Lancelot
Page 1
A Delightful Dizziness . . .
“My brother rode his first joust against Sir Lancelot,” Elaine said. “It was his last. As I waited by the surgeon’s tent, all the talk was that Sir Lancelot would as lief have stayed at home as waste his skill on such raw country lads—”
“That was your brother?” the knight interrupted. “I—I remember hearing of it.”
“It was a bad fall,” Elaine went on. “His leg was shattered. He very nearly lost it.” What was the matter with her today? She had thought herself long past weeping, yet the knight was looking at her with astonished pity. “I’m sorry. What were we talking about? Oh, it was Sir Lancelot. A subject we generally avoid.”
“I’m not surprised.”
They reached the edge of the forest.
“Wait,” he said. “’Tis a pretty day for a ride, and I’m sure you know all the best paths. That is, if you would like to . . .”
When he smiled, that strange dizziness came over her again. What could a man like this possibly see in her? She was nearly one and twenty, and she did not delude herself about the damage done by years of starvation. Yet he looked as though he genuinely hoped she would accept. All at once her heart lifted, and it seemed anything was possible, even that she might have caught the interest of a young and wealthy knight.
“I would like to,” she said. “Come, we can water our horses by the river.”
LANCELOT
Gwen Rowley
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
KNIGHTS OF THE ROUND TABLE: LANCELOT
A Jove Book / Published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Jove mass-market edition / September 2006
Copyright © 2006 by The Berkley Publishing Group.
Cover design by George Long.
Cover illustration by Jaime De Jesus.
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ISBN: 978-1-101-66410-0
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For Michael
A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
He rode between the barley-sheaves,
The sun came dazzling thro’ the leaves,
And flamed upon the brazen greaves
Of bold Sir Lancelot.
ALFRED LORD TENNYSON,
“The Lady of Shallot”
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 1
ONCE Elaine noticed how like a bull her uncle was, she wondered that she had not marked the resemblance before. The thickly muscled neck, the flaring nostrils and close-set eyes—it was uncanny. Put a ring in his nose, and you could lead the man to market.
“A damned plague, that’s what they are!” he bellowed, pounding a meaty fist upon the trestle table. “Worse than the bloody Saxons, those Corbenic serfs, and I’ll stand for it no longer!”
“It was a hard winter,” Elaine said, holding onto her temper with an effort. She faced her uncle down the length of the trestle, covered with a crimson cloth and crowded with platters of bread and pots of honey, along with two enormous pork and mutton pies made from the remains of last night’s feast. The guests between them had been subdued this morning, but now they were wide-awake and rigid with embarrassment.
“A hard winter?” Ulfric roared, his face purpling with rage. “Every winter’s hard, but that’s no excuse for poaching!”
“Of course it isn’t,” Elaine answered through clenched teeth, “but you know our harvest was poor, and—”
“The same old story.” Ulfric snorted. “But it won’t do, my girl, not anymore. I’ve turned a blind eye in the past, but if you think I’ll just stand by while your villeins invade my demesne and make off with my game—”
Elaine set her cup down very carefully. “It was one man,” she said, “and one deer. Hardly an invasion.”
“One that I know of! But this is not the first time I’ve caught those thieving ruffians skulking on my lands, and God knows I have enough to do without defending my borders against yon scurvy pack of rogues! Your father is useless, and as for Torre—by God, when I think of all I’ve done for that boy, all wasted now—”
Elaine leapt to her feet. “Keep your tongue off my brother! And my father, too! If you want recompense for the damned hind—”
“Oh, I’ll have what’s due to me. I’ve—”
“Ulfric,” Aunt Millicent said. “That is
quite enough.”
Ulfric glanced at his lady and deflated like a pricked bladder. Elaine looked to her aunt, as well. Hypocrite, she thought with impotent fury; it was Millicent who had raised the subject of the poacher in the first place, waving it like a red flannel before her husband’s nose.
“I’ve complained to the king, that’s what I’ve done,” Ulfric muttered sulkily. “And not for the first time, either.”
“Elaine,” Alienor said swiftly, looking anxiously from her father to Elaine, silently pleading with her cousin to hold her tongue. Elaine was very fond of Alienor, who looked pale and wan this morning, not the blushing bride at all. The groom stared at his father-in-law with well-bred distaste, as though he was already having second thoughts about his marriage, not even four and twenty hours old.
Elaine resumed her seat without a word and forced herself to smile at Alienor, who managed a crooked smile in return. Still, the awkwardness lingered, casting a pall over the remainder of the meal.
The moment she could do so without drawing further attention to herself, Elaine stood. “I must begone,” she said, speaking not to her aunt or uncle, but to Alienor, who came forward to embrace her.
“Thank you—for everything,” Alienor said, slipping something into her hand. Elaine looked down at the gold chain and shook her head.
“I cannot take this.”
“You can. You shall. I don’t know what I would have done without you these past weeks. I’m so sorry about Father—”
“Think nothing of it,” Elaine said with a charity she was far from feeling as they walked together toward the door. “Belike he has a sore head this morning.”
“Aye, I’m sure he does. But if you ask me,” Alienor murmured, glancing over to her stepmother, “’twas Millicent who started it.”
“Well, you’re free of her now,” Elaine said. “I hope you will be happy.”
They both turned to look at Alienor’s husband, Lord Cerdic, who stood between his parents. A slender young man with a wealth of golden curls, Cerdic was keenly aware of his beauty. At the moment he was entirely absorbed in adjusting the curling feather in his cap.
“Thank you,” Alienor said, “I’m sure I will be.” Their eyes met, and in the same moment they looked away. There was no more to be said; the deed was done, and Alienor had no choice but make the best of it. “Please remember me to—to your family,” she added, her voice breaking as she caught Elaine in a fierce embrace before hurrying away.
Elaine’s farewells to her aunt and uncle were far less cordial.
“I am sorry you have been inconvenienced by any of Corbenic’s people,” Elaine said coolly, drawing on her gloves. “I assure you it will not happen again. You can send the man home with me, and he will be suitably punished.”
“Oh, he has already been punished,” Ulfric replied.
Elaine stiffened. “Indeed?”
“I hanged him three days ago.”
“You hanged one of my father’s men?” Elaine demanded, so shocked by this breach of courtesy that she could scarce believe she’d heard aright.
Ulfric’s teeth showed in something that was meant to be a smile. “I did consult him first, of course—at least I tried. I wrote to him twice, but he did not deign to answer. You can tell him from me that he’ll be needing a new fletcher.”
“Fletcher? You mean—are you telling me you hanged Bran Fletcher?” Elaine gripped her hands together hard, lest she give in to the impulse to slap the smile from her uncle’s face.
“I hanged a thief.” Ulfric’s small eyes narrowed. “I know what a busy man your father is. It was my pleasure to do him this small service.”
Before Elaine could think of a suitable reply, her aunt leaned forward in a wave of heavy scent to kiss the air beside her cheek. “Farewell, my dear. Godspeed on your journey. Do give my love to your father and your brothers.”
Elaine left without another word. Bran Fletcher was but a face to her; she doubted she had ever spoken to the man. Yet still she felt bereft, and angry, too, both at Ulfric and herself, that anyone belonging to Corbenic should have met with such a fate.
There is nothing to be done about it now, she told herself as she mounted and rode out of the courtyard. And at least she had the chain. It should fetch enough to buy a new ram—theirs was on his last legs—and with luck an ewe or two, as well, to supplement their dwindling flock.
She was halfway home before she remembered something else Ulfric had said, that he had complained of her father to the king. Not for the first time, either. And Ulfric, unlike Father, had the means to send a dozen knights and fifty men-at-arms to Camelot whenever the king had need of them.
It meant nothing, she told herself. King Arthur was far too busy to concern himself with the quarrels of two country nobles.
But still she clapped heels to her mare, urging the ancient beast into a reluctant, jogging trot, fearing she had been far too long from home.
Chapter 2
LATER, when Lancelot had regained some measure of control, he realized that the silence could not have lasted longer than a minute. At the time it seemed an age crawled by after Guinevere stopped talking and the three of them stood, frozen like figures in some vile tapestry, waiting for Arthur to reply.
The worst of it—if one element of the horror could be seized upon and called the worst—was that it had been such a stupid lie, tossed off by the queen as though she were remarking on the weather. Looking at Arthur’s face, Lancelot knew the king felt exactly as he did himself, as though he had been dealt a solid blow between the eyes. What possible response could one make when confronted with such a blatant disregard for anything resembling the truth?
Whatever it might be, Lancelot could not be the one to make it. That was Arthur’s duty—and his right. Mild as he seemed, Arthur was very much a man, and any man, so grievously provoked, was capable of violence. Lancelot waited, not daring to draw breath, for the royal fury to erupt.
And then, at last, King Arthur spoke.
“That’s that, then, isn’t it?” he said, turning to gaze out the window. “If you are in pain, Lance, you must stay behind.”
Lancelot’s mortification, which he had thought complete, increased a hundredfold. He had never been better; he had said as much when he and Arthur dined together just last night. He drew a long breath and looked past the king’s broad shoulders out the window, where the garden wavered behind thick panes of glass.
“Sire,” he said carefully, “truly there is no need. ’Tis a trifling thing—”
“No!” Guinevere shot Lancelot a pleading look behind her husband’s back. “You mustn’t risk yourself.”
A shift in focus showed him Arthur’s face reflected in the glass—just as he and Guinevere were reflected for the king to see. Lancelot’s hands clenched into fists.
“My lord,” he began, with no clear idea of what he could say next. To go on insisting he was well was tantamount to calling Guinevere a liar, which would be not only redundant at this point, but unthinkable, for he was bound by oath to serve her. Yet even the most tacit acceptance of her lie was a betrayal of his oath to Arthur. Before he could resolve this conundrum, the king spoke over him.
“Guinevere is right.” Arthur turned and added with a smile that did not reach his eyes, “’Twould be folly to hazard my best warrior for the sake of a day’s entertainment.”
“Just so, sire,” Guinevere agreed.
Lancelot stared from the queen to the king, uncomprehending. False, it was all false, the words they spoke, the smiles they exchanged. After his solitary years in Avalon, Lancelot was often confused by the subtleties of human relationships, but he knew the dark emotions swirling between the king and queen spelled danger to them all. His head began to ache as he searched vainly for the words to make things right.
“Sire, I—”
“Stay,” the king ordered curtly.
“Stay,” echoed the queen.
Two people living had the right to command Sir Lancelot
du Lac, First Knight of Arthur’s realm and the Queen’s Champion. When they spoke as one, he had no choice but to obey.
“I am, of course, your servant,” he said unwillingly.
Arthur did not acknowledge his acquiescence or even seem to notice it. “Farewell, Guinevere,” the king said, his gaze still riveted upon his wife. The queen raised her face to accept her husband’s kiss, and Arthur brushed his lips across her cheek in a perfunctory farewell. “And to you, Sir Lancelot,” he added coolly. “I hope to find you both in better health when I return.”
The king’s eyes burned into Lancelot’s for one fleeting moment before Arthur turned and walked away.
Wait, Lancelot wanted to cry out, stop—but he could not force himself to make a sound. Like a man enspelled to silence, he watched the king vanish into the corridor. Only the slam of the door snapped the enchantment.
“Guinevere—”
“Wait.”
The queen moved as silently as a cat, the furred hem of her sapphire chamber robe trailing behind her. She opened the door a crack, peered out, then eased it shut again. Turning, she leaned her back against the wood and met Lancelot’s gaze. Her face was pale as whey, save for the dark patches like bruises beneath her eyes. Unlike Lancelot, she had been genuinely ill, but whatever pity he had felt for her was swept away by the rising tide of anger that shook him where he stood.
“You know you will forgive me in time,” she said, “so why not save us the bother of a quarrel and do it now? Sit down—I’ll have something sent up from the kitchens and we can—”
“You fool!” The sound of his own voice was strange to him, harsh and trembling with rage. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”
Guinevere paced to the window and threw the casement open, breathing deeply of the cool, fresh air before replying. “Very well, Lance, have your little temper if you must. But you’re being quite ridiculous, you know. You’ve often told me you dislike jousting, and Arthur was quite willing for you to stay, so—”
He crossed the distance between them in three paces and seized her by the shoulders, so abruptly that she cried out in surprise. “Do you not know what is being said? Dinadan and Agravaine—”