Lancelot

by Gwen Rowley

  Beneath his palms, her slight shoulders moved in a shrug. “The two of them are like old women, forever gossiping in corners. Nobody credits anything they say.”

  Guinevere was no coward. She met his gaze straight on; only the pulse beating rapidly at the base of her throat betrayed her fear. And she was right to be afraid. This was no “little temper,” but the sort of blinding rage Lancelot had experienced only on a battlefield.

  “Arthur believes this,” he said, his fingers digging into her flesh. “How do you think it looks for him to walk into your chamber and find us here alone? And when you came out with your lie—my God, his face! Did you not see it for yourself? Are you blind? Witless?”

  Two spots of brilliant color stained her ashen cheeks. “Unhand me at once! How dare you speak to me like this!”

  “I dare because I must! I should have done it long before, but I assumed you knew.”

  Her pale lips twisted in a mocking smile. “Knew what? That fools whisper idle tales about their betters? So what if they do?”

  “Think you Arthur has not heard these whispers?” Lancelot shook her hard, his voice rising to a shout. “He has, I know he has, I’ve seen the way he watches us!”

  “You are wrong—mistaken—”

  “I am not. I know him, none better—he is no fool, he suspected long before today.”

  “But even so, he would not believe—”

  “He does not want to. But now, now that you have openly connived to keep me by your side when he is gone away—what else can he think?”

  At last he’d reached her. The queen’s eyes, so oft compared to woodland violets, widened in terrified comprehension. “Then you must go, right now, this moment,” she cried, pressing her soft palms against his chest.

  “How can I? My old wound is troubling me,” he said in savage mimickry. “I can barely walk. The king himself ordered me to stay behind. And if you think this won’t cause more talk—”

  “Wait.” Guinevere jerked free and put her hands to her temples, pushing aside the thick waves of raven hair that curled loosely past her hips. “Just wait, let me think.” After a moment, her head snapped up. “Do you remember that evening last month when the three of us dined here?”

  “What?”

  “We had the brace of partridge—Arthur took them with his falcon—”

  “Are you raving?”

  “Listen! Arthur said it was hardly fair for you to joust these days, do you remember? He said your opponents are so frightened by your reputation that they are incapable of giving you a proper match.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “You will ride in the tournament, Lance, but in disguise. Then you can tell Arthur it was a test—a test of honor—that you wanted to see if you could win without anyone knowing who you are. He will like that, he’ll think it a good jest.”

  Lancelot stared at her, half admiring and wholly appalled at this new proof of her nimble mind.

  “Another lie—”

  “Oh, no, but it isn’t! Arthur did say that, I heard him, and you were a bit insulted, were you not?”

  How well she knew them both. Arthur would believe it, not only because it was the sort of trick he himself would play, but because he wanted—was quite desperate—to accept any alternative to the rumors spreading like poison through the court.

  “This is wrong,” Lancelot said. “Please, Guinevere, I beg you, let me tell him—”

  “No! Do not start all that again! You will tell him naught save what I have said. You promised—and I need—”

  “I! I! Is that all you ever think about? What of Arthur? What of me? Are you too stupid to understand what you are doing to us both? Or are you too selfish to care?”

  Tears welled in her eyes. “How can you say such things to me?”

  Lancelot slumped down on the window seat and leaned his throbbing brow against the glass. “Oh, God,” he whispered, “what am I to do?”

  “I have already told you! If you would only listen—”

  Wearily, he rose to his feet, rubbing the aching space between his eyes. “I cannot,” he said, despairing, “the king has ordered me to stay.”

  Her brows rushed together in a frown. “And I say that you shall go.”

  He knew that look. Quickly he started toward her, one hand extended. “It is impossible. Surely you understand that I cannot disobey a direct order from my lord. We’ll find another way—”

  It was too late. All at once the queen of Britain stood before him, gesturing with imperious dignity toward the door. “Don your armor, hide your face, and do not speak your name until the tournament is done.”

  “Don’t,” he whispered, “Guinevere, please—”

  “Now!” she cried, stamping one slippered foot. “I command it!”

  Lancelot had often been impatient with the queen, sometimes angry, but never until this moment had he hated her.

  “So be it, my lady,” he ground between clenched teeth. “I will go. And I will do your bidding once again, as I have sworn. But this is the last time. I am finished with your lies—and with you.”

  He spun on his heel and reached for the latch.

  “Lance, wait, I didn’t mean—please don’t go like this,” she cried behind him. “Please!” She stumbled on the long hem of her gown and caught his arm. Her eyes were brilliant as she stared beseechingly into his face. “It was a mistake, I wasn’t thinking—I’ve been so wretched, I only wanted you to stay with me. I’m sorry, sorry—”

  “You are always sorry,” Lancelot said coldly, “yet you never change. Good day, my lady.”

  He shook off her hand and went out. Halfway down the corridor he hesitated, listening to the muffled sobs coming from behind the door. “Damn you,” he said beneath his breath. He could imagine her there, crouched among the rushes with the tears streaming down her pale cheeks, muddled and miserable and utterly alone.

  Then he remembered the cold fury in the king’s eyes before Arthur walked out without so much as giving him a chance to speak.

  “Damn you,” Lancelot said again, no longer certain which of them he meant, or whether he was speaking to himself. Turning, he ran swiftly down the stairway without once looking back.

  Chapter 3

  ELAINE pulled her mare up on the forest’s edge, savoring her first glimpse of Corbenic’s tower in the distance. Home. The sight never failed to lift her heart. Her smile faded as her gaze traveled downward to the north field, acre upon acre of good brown earth, stretching between the forest and the manor. Something was amiss. For a moment she could not imagine what it was, and then understanding hit her like a blow.

  The field was empty. No plough, no straining oxen, no peasants toiling beneath the pale blue sky. Not a child picking stones, not a scarecrow—not even a crow to scare, as obviously no seed had yet been planted. Indeed, ’twas clear that no one had so much as touched this field since she had ridden past it near a month ago.

  Over the past weeks, Elaine had watched carefully the ordering of her uncle’s demesne, hoping to learn the secret of his prosperity. Every morning she was up to see the villeins go off to the fields, shouldering their tools, and her afternoon walk invariably led her past the neat expanse of furrows, lengthening with every day. She had passed many a weary morning in Alienor’s bower imagining the same work going forward at Corbenic.

  What a fool she’d been.

  Dismissing her uncle’s serving man with a curt word, she turned her mare from the path and cut across the field, mud flying from beneath the horse’s hooves.

  She should never have left home. Now the sowing would be late again, and they would have to race against time to harvest whatever poor crop could reach maturity. You would think that after last winter they would have learned. The sheer folly of it, the waste of time when every day was precious—why, why was everything at Corbenic such a hopeless muddle? Was it so much to ask that people simply do as they were told?

  The anger that had simmered in Elaine’s breast this past month
flared into rage as she pounded across the barren field and burst into the courtyard, scattering a flock of chickens—Holy Mother, had no one mended the hen coop yet?—pecking among the refuse heaped outside the stable door.

  Dung, she noted with cold fury. Dung that should have been carried to the fields long since. Someone had obviously begun the job and just as obviously abandoned it, leaving the barrow upended on the cobbles and the broom beside it, its bristles trampled in the mud. Apart from the chickens and the swarms of flies, the courtyard was deserted.

  Elaine could remember how it had looked before the Saxons came: the gleaming cobbles, fresh-scrubbed twice a week, the whitewashed stable where a dozen blooded horses champed their oats, the mews and the kennels, each with its own attendants. And the sounds! Sometimes Elaine thought she missed them most of all. The dairymaids in sacking aprons singing as they churned; the high, excited voices of the squires in the practice yard; the laughter of the pages scurrying about, brave in blue and crimson; and far off in the distance, barely noticed, the voices of the villeins in the fields.

  Above all, she missed her mother’s voice. “No, you mayn’t have a hawk, Elaine, but if you are a good lass, next year we shall see. Chin up, sweeting, that’s the way, and shoulders back. You will do your husband little honor if you slouch.”

  The bright image faded into grim reality. What would Mother say to this? Elaine wondered, her gaze moving over the filthy, silent courtyard that could have passed for some peasant’s hovel. If things went on this way much longer, it might as well be. The once-proud family was already sinking. Soon they would be little more than peasants. In another generation, the difference would vanish altogether.

  “Groom!” Elaine cried, fear sharpening her voice. “Groom! To me—at once!”

  But it was no groom that staggered from the stable, his shirt hanging loose as he struggled to tie up his breeches. The unshaven young man did not lift a finger to assist her. He merely braced himself against the stable door and squinted up at her through bloodshot eyes.

  And what, what would Mother think if she could see her eldest son right now? Torre scratched idly at the auburn curls showing through his torn shirt and yawned. “Elaine. You’re back.”

  “Well spotted, Torre. How clever of you to notice.”

  “I could hardly help it. You were screeching like a banshee.”

  A giggle drifted from within the stable. Elaine narrowed her eyes at her brother. “Help me down.”

  “Help yourself. I’m busy.”

  “Torre.” Elaine did not sink to the vulgarity of shouting, but still, he halted and turned back.

  “All right, all right.” He limped heavily across the courtyard and extended his laced hands.

  The moment her feet touched the ground, Elaine strode to the stable and threw open the door. Two horses raised their heads, looking at her curiously. The nearest stall was empty save for a mound of straw, upon which reclined a girl, naked to the waist. She regarded Elaine boldly through the matted hair falling over her eyes.

  “Get up!” Elaine cried. “Dress yourself and go tell Lord Pelleas that his daughter has returned. And find a groom to stable my mare before you get back to the kitchens.”

  The girl’s eyes moved over Elaine’s shoulder. Finding no help there, she muttered, “Aye, mistress,” and pulled her kirtle up.

  Elaine whirled and stalked over to her brother. “The planting hasn’t even begun, and this place—” She waved a hand wildly about the courtyard. “What in God’s name have you been doing?”

  “I should think,” he drawled, wiping his hands upon his filthy shirt, “that would be fairly obvious.”

  Unfortunately, it was, even before he lifted the wineskin to his lips. Straw stuck out of his wild auburn curls, and a two-day growth of beard stubbled his jaw. The once-fine angles of his face were blurred, his brilliant blue eyes streaked with red and sunk deep above pouched flesh. Looking at the ruins of her brother, Elaine did not know if she wanted more to weep or rage at him.

  “Well?” he said, slouching to take the weight from his bad leg. “How were the nuptials?”

  Elaine sighed, her anger melting into confused pity and resentment when he smiled down at her. “Wretched. I should have stayed at home.”

  “I told you—”

  “I know you did. You were right.”

  “And you were wrong? You? Quick, someone fetch a scribe, such a moment cannot be lost to history!”

  She smiled, pretending not to notice the bitterness that robbed his words of humor. “Uncle Ulfric was insufferable,” she said, “and Aunt Millicent worse. Geoffrey sends you greetings. He said he’ll ride over with his hawk soon.”

  Torre’s lips twisted in the cynical grin that she had come to dread. “Right. And Alienor?” he added, his face averted as he bent to gather the mare’s reins. “Did she send me greetings, too?” Without waiting for an answer, he went on in a voice that sounded almost unconcerned, “What about that fellow she married? What’s he like?”

  “Young. A bit vain. But then—” She’d been about to say that Lord Cerdic had plenty to be vain about, being not only young and comely, but rich into the bargain, but something in her brother’s face halted her. “Oh, Torre,” she said, “you’re not still brooding about Alienor, are you?”

  “Brooding?” His eyes were hooded as he raised the wineskin once again.

  “I know you were disappointed, but there are other heiresses. Not so rich as Alienor, perhaps, but—”

  “Is that what you think it was? Her gold? God, what a fool you are sometimes.” Before Elaine could respond, he sighed and touched her shoulder. “That was wrong of me. I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t want you to be sorry. I want you to do something.”

  “What? Go out to seek my fortune? Oh, no, I tried that, didn’t I? Mayhap I should till the fields myself! Or no,” he said savagely, glaring down at his leg, “I’d be no use there, either.” All at once, his anger seemed to die. He sighed and ran a hand through his tangled curls. “Sometimes I think our family has been cursed. No, don’t smile, I’m serious. When you look at all that’s happened—the Saxons coming, Mother’s death, Father and his—”

  Elaine held up a hand, stilling him before he could say the word they never spoke. He sighed again. “Father’s illness,” he went on, using the accepted phrase, “and then me. Don’t tell me you’ve never wondered if all of this is more than luck.”

  Of course Elaine had wondered. The same question had occurred to her many times during the past winter, in the dark of night when sleep refused to come. But if she had refused to credit the thought then, she was not about to now.

  “There is naught amiss with us that a bit of hard work and common sense won’t cure,” she said stoutly.

  “Think you so, Elly? Truly?”

  “Blaming a series of perfectly natural misfortunes on magic is the refuge of the weak and cowardly.”

  Torre gave her a wry grin. “If your tongue gets any sharper, ’twill be a very gelding hook. But you are wrong, you know. Magic does exist, and to deny it won’t make it go away.”

  “Stuff and—” Elaine began.

  “Elly!”

  They both whirled as their younger brother crossed the courtyard at a run. Their father followed more slowly, his head bent over something in his hands, no doubt some scroll or parchment. Lord Pelleas’s patched robe hung loosely about his sparse frame, and his hose had been darned so many times with different threads that their original color was impossible to guess. White locks floated in sparse wisps about his long, narrow face as he looked up; he brushed at them impatiently with his free hand and smiled with a piercing sweetness. Elaine noticed that he had an ink blot on his nose.

  “Elly!” Lavaine called again, his face aglow beneath his cap of blazingly red curls. He caught her in a hard embrace and smiled down at her. When had he grown so tall?

  “Elaine! I think I’ve got it!” Lord Pelleas cried, brandishing a sheaf of parchments. “Damnedes
t thing—right under my nose the whole time, and I didn’t see it until last night, when—”

  “Did you catch a noble suitor?” Lavaine interrupted.

  Elaine sighed. “No, I did not.”

  “Fools,” Lavaine said loyally, “but never mind, I’m sure you will in time. Listen, can you—”

  “What does this look like to you?” Pelleas demanded, pointing out a word. “Because I think—by God, I really think I’m on to it at last. See here—”

  “Elaine!” Lavaine tugged at her elbow. “My jupon is torn. Can you mend it for me?”

  “Just a moment, Lavaine. Father, I must speak with you at once. Uncle Ulfric said—”

  She broke off as Sir John, the steward, made his way across the courtyard, leaning heavily upon his stick. “Sir John,” she called, “attend me if you would. Do you remember that we spoke of planting the north field before I left? Yet it seems to me that naught has been accomplished.”

  “True, lady,” Sir John said, “I did try—but, alas, since Martin Reeve has left us—”

  “God rest him,” Elaine said, signing herself with the cross, “but he has been dead these six weeks past. Surely it cannot be so great a matter to find another reeve!”

  “No, my lady,” Sir John said, “in the usual course of events—indeed, I did speak to the villeins, and Lord Pelleas has promised to consider the list of candidates I presented him.”

  Sir John smiled so proudly that Elaine did not have the heart to point out that this same promise had been made many times before. Indeed, on the eve of her departure, Father had solemnly assured her he would attend to the matter just as soon as he could find the time. Which, apparently, he had not managed to do in the month she had been gone.

  “Will there be anything more, my lady?”

  Elaine glanced at Torre, who held up his hands as if to say, not me! Not her father, either, who could scarce be bothered to eat a meal, let alone worry how it managed to arrive at table. And surely not Lavaine, still half a child with his head stuffed full of dreams of noble feats of arms.