Lancelot

by Gwen Rowley

  “Not beautiful enough,” she whispered, and then she laid her cheek upon his shoulder and wept as though her heart would break.

  Lancelot patted her back, wishing he could find the words to ease her sorrow, knowing they did not exist. For she was right. Much as he enjoyed seeing Elaine robed richly and hung with jewels, such trappings had naught to do with love. That was in her scent, her smile, the way his heart lifted when their eyes met. It mattered not if she was garbed in velvet or clad in a muddy shift with her hair straggling damply down her back. He wanted her. He could not help but want her—not just her body in his bed, but she, herself—no more than he could choose to want another in her place. It was as simple—as inexplicable—as that.

  His attention was caught by a sound, muffled by the distance, coming from the courtyard below. Looking down, he saw that the small crowd had dispersed, all save one who lingered. Sir Agravaine stood looking upward, his small eyes stretched wide and his mouth agape, one hand extended toward the open casement.

  It was then Lancelot saw the second man, halted by Agravaine’s cry on the edge of the courtyard. He turned back, his gaze following Agravaine’s pointing finger, his eyes meeting Lancelot’s over Guinevere’s bent head. Before Lancelot could move or even think, the king turned away abruptly and strode off toward the mews, the falcon baiting furiously upon his wrist and Agravaine hurrying in his wake.

  Chapter 37

  “IT was nothing,” Lancelot said.

  He knelt before Elaine, her hands in his. He knew he was holding her too tightly. Her wrists were so slender, the bones too fragile to bear his fevered clasp. But the moment he eased his grip, she tried to pull away.

  “The queen was upset—distraught,” he went on quickly, “I comforted her. Whatever you may have heard, it was no more than that, Elaine, I swear it.”

  “Why was she upset?” Elaine asked. “Was it because I lured you to my bed with love potions and pretended to be her so you would lie with me?”

  “What?”

  “Oh, come, Lancelot, don’t tell me you haven’t heard! Everyone else has, after all! How I tricked you and lied to you and—”

  Lancelot sank back on his heels. “No,” he whispered hoarsely.

  “—how distraught the queen was to hear of your infidelity. But they say she forgave you when she learned how basely you had been deceived.”

  He could only gaze up at her blankly. The sunlight falling through the window behind her made a halo of her hair, so bright it almost hurt to look on it; her face was shadowy and indistinct. “It isn’t true,” he said at last.

  “I know it isn’t true,” Elaine said, and each word was a sliver of ice that sliced into his skull. “I was there, remember? But how did such a story come to be?”

  “I do not know,” Lancelot said, bewildered. He blinked hard and put a hand to his brow, rubbing the throbbing space between his eyes.

  “Are you sure you did not start it?”

  He flinched as though she had struck him. “You do not think that of me; you cannot!”

  She pulled her hands from his. “Why was the queen so distraught?” she demanded.

  Lancelot shook his head blindly. “I cannot say. But Elaine, it had naught to do with you. Or me. She is . . . unhappy.”

  “That much I’ve already gathered.” She stood abruptly. “I have had my fill of Camelot. I’m going home.”

  “Elaine, I love you,” he said desperately, “there is no other.”

  The look she turned on him was chillingly familiar. Just so had Arthur looked at him that day in the queen’s chamber so long ago and again, today, from the courtyard below Guinevere’s window. Liar, that look said. Oath-breaker.

  But he was innocent! He had done nothing wrong, betrayed no vow. Yet Arthur believed he had. Arthur had been hurt, and he, Lancelot, was responsible. Was that not in itself betrayal? He did not know, he did not understand how this had come about or what it meant. He only knew he could not bear that Elaine should look at him like that. He seized her wrists and rested his throbbing brow against her hands. “Elaine,” he whispered, “please. Please take me with you.”

  The stone was hard against his knees, her hands cold and stiff in his. How could he bear it if she, too, rejected him? How could he survive all the endless, empty years alone?

  “Very well,” she said at last. “If you are certain . . .”

  The relief was so shattering that he could barely speak. “Yes,” he managed, “yes, I’ve never been more sure of anything. We can go today, as soon as the king gives me leave.”

  “Somehow I don’t think that will be a problem.”

  “I will go to him now,” he said, staggering a little as he rose to his feet.

  “Are you all right?” she asked. “You are so pale . . .”

  “It’s just my head—it aches sometimes, but it will pass—” He turned toward the door and nearly lost his footing, catching himself upon the bedpost.

  “Lie down,” she ordered, “you aren’t well.”

  “No, I must see Arthur.”

  “I will come with you.”

  “Yes.” He grasped her hand. “We must tell him . . . tell him . . .”

  “That you wish to retire from court,” Elaine finished. “But you cannot tell him anything in this state. Come, rest for a bit—”

  “No, we must go now.”

  Elaine’s anger began to fade when he straightened, his face set as he walked with her to the doorway. The news of him and Guinevere, discovered by the king while locked in a passionate embrace, had not been long in finding her. Half a dozen ladies had hastened to her chamber with the tale, no doubt hoping to see her weep so they might have something new to embellish the story. She had not given them that satisfaction, though the past hour had been very hard to bear.

  Now she wondered if the story had been quite accurate. Perhaps Lancelot was telling her the truth, and he had merely comforted the queen in her distress. As to why Guinevere had been distressed, that was another matter altogether. Elaine needed no court gossip to enlighten her to Guinevere’s feelings about her own arrival—and Galahad’s.

  Wherever the truth lay, Lancelot would be better off away from Guinevere. They would speak of this when they reached Corbenic and Elaine would have the truth at last. Only then could they hope to regain the happiness they had shared.

  A page led them through the corridor and up half a dozen steps to Arthur’s chamber, a long, low apartment that overlooked the rose garden where Elaine had waited with Gawain. Arthur looked as though he had aged a decade since they’d sat together at supper. He greeted them coolly, and when Lancelot haltingly requested permission to leave court, he merely nodded.

  “Thank you, my lord,” Lancelot said, perfectly correct, but just as Elaine breathed a sigh of relief, he added, “Arthur, I am sorry—”

  “Lady Elaine,” the king cut in, “good fortune to you.”

  “And to you, sire,” Elaine said. She tugged at Lancelot’s arm, but he did not move.

  “Arthur,” he said again, his voice ragged. “Will you not wish me good fortune, too?”

  “Don’t,” Elaine said under her breath, “not now.”

  “You don’t—you can’t believe—” Lancelot faltered. “Arthur, you know me—”

  “I thought I did,” the king said. “You have asked my leave to retire, and it is given. There is nothing more to say.”

  “Nothing—?” Lancelot was deadly pale; his voice shook as he threw off Elaine’s restraining hand and started forward. “But you cannot do this, just order me away without even—”

  “It is you who asked to go,” Arthur began reasonably enough, then his composure snapped, and he half rose in his seat. “Now go! Get out! Save your excuses and your lies; I don’t want to hear them!”

  “I never lied to you.”

  Arthur made a low sound of disgust and dropped back into his chair.

  “Lancelot, we must go,” Elaine said pleadingly. “The king has dismissed us, we must�
�”

  “I never lied to you,” Lancelot said again, his voice shaking. “I have been true to my oath.”

  Arthur looked at him for a long moment; then at last the cold fury in his expression dissolved. “Lance—”

  The door flew open, and the queen strode into the chamber. “Arthur, I—” She halted, one hand going to her throat. “Why, Lance, what do you here—and Lady Elaine—”

  “Sir Lancelot and his lady are leaving us, Guinevere,” the king said. “They are retiring to Corbenic. Wish them well, my lady, as I do.”

  “Leaving?” Guinevere stared, bewildered, from Arthur to Lancelot. “No, that isn’t—Lance, you’re not really leaving, are you?”

  “Yes, madam,” he said, and though a moment before Elaine could not drag him from the room, now he seemed quite eager to begone. “If you will excuse us . . .”

  “But you cannot go!”

  Elaine wished herself anywhere but where she was. What would the king say? What could he say? She prayed that Arthur would silence his wife before she could humiliate them further.

  But Arthur did not silence her. He merely sat back, fixed her with that penetrating gaze, and asked in a voice all the more commanding for its softness, “Why not?”

  “Why—?” The queen, as though realizing she had said too much, flushed brilliantly. “Why, because tomorrow King Bagdemagus is coming with his dreadful son. I was counting on Lance to joust against him! You promised, Lance, don’t you remember?”

  “Did I?” Lancelot rubbed the space above his brows, his pallor deepening. “Madam, I beg to be excused. Sir Gawain can take my place.”

  “I don’t want Gawain to take your place,” Guinevere said, sounding so like a spoiled child that Elaine longed to slap her. “I want you to do it. You gave me your word.”

  “That is enough,” Arthur said. “Sir Lancelot, you are dismissed.”

  “You have no right to do that!” Guinevere cried. “He is mine to command, my champion, and I order him to stay and do his duty.”

  “What duty is that, Guinevere?” Arthur asked, his mild eyes kindling with anger. “The duty I observed him performing earlier, through the window of your chamber?”

  Guinevere lifted her chin and flashed Arthur a scornful glance. “Lance is my friend. He listens to me—he cares if I am unhappy—”

  “What cause have you to be unhappy?” Arthur demanded.

  “Do you think I do not know what people say? What you are thinking? A barren queen is no good to anyone.”

  Arthur’s knuckles whitened on the arms of his chair. “Have I ever—ever—reproached you?”

  “Not in words, but . . .” Tears trembled on Guinevere’s lashes, but they did not fall. Something about the set of her mouth, the tilt of her head, reminded Elaine suddenly of someone else, though the impression fled before she could quite catch it.

  “I know what I am, my lord,” the queen said, “a royal broodmare who has failed in her duty to the realm. But would you grudge me even the comfort of a friend?”

  “That would depend,” Arthur said, “upon the form this comfort takes. ’Tis true I have hoped for an heir, but the last thing Britain needs is a prince whose paternity is open to question. Judging by what I witnessed earlier, this salient fact seems to have escaped you, but—”

  “How dare you?” Guinevere cried. “That is a filthy thing to say!”

  “And if you think I am the first to say it, you are a fool as well as—”

  “Stop.”

  Lancelot, who had been staring at the floor, raised his head. “Arthur—Guinevere.” He looked from one to the other, his expression pleading. “I—I do not know what you want of me. What am I to do?”

  “Go,” the king ordered.

  “Stay,” the queen commanded.

  Once Lancelot began to laugh, he could not stop. He had been here before. They all had. Time had twisted back upon itself, the past become the present. Whey did they stare at him so strangely? Did they not see the jest?

  His head was pounding, but he steeled himself against the pain, for he must find the words to make things right. Arthur was so angry, and Guinevere—damn her, why did she not speak? But it was wrong to blame her when the fault was King Ban’s, poor mad King Ban who had betrayed his closest friend . . . Hadn’t Arthur once said something about the sins of the father being visited upon the son?

  “Come with me,” Elaine said gently, taking his arm.

  Lancelot shook his head. He could not go with her; he had promised to fight disguised in the king’s tournament, but how could he when Sir Torre had taken back his shield?

  Or no, he thought, wincing as fresh pain stabbed his temples, surely that had happened long ago, in the days when the Lady of the Lake had cast him from her service. Now he was her creature once again. But that was as it should be, for only thus could he serve King Arthur as the Lady had intended. Arthur needed him exactly as he was, and he would not betray his liege lord and friend. So long as he was true to Arthur, all would be well.

  Why was everyone so quiet? he wondered suddenly. The king and queen stared at him, unmoving, frozen like figures in a tapestry. Perhaps that’s all they were, three characters in a song sung in Avalon by the Lady’s harper . . . what had been his name? If only he could remember . . .

  “Thomas,” he said aloud. “The harper’s name was Thomas!”

  “Come,” a voice said at his side, “Lancelot, come away; you need to rest.”

  It was Elaine, his own Elaine, looking up at him with those astonishingly blue eyes. What was she doing here? Why did she look so frightened as she clutched his arm? Something was wrong, but he could not remember what it was. If only this pain in his head would stop so he could think . . .

  Something was wrong, so wrong that Elaine could not think what she should do. She could only stare in terror at Lancelot’s ashen face, his feverish-bright eyes, the echo of his wild laughter still ringing in her ears.

  “Come with me,” she said again, her voice only a whisper.

  “My love, I am so sorry,” he said. “I should have sent you away, but I could not bring myself to do it. I have sworn oaths—so many oaths, they choke me so I cannot breathe. The Lady said—” He laid his palm flat upon his brow. “Forsworn—I cannot bear it, not again. My lord, please, will you not help me?”

  “What is it, Lance?” Arthur said uneasily. “Are you in pain?”

  “’Tis just this space; here, between my eyes, where once my soul dwelt. Did you know, Arthur? Did you ever guess I’d lost it? I’ve often thought you must and kept silent out of pity.”

  “Send for your woman, the healer,” Arthur said to Elaine, but she could not force herself to move. Turning to Lancelot, he added gently, “No, I never guessed.”

  “It had to be,” Lancelot assured him, nodding. “It is my destiny, the Lady said so in the barn. We couldn’t bring the hay in—though it wasn’t I who killed the spider, whatever Will Reeve might think. But it’s all right, Arthur, you mustn’t mind about me—I don’t, not anymore, save just before a battle. To watch them all ride out, never knowing what will happen—have you any idea, my lord, how brave your knights are?”

  “Yes,” Arthur murmured as he took Lancelot’s free arm, “my knights are brave men all. Sit down, Lance.”

  “Take Sir Gawain,” Lancelot went on as though the king had not spoken, “a goodly knight, but not, alas, impervious to theft.” He drew himself up haughtily. “What, you doubt my word? I assure you, sire, I speak as one who knows.”

  Elaine and Arthur exchanged frightened glances. This was not fever; Lancelot’s skin was cool and dry, though when he looked at Elaine, he did not seem to see her.

  “Lancelot,” she said, putting her hands to his cheeks. “Look at me, my love, do you not know me?”

  His eyes sharpened, and he seized her wrists so hard that she cried out in surprise. “Elaine, what do you here? Why are you not in Corbenic? Get you gone, it is not safe to be near me.”

  “I am not afra
id,” Elaine said.

  “You should be. Oh, love, if you only knew where I have been! The stars sing terrible songs too beautiful to bear, and the stones walk in the moonlight. But it is not for you, can you not see that?”

  Guinevere’s eyes were wide. “He is mad,” she whispered. “Sweet Jesu, he is mad, like our—like King Ban—”

  “Lancelot,” Elaine began helplessly.

  He threw her hands from him and backed clumsily away. “Do not touch me! I am not human anymore, not in any way that matters.”

  “You are not well,” the king said firmly. “Lie down while I send for—”

  “No!” Lancelot looked from the king to Elaine and then out across the rose garden. “Galahad,” he said clearly. “Galahad.”

  Before anyone could stop him, he flung himself headlong from the window.

  The fall was not a great one, and it ended in the rosebushes planted at the garden’s edge. Elaine, leaning far over the windowsill, watched Lancelot scramble to his feet, blood streaming down his face from a dozen scratches.

  “Lancelot!” she called, and though the king joined his voice to hers, Lancelot did not look back. He ran through the garden, vaulted the wall, and vanished into the forest.

  Chapter 38

  ARTHUR strode from the chamber, shouting for his knights, the slam of the door cutting off his voice.

  “They will find him,” Guinevere said. “They will bring him back.”

  “And then what?” Elaine cried. “You have the king—he is a good man, an honorable man. Why could you not leave Lancelot alone?”

  Guinevere looked at her, as ashen-faced as Lancelot had been before, the same shocked bewilderment clouding her eyes. Tears spilled over her lashes and trailed down her cheeks. Even weeping, she was lovely.

  “I never meant to hurt him,” Guinevere said, holding out her hands. “Not Lance.”

  “But you did. You have broken him. Good day, madam,” Elaine said coldly. “I shall return to Corbenic alone, it seems.”

  “But stay . . . he may regain his senses and come home,” Guinevere said faintly.