by Gawain (lit)
“Very well,” Aislyn replied, sitting down upon the steps leading to the hall. “I will stay.”
Gawain sat down beside her and took her hand in his, running his fingers through hers and smiling at the feeling of her smooth skin against his own callused hands. He had meant what he said to her before: he had no desire to wed any other woman. But his pride had been rubbed raw these past weeks, and though he refused to shrink from either the scorn or pity of his peers, he would not invite them, either.
Yes, that was it. He would—he must have her with him during the day.
And yet . . .
If Aislyn was with him by day, she would not be with him by night.
He glanced up to find her watching him anxiously. “Well?” she said.
“I am thinking.”
“Does it always take this long?”
He put his arm around her and drew her close, resting his cheek against her hair. “Either way, it will not be forever. I will find the way to free you.”
“Am I allowed to help? Or shall I sit with folded hands waiting for you to ride to my rescue?”
“You? Sit with folded hands? I’d like to see it.” He tipped her face to his and kissed her once, and then, as it was over far too quickly, once again.
“Is this helping you to think?” she said a little breathlessly.
“Yes,” he answered firmly, and soon her arms were round his neck, and his fingers were tangled in her bright hair as he bent to kiss her throat. She shivered, her head falling back against his arm, and—
“Sir Gawain?” a man’s voice said.
Gawain sighed. “Yes?” he said. Go away, he did not say, but he might as well have done so, judging from the man’s laughter.
“Forgive me. But there is someone who wants to meet you.”
Gawain released Aislyn, who sat up, smoothing her hair, a rosy blush upon her cheeks. Dear God, but she was beautiful! He had to force his gaze from her to the man who had interrupted him. He was obviously a Saxon, but that mattered far less than the fact that he was staring straight at Aislyn without making the least attempt to hide his admiration.
Perhaps it would be better to have Aislyn to myself at night.
He dismissed the thought as unworthy, though Aislyn was staring straight back at the Saxon, frowning slightly as though trying to place him. Gawain thought he looked familiar, too, though he could not quite recall . . .
“Why, it is . . . Torquil, is it not?” Aislyn said, smiling.
“Sir Torquil,” Sir Lancelot put in from behind the Saxon. “I met his party on the road; they were bound for Camelot and most anxious to speak to Sir Gawain.”
Sir Torquil bowed to her. “And you are Dame Ragnelle?” He raised a brow skeptically and she laughed, standing and holding out her hand.
“You came to my cottage,” she said, “and that young man, the one who dropped the battle-ax, said—well, never mind what he said,” she added quickly. Gawain stood, as well. He wasn’t sure he liked the way Sir Torquil laughed, as though he and Aislyn shared a private joke.
“Then you—” Aislyn sketched an arc before her belly. “And you said I was to come—though you were very nice about it. He even pretended I had a choice,” she added, laughing to Gawain. “But now tell me how Lady Elga does! And the babe—is she well? Did the lady’s mother arrive?”
“I did.” A tall woman stepped from the shadows. “I am Mathilda, and I reached my daughter the next morning. She and the child are both well.”
Mathilda? Gawain knew that name. She was . . . who was she? Someone of importance, or he would not have heard of her.
“Oh, I am glad to hear it! I’d never delivered a babe before,” Aislyn said confidingly, “and I don’t know how I would have managed if Lady Elga had not been so very brave.”
Mathilda’s eyes softened. “You are all she told me—yet nothing like. I do not understand this—enchantment?”
“It is confusing, isn’t it?” Aislyn said. “May I present Sir Gawain to you, my lady?”
Gawain bowed deeply.
“Ah, Sir Gawain,” the lady said. “I have heard of you, as well.” She said no more, but smiled on him warmly.
“Sir Torquil, you have met Sir Gawain already,” Aislyn went on, “though I don’t think you were properly introduced.”
“No, we were not,” Gawain said. “You saw me at something of a disadvantage—”
“Really?” Torquil’s teeth showed in a smile. “I would have said Gudrun was the one at a disadvantage.”
“Peace, Torquil.” An older man with a tired face and kind eyes stepped forward to take Aislyn’s hand. “My lady, I am King Aesc.”
“Good evening, sire. I am . . . honored to meet you.”
“Sir Gawain.” Aesc nodded to him. “I believe I owe you an apology. I relied upon my brother Gudrun’s report of your encounter, which I now know to have been . . . incomplete.”
Torquil snorted, but Gawain only bowed without speaking.
“Well, then,” Sir Lancelot said brightly. “Now that the introductions have been made, shall we go and join the feast? I know the king is right eager to greet you for himself.”
As they walked through the courtyard, Aislyn said to Mathilda, “I trust your journey was not too difficult?”
“Not very,” the lady replied. “I came only from Wessex.”
“Wessex?” Aislyn frowned slightly, then her face cleared as she, like Gawain, realized that these Saxons were King Aesc’s troublesome Wessex kinfolk, the ones who had refused every invitation to King Arthur’s court. “Oh, Wessex! King Ceredig rules there, does he not? Do you know him?”
“I should say so.” Mathilda smiled. “He is my husband. And now, Sir Gawain,” she said, laying a hand upon his arm. “Would you be so kind as to present me to your king?”
Chapter 42
THE Saxon party seemed to enjoy the feast, which pleased Arthur. Gawain was pleased, as well, though he could not keep his mind fixed upon the Saxons at the moment. It was gratifying to have King Aesc beg his pardon, and Mathilda promise to persuade her husband to meet with King Arthur, though she could not guarantee the outcome. Still, it was something of a triumph, though of course it was not really Gawain’s.
It was Aislyn’s.
Unlike Guinevere, she did not set out to be deliberately charming. And though the queen was quite adept at putting her guests at ease, it was Aislyn who made them laugh when she gave a spirited description of Sir Torquil’s visit to her woodland cabin. He obligingly repeated his imitation of a woman far gone in labor, which made Queen Mathilda cluck her tongue.
“You should not know these things!” she said, trying unsuccessfully to frown at her kinsman. “We must find you a bride—at once!”
“I have looked!” Torquil protested. “But the ladies I desire are all married,” he added, casting a melting glance at Aislyn.
“So I hear,” Mathilda retorted, and this time her frown looked far more genuine. “You will end by falling out a window and breaking your fool neck.”
Torquil laughed. “I will end in battle, slain by a brave enemy.” He raised his cup to Gawain. “Is there any better death?”
“Oh, don’t let’s talk of death,” Aislyn said quickly. “It makes me sad.”
“Forgive me,” Torquil said at once, leaning forward to rest his hand upon her wrist. “What do you like to talk of?”
Gawain stiffened, but before he could react, Aislyn had slipped her hand from under the Saxon’s. “Why, of Sir Gawain, of course!” she answered, laughing. “We have been wed such a short time, I can think of little else.”
Mathilda looked on her with amused approval, and Torquil, with a good-natured bow to Gawain, subsided.
The talk went on to other things, but Gawain no longer listened. He leaned his chin on his fist, watching as Aislyn discussed herb lore with Mathilda.
He’d had enough of feasts and chatter. He wanted to sweep Aislyn off to their chamber. But first he must find Morgana before she disappear
ed again and tell her his decision.
He imagined Aislyn stretched out upon their bed with the moonlight gilding her sleek limbs. He thought of her walking proudly beside him with the sunlight in her hair.
How could any man make such a choice? Yet it must be made, and then endured, for once he had decided, no word of complaint would ever pass his lips.
At last the Saxons retired and soon after, the king and queen withdrew, as well.
“Shall we find the duchess?” Aislyn asked.
“Yes.” Gawain sighed and gestured a page over. “I suppose we must.”
“Do you care to tell me your decision?” she asked as they waited. “Or is it to be a surprise?”
“I will tell you.” She looked at him expectantly and he scowled. “As soon as I know.”
“Oh, Gawain,” she said, slipping her hand into his. “It is awful, isn’t it? Are you sure you want to be married to—”
“Quite.” He kissed her fingers. “I just need to work out the details.”
But he thought he had the answer now. He could not bear to sleep beside the crone each night, knowing he could have had Aislyn in his arms. He would just have to accept the fact that she would be the crone by day.
Instantly, an image formed in his mind of Dame Ragnelle capering in the garden. But it had been long since she had shamed him like that! Yes, it would be hard to face the court again with her at his side, but he could do it if he must. And Dame Ragnelle was not so very awful. She might be hideous, but she was kind. She had bound his wounds, made him laugh, helped him understand himself as he had never done before. He was really very fond of her.
And yet . . .
His mind went over it all again, turning and twisting the same pieces of the puzzle, but try as he might, he could not make them form a pleasant picture.
Chapter 43
BY the time the page returned, Gawain was no closer to the answer, though had succeeded in giving himself a pounding headache.
Oh, just pick one—night or day, what does it matter? he thought impatiently, relieved that this ordeal must soon be finished.
“The duchess of Cornwall is with the king and queen,” the page said. “She bids me have you join them.”
“What now?” Gawain groaned, and Aislyn took his hand.
“Ah, Camelot! Such an entertaining place to live!”
“A bit too entertaining lately,” Gawain grumbled, though he managed to compose his expression to one of polite interest as the page opened the door of Arthur’s presence chamber and bowed them inside.
“Oh, good, you’re here,” Morgana said from the chair in which she was relaxing. Behind her stood Launfal, and he cast Aislyn a rather desperate look as she walked in.
Arthur sat at his long table with Guinevere beside him. Though she had chatted brightly with the Saxons earlier, now the queen looked strained and weary, and though she, like Arthur, seemed ready to listen to what Morgana had to say, she looked as though she rather dreaded it.
“Launfal has been telling me the most interesting tales!” Morgana began. “I thought you two should be present when he repeated them to the king.”
Aislyn stiffened and gave a little gasp. What now? Gawain wondered, looking from her to Launfal. Aislyn’s hand clenched around Gawain’s, but she gave her brother an encouraging smile, which seemed to hearten him, for he lifted his head and straightened his shoulders.
“Sire,” Launfal began, “first, please allow me to thank you for getting to the truth of Sir Marrek’s death. But there is something else you must know—part of the reason I was coming to Camelot in the first place was to tell you—” He swallowed nervously. “Sire, I am Somer Gromer Jour.”
Him? Somer Gromer Jour? Gawain had seen nothing but a silver helm that day, but now he suddenly recalled what Somer Gromer Jour had said—“My sister told you that!”—and looked to Aislyn. She nodded and squeezed his hand, silently asking for his patience, and after a moment, he nodded in return. Arthur’s expression did not change; only the slight widening of his eyes betrayed his surprise. “You?” he said. “But why?”
“Sire, at the time, I was in the service of the queen of Orkney,” Launfal went on. “And she—”
“Are you speaking of me, Launfal?” Gawain sighed as his mother swept into the chamber. How did she always know when people were talking about her? Was it sorcery . . . or merely spies?
“Yes, madam,” Launfal said evenly. “I was just telling the king about the adventure of Somer Gromer Jour.”
“But that is my tale to tell!” Morgause protested.
“Then please do, madam,” Arthur replied coldly. “For Launfal has told me nothing as yet, save that he was in your service at the time. I can only assume that you commanded him to challenge me, and it was by your order that I would have been slain had not Dame Ragnelle supplied me with the answer to your riddle.”
“Oh, good, you do not know yet!” Morgause cried. “I was afraid that Launfal had spoiled my surprise!”
“Surprise?” Arthur said.
“Yes!” Morgause clasped her hands together like an eager child. “You see, Arthur, when I heard you had taken a bride, I wondered what gift I could possibly give you—you who have so much. I thought long upon the matter, and at last decided that nothing would do but to ensure your marriage would be a happy one. At first, I was puzzled as to how to accomplish such a goal, but at last I hit upon the answer—to send you on a quest so you might discover for yourself that which all women desire. Of course no man would undertake such a quest did not his very life depend on it,” she added with a light laugh, “and so . . . Somer Gromer Jour!”
Launfal’s lips parted, though he seemed incapable of speech as he stared at Morgause in astonishment.
“Poor Launfal was a bit uneasy about the role I asked him to play,” she said confidingly to Arthur. “A bit confused,” she added, tapping her brow. “Why, for a time, I do believe he actually feared I meant to do you harm! But tell us now, Launfal, on your honor—and remembering that the duchess of Cornwall will detect any falsehood you might utter—during your time as Somer Gromer Jour, did you ever, for a single moment, have the slightest intention of slaying the king or even causing him an injury?”
“No,” Launfal said strongly. “I did not.”
“I trusted Launfal implicitly,” Morgause said, “for he comes of a very noble house, but just in case matters got out of hand—if you, Arthur, or my loyal Gawain decided on a bold attack—I had men-at-arms stationed close at hand to ensure that no one would be hurt. Is that not so, Launfal?”
“There were men-at-arms to hand,” he answered neutrally.
Morgause spread her hands and smiled. “So there you have it, Arthur, my wedding gift to you—and particularly to dear Guinevere.”
Guinevere looked at Morgause through shadowed eyes, her mouth set in a hard line. Nor did Arthur return Morgause’s smile. Seemingly unaware of their cold silence, Morgause bowed. “And now I must to bed,” she said lightly, “for I leave at dawn tomorrow. I am right anxious to get home to my children. No, don’t bother to get up, Arthur,” she added, though the king had shown no sign of doing so. “I shall see myself out.”
