

  Are cold beside my lady, but no purer than she.

  I gaze upon the cold moon until the stars drown in the warm sea

  And the bright eyes of my darling are never on me.

  My days are so weary, my days they are all gray now, My heart it is a cold thing, my heart is a stone. All joy is fled from me, my life has gone away now Since cruel death has taken my love for his own.

  Aislyn wanted to weep for the aching sorrow in his voice, to laugh aloud for joy, to leap to her feet and shout out that it was she he sang for, her beauty that haunted him, but she knew the words could never leave her lips.

  The day it is long past now when we were to be married,

  And it’s rather I would die than live only to grieve.

  Oh, wait for me, my darling, where the sun sets on the barley

  And I’ll meet you there on the road to the sea.

  His fingers drew forth a muted echo of the last line before he laid his palm across the strings, stilling them abruptly. The king stared at his nephew, astonishment writ plain upon his open face. The queen lifted one hand to brush her cheek and one or two of her ladies sniffed audibly. Even Lancelot was silent, wide-eyed with surprise.

  Gawain glanced up at them, then back down at the harp. Aislyn, with an almost painful awareness, knew exactly how he felt, as if he had stripped himself naked before them all.

  “Ah, well,” she said brightly, “at least you still have me.”

  They all went rigid, faces tightening as though they’d caught a whiff of something rank. The silence was shattered by the last sound Aislyn expected: Gawain’s laughter. He looked to Aislyn, his shoulders shaking with mirth he struggled vainly to suppress, but when she winked at him, he lost his composure altogether. It had been a very long time since she had heard him laugh so freely, and judging from the shock on the others’ faces, the sound was strange to them, as well. At last he drew a shaking breath. “Forgive me,” he began, “I was—that is—”

  “There’s no need to be sorry,” Aislyn said. “I like to hear you laugh. You should do it more.”

  “Aye, you’re right,” he said, handing the harp back to Lancelot with an nod of thanks.

  “Gawain—” Arthur began, but before he could finish his thought a knock came on the door. One of the waiting women answered it, then stepped back to allow a young man to enter. Aislyn scarce had time to wonder where she had seen him before Gawain was on his feet. “Gaheris!” he cried and went forward to embrace his younger brother.

  Of course. Aislyn remembered Gaheris well from her time in Lothian, a quiet boy with laughing eyes. Brown-haired and of but average stature, he was often overlooked among his golden brothers, but he had always been Aislyn’s favorite of the younger boys, for he would often make her laugh with a shrewd observation on the doings of the court of Lothian. Morgause, as she recalled, had not cared for either Gaheris or his observations. The queen much preferred her next son, Gareth, who she often likened to a young Gawain.