Lancelot

by Gwen Rowley

  Torre was not so easily won over. “A fair large diamond is for queens, not simple maids,” he said, both his tone and his expression conveying an unmistakable warning.

  “If what is fair belongs only to the fair, what matter if she be queen or not?” the knight retorted coolly. “This maid could wear as fair a jewel as is on earth and never violate the bond of like to like.”

  Ha! Elaine thought, shooting a triumphant glance toward her brother. He’s put you in your place! She nearly laughed aloud—until the knight removed his helm.

  Coal-black hair was plastered to his high brow and heat-flushed cheeks in little whorls. His features were perfectly symmetrical: large, dark eyes and high, chiseled cheekbones, full, ruddy lips above a jaw at once delicate and strong. No man should be so beautiful, Elaine thought, the breath catching in her throat. No man was. On that she would have sworn an oath. Yet here he stood before her, like some mythical creature who had wandered out of legend into their humdrum little world.

  Her last suspicion vanished. Impossible to believe a man so young and fair—for he could not be more than three or four and twenty—and so well-spoken could be anything other than he claimed to be.

  “A pretty speech, Sir Knight,” Torre said, and by the amusement in his voice she knew he had reached the same conclusion, “but wasted, I fear, upon my sister. Just as that fair diamond would be wasted upon her. Knowing you, Elaine, you would drop it—likely in some drainage ditch—and never even notice.”

  There was laughter at that, and Elaine glanced to the knight, meaning to make some light answer. But when their eyes met, a curious stillness fell over the courtyard, and she forgot the words she meant to speak. In the timeless space between one heartbeat and the next, the world as she had known it shifted, then realigned into a pattern that included this young knight, not a stranger any longer but an essential part of her existence. Yes, she cried silently, yes, at last—where have you been?

  She blinked, and the impression vanished. The world was as it had been, though perhaps a bit more dreary, for the knight was a stranger once again.

  “Kind words are never wasted, Torre,” she said, and if she was a little breathless, she doubted anyone would notice. “Lavaine, our guest has no squire to attend him; be so kind as help him from his armor and see to the stabling of his horse.”

  “Yes, of course,” Lavaine said, “this way, sir.”

  The knight smiled at her and bowed slightly before following Lavaine toward the stables.

  “Elaine!”

  She jumped as a hand touched her shoulder.

  Torre shook his head, half laughing. “That’s the third time I called you.”

  “Is it? I was just thinking . . .” What? She hardly knew, save that it was nothing she wanted to share with her brother.

  “We don’t know who he is or anything about him. Tomorrow he will be gone.”

  “Yes. Of course.” Elaine gave herself a little shake. “Where did Father go?”

  Torre shrugged. “Back to his studies. Or to the hall—he’s been talking about a hidden stairway.”

  Elaine groaned and slipped the chain from round her neck. “Here, Torre, take this to the village. Alric of Bedford has a ram for sale. If you can wangle a few ewes out of him, as well, so much the better.”

  Torre let the links slide through his fingers. “Nice. Where did you get it?”

  “I nicked if off Aunt Millicent.” Elaine laughed at his expression. “It was a gift, you dolt.”

  She thought she’d handled that rather neatly. Given what she’d learned of her brother earlier, she suspected he might not be so willing to sell the chain if he knew whose gift it was.

  She shook her head, sighing. Love was all well and good, but if next winter was anything like the last, any man of sense would rather have the sheep.

  Chapter 6

  ELAINE found her father lingering in the passageway leading to his chamber, standing stock-still and staring into space.

  “Father,” she said, “a moment, if you will. Uncle Ulfric is full wroth with us.”

  “Ulfric?” Pelleas blinked as though coming out of a deep sleep. “That is ill news. Have I offended him in some wise?”

  “He says our serfs have been poaching on his estate. I did tell you last winter that they were taking deer from the forest, and—”

  “Did you? Well, a hind or two is no great matter, and ’twas a cruel, hard winter. Still, if they’ve strayed onto Ulfric’s lands, I’d best have a word with the reeve.”

  “Martin Reeve is dead,” Elaine said. “Don’t you remember?”

  “Ah, yes, so he is. God rest him.” Pelleas signed himself with the cross. “Yes, that’s right, I’d meant to . . . but it is so difficult, you know, to find the time . . .”

  “Never mind that now, Father. The point is that Uncle Ulfric hanged Bran Fletcher.”

  “Bran Fletcher? Hanged?” Pelleas drew himself up, his eyes flashing. “Ulfric laid hands upon my fletcher without consulting me?”

  “He says he did consult you,” Elaine admitted. “He says he sent you two messages, but they were not answered.”

  “Ah.” Pelleas’s shoulders fell. “Yes, well, perhaps he did. With you gone, Elaine, I’m afraid I got rather in a muddle. I was hoping you’d straighten it all out . . .” He gazed down at the stone beneath his feet. “Bran Fletcher. I knew his father—aye, and his grandsire, too. Ulfric should not have hanged the man. He could have come to me himself, not sent some message that he knew I hadn’t time to read.”

  “You are right. And now he has—”

  “I know we never got on, Ulfric and I, but still, ’twas ill done to treat a kinsman so. You’d think that for your mother’s sake, he would have come to me himself. He loved her well, you know, but she chose me. He had to make do with Millicent, instead.”

  He laughed, and the pride in his face was as fresh as though he’d won his lady only yesterday. “Ulfric was at the wedding feast,” he went on, “and your mother made us join hands and swear friendship. But I don’t suppose he ever quite forgave me. Millicent is nothing like your mother, God assoil her sweet soul . . .” His smile faded, and tears filled his eyes. “What must I do, Elaine? Shall I challenge him?”

  Elaine’s throat tightened. “No, Father,” she said gently, “I’m sure he meant not to offend you. Belike when you did not reply, he only did what he believed you wanted.”

  “I would not have wanted the man hanged. Not Bran Fletcher.”

  “I know.” Elaine wiped his cheeks with her sleeve. “’Tis a shame, but such things happen. We’ll have Masses said for him.”

  Pelleas smiled tremulously. “Aye, let’s do that.”

  “With your leave, Father, I will appoint a reeve today, and then we’ll have no more of this poaching.”

  Pelleas laid a hand upon her shoulder. “As you will, Elaine. You must do as you think best. ’Tis a pity Torre does not take an interest . . . Poor Torre, he was such a likely lad . . . Do you remember when he won the squire’s tournament at Alston Manor? Even Ulfric said that he seemed destined for great things.”

  “Aye, Father, I remember.”

  “He was a goodly knight, was he not, the man who overthrew our Torre?”

  “The best,” Elaine assured him.

  “Sir Lancelot . . . His father was King Ban of Benwick,” Pelleas said suddenly. “Do y’know, I was thinking of Ban just now, though it has been years since I remembered him. He was but a passing knight himself, though nicely spoken. We spent some months together when we were young. His wits were astray,” he added confidentially, tapping his brow. “Not then, but later in life I heard he went quite mad. A terrible thing it was. Benwick taken, the castle burning, Ban falling dead upon the ground—and the infant stolen away by some witch who claimed to live in a . . . what was it, now? A lake? Aye, du Lac, he calls himself, Lancelot of the Lake. Should be Lancelot of Benwick, of course, but he’s just du Lac. Poor lad,” he said, shaking his head sadly. “’Tis a great pity,
Elaine, when a king loses his wits.”

  “Aye, Father,” Elaine murmured. “A great pity indeed.”

  Chapter 7

  BY the time Lancelot was free of his armor, he knew that Lavaine had been knighted less than a month ago, that his armor was nowhere near as fine as Lancelot’s, that his brindle bitch had whelped the week before, and he hoped to sell the pups at market fair. That is, if he was still at Corbenic, though what he really hoped was that King Arthur might notice him at the tournament and offer him a place at Camelot.

  “I’ll introduce you,” Lancelot offered, dragging his tunic over his head. When he emerged he found Lavaine staring at him, eyes round and mouth agape. Was I ever that young? Lancelot wondered, and knew he must have been, though it seemed so long ago that he could not remember how it felt.

  He listened to Lavaine’s thanks with half an ear as he untied the points of his hose and stripped off his sweat-stained shirt. “Do you think I could have a wash?” he asked mildly, the moment he could slide a word in edgewise.

  “Water!” Lavaine clapped a hand to his brow. “I forgot! Wait, don’t move, I’ll fetch it now!”

  When he was gone, Lancelot sank down on a stool and removed his boots and hose. Beyond the open window, sunlight lay upon the cobbled courtyard where a flock of chickens clucked contentedly while the rooster preened atop an upended barrow, eyeing his paramours with lordly satisfaction. Lancelot leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes, enjoying the sensation of cool air on his skin, the cooing of the birds, and the rhythmic champing of the horses in the stable.

  He was lucky to have happened on this place and the kindly family dwelling here. His spirits lifted, and all at once he was sorry for his anger earlier. What Guinevere had done was wrong, of course, very wrong indeed, but surely there had been no need to shout at her. He rubbed the space between his eyes as though he could erase the memory of her tears.

  Well, he would make it up to her. How exactly he would do it he did not know—and then he had it. Guinevere loved jewels. He would give her the diamond. Better yet, he would give Arthur the diamond, who would of course present it to his queen, who would understand it was a gift from both of them.

  That Lancelot would win the diamond was something he did not stop to question. Only once had he ever entertained the slightest doubt of victory, and that for but a fleeting moment during his match with Sir Gawain. But of course Lancelot prevailed. Just as he always did. Just as he would tomorrow.

  When he rode to the pavilion and removed his helm, Arthur would burst into laughter. If it sprang as much from relief as genuine amusement . . . well, that would just be one more thing they did not speak of. Later, at the feast, Lancelot would grumble about the trouble he’d been put to in order to defend his reputation, and Arthur would apologize for having cast doubt upon Lancelot’s abilities in the first place. Then Lancelot would tell him how he and Guinevere had planned the jest, and how he had foolishly ridden out with his own shield.

  He would make a tale of it, exaggerating his fear at being lost in the forest and his relief at having found this place, being sure to mention the beauty of the daughter of the house. That, at least, would be nothing but the truth, for she was a very pretty damsel, with her slender neck, pale gold hair, and blue, blue eyes. Extraordinary eyes—when he’d looked into them before, he’d had the oddest feeling, as though they had already met, though he could not remember where or when. He made a mental note to learn her name so he might present it to his king, who took a lively interest in all his subjects.

  “Your water, sir.”

  Lancelot opened his eyes to find Lavaine before him, his face vivid with excitement.

  “Thank you, Lavaine,” Lancelot said. He poured half the pitcher over his head, rinsing the sweat and dust from his hair, and dipped a linen strip to wash his body.

  It was a perfect plan. There was no possible excuse for his strange uneasiness, as though he had missed some vital flaw. Today would pass quickly enough. He would wash and dress and eat, make himself agreeable to his eccentric host until he could excuse himself and go to bed. Tomorrow he would leave early; with Lavaine along he should reach the tourney field in good time . . . and still something was amiss; he was more convinced of it than ever, though he could not imagine what that thing might be.

  “Tell me,” he said to Lavaine, who stood watching him expectantly, “have you had much experience in jousting?”

  Lavaine chatted on until Lancelot was dressed and combed and standing by his bag, folding and refolding the tunic he had taken off, his mind worrying at his plan as he tried to identify the flaw he was now certain he had missed.

  “. . . but if you are too tired, I understand.”

  “Too tired?” Lancelot tried to remember what the boy had been going on about, but it was all a blank. “No, I shouldn’t think so.”

  “Oh, thank you, sir! I’ll have them saddle your horse—it won’t take a moment—and I’ll get my lance.”

  As it seemed unlikely he’d been challenged, Lancelot assumed he had just agreed to put this young knight through his paces. Why not? he thought, tossing the crumpled tunic into his bag. This boy did not know him, but tomorrow he and his family would learn that the stranger they had taken in was no other than Sir Lancelot du Lac, the sort of story that would be handed down for generations. It was like one of the old tales—the hero disguised seeking shelter with some humble family whose generosity would be rewarded a hundredfold.

  As it would be. Lancelot would send them something after, a gift astounding in its magnificence. It seemed very important that he do so, though he wasn’t sure why he should care so much how some obscure country family might remember him. Countless tales were told of him already, and there would be many more . . .

  He whirled, staring at the empty room. Strange. For a moment he’d been sure someone stood behind him. He’d had the oddest feeling, as though an icy finger had been laid, very gently, on his neck.

  Chapter 8

  THE sun stood straight overhead as Elaine looped her mare’s reins over a low-hanging branch at the edge of the north field. A group of villagers, fewer than she’d hoped for, stood together in a knot, the grays and browns of their ragged clothing almost indistinguishable against the muddy earth.

  Fresh from her uncle’s manor, Elaine was struck anew by their air of poverty. It was an old jest that lasses looked their best at winter’s end, when short rations restored the curves of cheek and waist and breast. But these people had gone far beyond a little hunger, and none of them looked as though they remembered how to jest. Gaunt and hollow-cheeked, they regarded her impassively. Even the children crouched unmoving, all stick-thin arms and legs and enormous, empty eyes.

  A tall, light-haired man stepped forward and cleared his throat. Elaine addressed herself to him.

  “What’s ado?” she asked. “Where are the others? Half the day has already been wasted, and I wanted to speak to them about the new reeve.”

  “Oh, thass all settled,” the man replied, “I’ll be taking over for Martin.”

  “And who are you?” Elaine asked.

  “Will. Will Reeve. The matter was decided yestere’en.”

  Decided, was it? Without so much as consulting her father or Sir John? True, the reeve was traditionally chosen by the villeins, and though the lord had the final say in the matter, his approval was usually a mere courtesy. But in most cases, the villeins knew quite well what their lord expected in a reeve, and were careful to choose a man who would be acceptable. As this man might be, she reminded herself. There was no good in alienating him just because she did not like his manners.

  “I shall speak to Lord Pelleas about this,” she said firmly but not, she thought, unpleasantly. “In the meantime, let us see what you can do about getting this field planted.”

  Will Reeve did not return her smile. “Now, lady, there’s no need for you to muck up your shoes out here. I’ll see to the planting in good time.”

  “When will tha
t be?” Elaine asked, glancing at a group of latecomers wending their way toward them across the field.

  “In good time,” he repeated with infuriating stolidness. “Thass naught for you to be vexed about.”

  “Yet I am becoming vexed, for I have said I want it done today. Is there some problem, Master Will?”

  “Aye, lady, there is. ’Tis my decision when to plough and when to plant, and I say wait. If Lord Pelleas has aught to complain about, let him send for me himself.”

  Elaine was speechless at this effrontery, but only for a moment. “I have my father’s full authority in this matter, so you can consider any order from me as issuing from him. Now, let us be clear, Master Will. Tomorrow at sunset, you will present yourself in the hall with a report on the progress of this field. I expect no less than two acres under plough.”

  He slouched back on his heels, thumbs hooked into his belt. “Can’t be done.”

  “Can’t—? I beg your pardon, for a moment I thought you said it can’t be done. But of course I was mistaken.”

  “Nay, you heard me right enough. Now look here,” he went on, “we’ve other things to see to before we get to this.”

  “Other things?”

  “Thass right.”

  “And what might these things be?” When he did not answer, she felt an angry flush rise to her cheeks. “Explain yourself.”

  “We’ll get to this field once we’ve finished with our own. Bran Fletcher wasn’t the only one went hungry this past winter.”

  An angry murmur rose from the crowd behind him, which had grown to twice its original number.

  “It was a hard winter,” Elaine said, just as she had said this morning. She wondered why she had to keep reminding people of this simple fact, and why no one seemed to hear her when she did. Will Reeve was no more impressed than Uncle Ulfric had been.

  “For some,” he said, “’specially when the grain store ran out and we had naught to fall back on.”