by Gwen Rowley
Elaine turned to her serving woman. “You think it is him.”
Brisen nodded slowly. “I do.”
“But—but it makes no sense.”
“It doesn’t seem to, does it? And I’ll tell you this, lady: Whatever they may say of Sir Lancelot and Guinevere, I’ve never heard his name linked with any other woman’s. Not that they haven’t tried.”
She leaned her hip against the table’s edge and laughed. “Did you ever hear the story about him and the four queens? They found him sleeping by a hedgerow and said he must choose one of them as his paramour. When he refused, they put an enchantment on him and locked him in a dungeon until he changed his mind.”
Elaine dimly remembered hearing something of the sort, though she had not listened very closely to the tale. “How utterly ridiculous,” she said. After a moment’s silence she added, “Which one did he take?”
“None of them. A serving wench helped him to escape in exchange for a kiss.”
“Of course.” Elaine sniffed. “You don’t really believe such nonsense, do you?”
“’Tis true, lady,” Brisen said seriously. “Queen Morgause of Orkney told Lady Morgana all about it. ’Twas late one night when the wine was flowing—”
“Tipsy gossip,” Elaine said dismissively.
“Mayhap it was, but—” Brisen laughed, then put a hand to her mouth and glanced guiltily over her shoulder, adding in a lower voice, “Morgause was one of them. The four queens. She was still furious about it, too. And she isn’t the only woman Sir Lancelot has spurned. Scores of heiresses and princesses have tried to win him, but he’ll have none of them. Deadlier than the plague he is, what with all those maidens pining themselves into the grave for love of him.”
“’Tis hardly fair to blame him for that,” Elaine protested weakly as Brisen began the second braid. “If he did not love them—those heiresses and princesses . . .”
“True enough. But they say he is in love with a woman he cannot have, the wife of the man he admires above all others.” Brisen’s hands stilled. “If that is so, lady, what better way to throw the gossips off his trail than to feign devotion to another lady—even if she is the daughter of a poor country lord?”
“I don’t believe it,” Elaine said at once. “He isn’t like that.”
“What is he like?”
“He is . . .” Wonderful. Perfect. Every dream I’ve ever had come true. “He told me he had made mistakes—done things he regretted—but he is different now.”
“Oh, is he?” Brisen grasped her chin. “He kissed you.” She turned Elaine’s head aside and touched a spot upon her neck. “And more, besides. How much more?”
Elaine jerked away. “I am still a maid, if that is what you’re asking.”
“It is.” Brisen’s eyes softened. “You must think. I know it isn’t easy, not when you’re feeling all you do, but please, lady, please be careful. If he will not even give you his name, how can you trust him?”
Elaine stared blindly through the window, thinking how this must look to Brisen. She thought Elaine an innocent, easily seduced by a knight of Arthur’s court—the same knight who had wrought such damage to them all. But Brisen did not understand how it had been. She started to explain, then realized she had no idea what to say. That the knight had refused her his proper name, but it didn’t matter since he was not that man at all? That Galahad was real, and Sir Lancelot—or whoever he might be—was not? It sounded nonsensical, yet at the time she had been so certain it was true.
Even now, a part of her accepted this strange certainty without question, but another part—the part that spoke in Aunt Millicent’s voice—derided her as a credulous fool. He wounded your brother nearly to the death, it said, and mocked him after. He says he’s sorry now, but what good are words? If he really cared for you, he would tell you who he is. If he felt what you do for him, he would not have asked for your sleeve, but for your hand.
“Oh, lady,” Brisen said gently, “I’m not saying this to hurt you. And I could be mistaken. Mayhap he is some other knight. Or it may be as you say, that Sir Lancelot has changed and that there is nothing between him and the queen save idle gossip. It could well be that none of those other ladies suited him as you do.”
Elaine laughed through the tears stinging her eyes. Sir Lancelot du Lac, prince of Benwick, First Knight of Camelot and the Queen’s Champion—caught by her charms? It was a ridiculous thought, and yet . . . yet . . .”
“There was something between us—at least, there seemed to be . . .”
“I’m not saying there wasn’t. I just don’t want you to be caught in the middle of some squalid intrigue. And there is this—” She put her hand on Elaine’s shoulder. “Everyone knows Sir Lancelot never wears a lady’s favor in the lists. Yet he asked for yours.”
And how could Brisen have known that? Elaine could not remember having mentioned it. But there was her sleeve, still lying on the windowsill. It did not take the Sight to reason how it had come to be there.
“You think it is part of his disguise.”
“If that is the case, ’twas ill done not to tell you so straight out. And there is this: when his identity is known, such a break with custom will be noticed. I know how those people think; the entire court will talk of nothing else. Any other gossip will be forgotten . . . for a time.”
Elaine could hardly bring herself to speak. “Then—if you are right—it was a rather clever thing to do.”
“Clever, but not kind. Or honorable. Your reputation—”
Elaine laughed, dragging a sleeve across her eyes. “Oh, Brisen, what reputation? No one at Camelot knows me, no more than I know them! Why should I give a fig for what a pack of strangers say?”
“You shouldn’t,” Brisen said at once. “But I fear Sir Torre will see it differently.”
“He won’t even notice,” Elaine said, “and if he did, he would not care.”
“He notices more than you might think. And he cares a great deal more than he lets on.”
So do you, Elaine thought. Fond as she was of Brisen, she suspected it was more than the friendship between mistress and servant that kept the healer at Corbenic, when at any time Brisen could have returned to the luxury of Lady Morgana’s household. It was a pity that once Torre left his bed, he had apparently forgotten Brisen’s existence.
“What should I do?” Elaine asked her now.
“Change your gown, wash your face, and go down to supper. After that . . .” Brisen shrugged. “Wait and see.”
Chapter 13
LANCELOT remembered well the day of Torre’s knighting. The morning had started badly when the king once again refused him permission to leave court and go adventuring. Instead, Arthur sent him to the lists, thinking to appease him, but this only made matters worse. Lancelot, who once reveled in the excitement of the lists, had at some point—during his match with Sir Gawain, to be precise—developed an intense aversion to the pastime.
This was something he could never bring himself to tell the king, for he dreaded the inevitable explanations. One day, he had vowed a hundred times, one day I will speak to the king of this. Yet that day never seemed to come. On that morning, his courage failed him once again, and he went off, obedient as ever, to dash the dreams of any knight bold enough to issue him a challenge.
As always, there were many.
Lancelot understood. To a point, he sympathized. To unhorse du Lac was to achieve glory in a single stroke, a prospect too tempting to resist. They all knew victory was unlikely—impossible, they said, though of course the poor fools did not quite believe it. Torre had been the last that day, and by then Lancelot had been weary of the whole depressing business. That the boy went down so easily did nothing to improve his mood. He rode off, disgusted, not bothering to so much as glance at his fallen opponent. He did not remember making the comment that had so offended Elaine, but it was precisely what he had been thinking.
If only he’d told Arthur the truth that day, how different every
thing would be. Now, watching Torre limp down the passageway before him, Lancelot could not recall what excuse he’d used to justify his silence. It didn’t matter. ’Twas pride alone that had sent him out there to destroy this young knight’s dreams, the same pride that led him to deceive his king about the true nature of his First Knight.
Torre threw open the door of a small chamber and gestured Lancelot to enter. He followed and shut the door behind them.
“I think you came here looking for something more than a shield,” Torre said abruptly. “And as my father won’t think to ask what it might be, that duty falls to me.”
“Sir Torre,” Lancelot said with his most charming smile, “I assure you I had no designs in coming here. I was lost, and very fortunate to find you. Thank you again—”
“You are welcome to my shield; as I said, I have no use for it. But I wonder . . . why do you ride disguised, Sir Knight?”
“For my own reasons,” Lancelot answered, “and if you will forgive me for saying so, it would be ill done for a fellow knight to inquire any further.”
“Touché.” Torre limped over to the table and filled two cups from the flagon by the bed. “A Gaulish term, but I don’t have to tell you that.”
Torre was auburn-haired, thin to gauntness, and wore a cynical expression that made him appear far older than his years. When he handed Lancelot the cup, their eyes met, and Lancelot realized that Torre had no need to hear his name. He had already guessed it.
“So long as your reasons touch only yourself and your own honor, you are quite right,” Torre went on, swirling the liquid in his own cup. “But when you involve others in your deception—”
“Deception is a strong word,” Lancelot retorted evenly. “It is not uncommon for a knight to ride unknown into a tournament.”
“But we are not in the lists now, are we? We are in my home, where you were stealing kisses from my sister not an hour past.”
Poor lad, Lancelot thought, even as he gripped his cup until his knuckles whitened. He has every cause to dislike me. “I did not steal anything from Lady Elaine,” he replied, careful to keep the anger from his voice. “Though I admit I gladly accepted a kiss.”
Torre snorted. “You’d be hard put to deny it. But my sister is no court drab to squander her kisses upon a chance-come stranger. It is ill done for a knight to take advantage of a maiden’s innocence.”
Insolent young pup. How dare he mimic Lancelot’s own words to his face? “Sir Torre,” Lancelot said, grasping at the fraying edges of his temper, “I assure you I have nothing but the deepest respect for Lady Elaine.”
Torre eyed him narrowly, seeming not at all comforted by this reassurance. “You say you are a knight of Camelot. Tonight all the king’s companions will be with him on the eve of his great tournament—all save one, who, for reasons he will not give, wanders nameless in the forest. Tell me, if you had a sister, would you trust such a man with her good name?”
“Perhaps I, too, would have my doubts,” Lancelot said, “though I hope I would have the courtesy to learn the facts before passing judgment.”
“The fact is that you and Elly were alone for the best part of the afternoon. The fact is that you were kissing her just now. These are the only facts that interest me, and I warn you, sir, think twice before attempting such a breach of hospitality again.”
Or what? Lancelot thought. Will you challenge me? From the way Torre’s eyes flashed, he realized the same thought was in the young man’s mind. My God, he’d really do it, Lancelot thought; lamed as he is, knowing who I am, he’d still offer me a challenge. Would I have such courage in his place?
But that was not a question he wished to pursue at this particular moment. “While your concern does you credit, ’tis a bit misplaced,” he said. “If you really care for your sister, then take the management of your estate from her hands. She is all too young for such a burden, and too proud to ask for help. Yet she needs it.”
Torre’s fair skin flushed. “I fail to see what concern this is of yours.”
Very much my concern, Lancelot thought, as it is I who brought you all to this sorry pass. But even if he were free to explain and make amends, he doubted this beaten, bitter young man would accept either his help or his apology.
“None,” he said heavily. “Forgive me.”
Torre nodded briefly. “We shall eat in a quarter of an hour.” He tossed back his wine and made his halting way across the floor, pausing at the doorway to look back. “We are somewhat secluded, but not ignorant of the doings in Camelot. My sister is too fine for the games you play at court. Mind that you remember that, Sir Knight-Without-a-Name. Whatever trouble you are in, Elaine is not the answer.”
Lancelot was still searching for a suitable rejoinder when Torre stepped out and shut the door. The reason it continued to elude him, he realized, was that there wasn’t one.
He walked to the window and gazed out across the fields to the forest, silhouetted against the sky as the sun sank behind the trees. When it rose, he would ride off to the king’s tournament. And when it set again, where would he be?
He shivered and turned away from the bloodred sky, his gaze moving over the small chamber that would be his tonight. The bedclothes were patched and mended, the bowl and pitcher of the meanest pottery. Instead of a candle, a rushlight had been placed beside his bed. It seemed that everywhere he looked, he was faced with a fresh reminder of the poverty of the inhabitants.
I should marry Elaine, he thought, and set this all to rights. That is the least I can do. He passed a few moments imagining this chamber transformed, but when he pictured Elaine, lying on the bed with her bright hair spread across the pillow, he forgot his noble motives. Yes, I will marry her, I’ll do it. How perfect it will be . . . that is, if she will have me.
He remembered her scornful words regarding Sir Lancelot, each one of them deserved. But I am different now, he thought. Or am I? Today he was, but tomorrow he would be du Lac again, up to his neck in trouble with no good end in sight. The best he could manage was to stay the tide by a clever deception suggested by the queen.
Deception. Strange how that word kept cropping up. Or perhaps it was not so strange at that. His entire life was a deception, after all, a glittering edifice built upon a lie. At any moment the whole thing could come crashing down. How could he even think of dragging any lady, let alone Elaine, into such a mire? But now that he had found her, how could he bear to live a life without her in it?
She had a dimple—a single dimple on the left side of her mouth that lent her smile a singular, lopsided charm. And a way of tilting her head, just so, when something puzzled her. He had puzzled her greatly, and while a bit of mystery was said to be no bad thing in love, he did not wish to puzzle her at all. He wanted to tell her everything about himself, beginning with his first memory and going on until he reached the moment she smiled at him in the courtyard of Corbenic and he had experienced that impossible feeling of recognition.
They had not met before. He could never have forgotten her if they had. It was only now, looking at the covered shield propped in a corner, that he caught the memory he’d searched for earlier. He walked over and pulled off the canvas cover, a small sigh escaping him as he regarded his shield.
A ridiculous device, he’d often thought it. Not liking to claim the arms of Benwick while it was still occupied, he’d designed his own. He’d sketched it in a fit of melancholy, a knight (argent) kneeling before a lady (or) upon a field of gules. Though at the time he’d been morbidly pleased with the result, he’d come to hate it since.
Now he touched the cool surface, thinking that there was something of Elaine in the proud carriage of the painted head. He wondered what she would say if he told her it had been painted in her likeness, years ago when he had given up all hope of ever finding its model in the flesh. She would laugh at him, no doubt, but he thought she would be pleased. He imagined her blushing, not knowing where to look—
He drew the cover on again. When woul
d he tell her? Not tonight. Tomorrow, then, after the tournament was done and he’d made peace with Arthur? Again, that strange feeling pricked his neck, but he shrugged it off, instead imagining himself returning here and sweeping Elaine off to Camelot. Why should he not? They could be happy—they would be happy. He would love her so much that surely she must love him in return, even when she knew everything. And he could change. Elaine was so brave, so strong. She could make of him a different man, a better one; he was certain of it.
Whatever trouble you are in, Elaine is not the answer.
“Touché, indeed,” he murmured, lifting his cup to the door through which Torre had just passed. Torre might be a rude young lout, but he was no fool. Elaine deserved better. If he really loved her, he would stay well away from Corbenic in future. Torre might be too proud to accept help, but he should have it nonetheless; it could be done through young Lavaine with no one the wiser. Then Elaine could have a proper dowry and wed some respectable knight.
Lancelot’s hands were trembling as he drained his cup, refilled it, and emptied it again, wondering if there was enough left in the flagon so he might drink himself insensible.
But that would hardly be playing the game, though why he should suddenly care about playing the damned game was beyond him. Still, for tonight, at least, he would watch how much he drank, lest he lose control and find himself kneeling at the damsel’s feet, her hand in his as he begged her to become his wife. And a neat trick that would be, to pledge his troth to a lady without once mentioning his name.
He drew a shaking breath and passed a hand across his eyes. How strange to think that he had spent so many years longing for a name, and now he wanted only to be rid of it. Life was so interesting that way, he reflected, emptying the mug again, each day filled with such surprising twists and turns.
Today had certainly brought its share. He had woken in his own bed at Camelot, anticipating a pleasant if uneventful journey, and instead he’d been from hell to heaven and back again. Not bad for a day’s work.
