Lancelot

by Gwen Rowley

  He heard a voice, very soft and pleasant, like the wind among the topmost branches of the trees in springtime. It lifted a little at the end, then stopped, seeming to wait for something. After a little time it went on again, now accompanied by the smell of food.

  He raised himself to his knees and peered over the woodpile, his hand touching the thing that had been thrown. It was the fur of some animal, cured to softness and very thick. There on the doorstep stood a man, garbed in a brown woolen robe. The man—

  (monk)

  —gestured toward a pot from which steam was rising, then turned and went inside again.

  The fur was long enough to drape over his shoulders and still trail behind him through the snow. He clutched it one-handed and cautiously, with many a false start, approached the pot still steaming on the doorstep, snatched it up, and retreated a few steps.

  He kept one eye on the door while he ate. It was hot enough to burn fingers and mouth, but he did not care. He devoured it all before it had a chance to cool, and retreated behind the woodpile, wrapping his feet and huddling inside the fur. When darkness began to fall, the door opened again, the voice spoke, and another gift of food was placed outside, this time with a pair of slippers.

  Each morning and each evening was the same. The door opened, the brown man spoke, left an offering, and went away. In time, he realized that the sounds were speech. Slowly the meaning of the words emerged.

  He stayed until the first flowers bloomed beside the cottage, poking through the drift of snow that still remained. One evening when the door opened, he stepped out and faced the man who had saved his life.

  “Ah, so here you are.” The monk smiled. “I always hoped to meet you.”

  “Thou hast rendered me a service which can never be repaid. God’s blessing on thee, Brother.” He stopped, frozen into immobility. He hadn’t expected to speak, had no idea that he could. The words had simply come without conscious thought or plan.

  The monk blinked. “You are quite welcome. May I know whom I have the pleasure of addressing? Your name, friend. Will you tell it to me?”

  “My name? My . . .” He began to back away, shaking his head. A name. His name. He’d had one once—or no, that had been someone else, not him. Not him.

  Run, the voice screamed in his mind.

  And he obeyed.

  Chapter 41

  “SIR Lancelot is dead, Mother.” Agravaine scowled, shifting his bulk in the saddle. “Why can’t you let it go?”

  Morgause cast her eyes to the canopy of red-gold leaves above her head. Why, why could it not be Gawain who rode with her today? Handsome, clever Gawain, who never needed to have anything explained to him. Agravaine—well, one only had to look at him to take his measure. He was good-looking—all her children had inherited some measure of her beauty—but his indulgences were catching up with him. And though he was loyal in his own plodding way, not even the fondest mother could call him clever. Gaheris and Gareth were Arthur’s men; she’d dismissed them from her heart and counsels long ago. Mordred, though promising, was still a child.

  Gawain was the best of her brood, and she had always meant for him to wear Arthur’s crown. His defection still rankled sorely.

  “Sir Lancelot was seen, dearest,” she said through gritted teeth. “That monk—”

  “Oh, blast the monk. He said himself he’d never met Sir Lancelot before.”

  “And the lady in the pavilion,” Morgause continued, stifling a sigh. “Her knight said only Sir Lancelot could have dealt him such a blow.”

  Agravaine grunted and reached behind him, awkwardly because of his bulk, and fumbled for the wineskin. “But that was weeks ago.”

  There had been other sightings, some patently false, a few that might be true. But all the signs pointed in one direction: if Sir Lancelot indeed lived, he was heading for Corbenic.

  “Even if it was him,” Agravaine said sulkily, “he’s surely dead by now.”

  “Perhaps.”

  It rankled, too, that Morgause could not be certain. How many hours had she wasted, hunched over her scrying bowl, searching for a glimpse of Arthur’s most troublesome knight? And he must be found. She could not afford for Lancelot to resurface. He’d caused enough damage when he’d left. But Arthur had not set Guinevere aside as everyone expected he would. Indeed, with Sir Lancelot gone, they seemed to have found a new happiness together, though there were many who still believed Arthur would rid himself of her and seek a fertile queen.

  They did not know him, not as Morgause did. Arthur was incurably sentimental, particularly when it came to women. So long as no new scandal arose, Arthur would keep his barren wife, and Gawain remain his heir. Should Gawain continue to prove himself disloyal to his clan, there was always Mordred. One way or another, Morgause reflected, her son would wear the crown of Britain . . . and she would rule.

  It was only a matter of time. Time, and Arthur’s death, which he could not avoid much longer. He’d been lucky twice already—poison was a clumsy tool, and Arthur was too good a horseman to be thrown, even by a stallion half crazed with pain. But there would be other opportunities, and even Gawain could not be at his king’s side every moment of the day.

  But she must move cautiously. Gawain was already suspicious. He’d looked at her very oddly once or twice during her last visit to Camelot. Gawain could well become a problem, but he was a problem Morgause felt confident that she could deal with.

  Unlike Sir Lancelot.

  Her hands clenched on the reins when she thought of him as first she’d seen him lying beneath a hedgerow, one arm folded beneath his head and the other outstretched, fingers curled loosely over his palm. There had been four of them that day, four queens riding nowhere in particular with nothing to look forward to but a meal taken out of doors.

  Until they spied the sleeping knight.

  His cheeks had been flushed, Morgause remembered, his red lips slightly parted. Sun and shadow flickered across his face as a light wind blew through the branches. The breeze stirred his raven hair and fluttered the sleeves of the thin shirt that clung to his chest and belly like a second skin. Morgause had looked on him and wanted him, and had she been alone, she would have had him. But she had not been alone. Fool that she had been, she agreed to the suggested wager, never once doubting the outcome.

  Yet Lancelot had refused her. He, who was barely come to manhood, was impervious to both her words and touch . . . and to her magic. That made Lancelot a dangerous man, all the more so because he was unaware of his power. Damn the Lady of the Lake and her infernal meddling! Why did she not stay in Avalon and leave the affairs of Britain to those who understood them best? Arthur was already difficult enough to kill; should the Lady’s champion return to Camelot, the king would once again be beyond Morgause’s reach. No, Lancelot must die or remain forever mad.

  She turned to Agravaine and smiled. “He may well be dead. But it does no harm to be certain.”

  “No harm?” Agravaine slapped a palm to his neck. “I’m being eaten alive in this fen!”

  “We’ll soon be there. I can see the tower now above the trees. Have that trumpeter ride ahead to announce us.”

  THE first shock came when Morgause was seated in the dreary little hall, pretending to sip the revolting ale Elaine had given her.

  “I’m so sorry I didn’t warn you,” Morgause said, “but when Agravaine mentioned how closely we’d be passing, it seemed too bad to go by without paying you a visit. Are you certain this is not an inconvenience?”

  “Of course not, madam,” Elaine said. “But I fear you may find us a bit . . . rustic.”

  “Oh, no! Corbenic is quite charming!” Morgause said, repressing a little shudder as she set down the ale.

  “Well, we have done rather well lately,” Elaine said, picking up her spindle. “The harvest last year was the best we’ve had, and this year we hope to do even better.”

  Elaine chatted on, her spindle dipping up and down. She hardly seemed to have aged since Morgau
se saw her last. She was still slender as a birch, and her golden hair, braided in a plait that fell neatly, if unimaginatively over one shoulder, was as plentiful as ever. She did have a certain grace, Morgause admitted grudgingly, with those slim hands and that extraordinary neck. Yet she was so cool, so completely self-contained that it was impossible to imagine her in the grip of any strong emotion. That she could engender the sort of devotion that would drive Sir Lancelot to seek her in his madness was nearly unbelievable.

  Still, he did seem to be seeking her, and love had been known to work miracles before. Strange as it seemed, Elaine was a potential threat. Therefore, Elaine must be removed.

  “I have thought of you so often, my dear, since . . .” Morgause lowered her voice. “Since poor Sir Lancelot . . .”

  Elaine went on smiling. Only the smallest flicker of her eyelids betrayed that the name meant anything to her at all.

  “How kind of you to remember me,” she murmured.

  “And young Galahad, of course. How does he fare?”

  For the first time, a bit of animation lit Elaine’s face, and Morgause realized that once she must have been very beautiful indeed. “Very well, madam. Here he is now.”

  Morgause turned, the smile freezing on her lips when she recognized the dark-haired woman who accompanied young Galahad into the hall. “Why, Mistress Brisen,” she said blankly. “I had thought you with my sister Morgana. Did you not tell me you planned to return to her service?”

  Morgause did not like surprises, particularly unpleasant ones. Morgana had always claimed that Brisen had more talent than any novice she had known. Of course Brisen had not completed her training, but still, it would be foolish to discount her.

  “I had thought of it, madam,” Brisen said, “but Lady Elaine asked me to return with her instead. Lady,” she added to Elaine, “where is Sir Agravaine to sleep?”

  “Let him have Sir Torre’s chamber,” Elaine said, “and he can share with Father.”

  “Sir Torre?” Morgause asked.

  “My elder brother,” Elaine said.

  “Oh, yes, the crippled one,” Morgause said dismissively.

  Brisen’s dark eyes narrowed. “Pray excuse me,” she said coldly, “while I see to your chamber.”

  “Oh, dear,” Morgause said when she was gone, “did I say something wrong?”

  Elaine frowned slightly, looking after her maid. “Brisen healed my brother after he took the wound to his leg.”

  “Ah, I see. A matter of professional pride, is it? But as I remember, he was very lame.”

  “He is much improved, we think,” Elaine said, holding out her hand to Galahad, a sturdy child and as golden fair as one of Morgause’s own.

  “He’s nothing like Sir Lancelot, is he?” she said.

  “Sometimes I think I see something of him around the eyes, and in the jaw . . . but that may just be my hope.”

  Elaine was right; Galahad’s eyes, though different in color, were as deep-set as Lancelot’s, with the same dark lashes and upward tilt at the corners. But their expression was quite different. Where Lancelot’s gaze was always a bit wary, this boy looked her directly in the eye with an intensity that was a bit unsettling in one so young.

  “Good day, Galahad,” she said. “I am Queen Morgause of Orkney. We have met before, but I don’t expect that you’ll remember. You were just a baby at the time, and now you’re such great boy!”

  Galahad turned and buried his face in his mother’s lap. Elaine picked him up and set him on her knee. “Come, Galahad, where are your manners? Say good day to Queen Morgause.”

  Galahad’s face screwed up, and he clutched his mother around the neck.

  Morgause stared at him, nonplussed. Children liked her. She prided herself on being good with them, having brought up five lusty sons of her own and overseen half a dozen of Lot’s brats into the bargain.

  “He’s tired,” Elaine said apologetically. “Let me take him to his nurse.”

  She stood and bore Galahad away. He regarded Morgause over his mother’s shoulder with that same unwavering intensity. What a strange child, she thought, oddly disconcerted. Perhaps he had inherited more than his father’s eyes. Yes, that must be it, his wits were obviously not all they should be.

  “Agravaine,” she said.

  He looked up, startled from his ale.

  “Tonight you must find some way to distract Mistress Brisen.”

  Agravaine’s face lightened. “My pleasure,” he said, swiping the back of his hand across his lips.

  “I think not,” Morgause said. “Best to feign an illness. About an hour after supper—and you must keep her with you until the moon has risen.”

  Agravaine stifled a belch. “Whatever you say, Mother.”

  Chapter 42

  “SHE is a bitch,” Brisen said, her dark eyes snapping as she dropped the coverlet on the bed. “I can’t imagine what she’s doing here.”

  “She was passing by,” Elaine said, straightening the coverlet, “and thought to stop.”

  “Why? That one never does anything for kindness. Where is she now?”

  “Walking with Sir Agravaine in the garden. Stop punching that pillow, Brisen, you’ll have feathers everywhere.”

  “Better the pillow than—” Brisen threw it down and whirled, hands fisted on her hips. “Oh, I would just love to tell her what I think of her!”

  Elaine merely shook her head and swept a stack of her father’s parchments into a neat pile.

  “Wait here,” Brisen said suddenly. “I’ll be right back.”

  Elaine had nearly finished by the time Brisen returned, holding a few roses in a small clay pot. “Here,” she said, “these will look well by the bed.”

  As Elaine turned to set the flowers down, she felt a spray of water hit her back. She looked over her shoulder to find Brisen with a dripping branch of rowan in her hands. “What are you doing?” she asked, half laughing as Brisen muttered beneath her breath and shook it again, spattering her face.

  “A charm.”

  “I thought you’d given up that nonsense,” Elaine said, gesturing toward the rowan.

  “Nonsense, is it? I’ll wager that Morgause wouldn’t agree. I don’t like her,” Brisen said, moving her shoulders in a half shrug. “And I don’t trust her, either.”

  “Queen Morgause was very rude,” Elaine said, making an effort to be fair, “but we both know that what she said about Torre isn’t true.”

  “Did it not bother you to hear your brother spoken of like that?”

  Elaine shrugged. “She will be gone soon enough. It isn’t worth being upset about.”

  Brisen began to speak, then checked herself. “Aye. You’re right,” she said after a moment. “But there was a time when you would have cared.”

  “Don’t,” Elaine said, very low.

  “Well, someone has to! You can’t go on like this, it isn’t right!”

  “What would you have me do, Brisen?”

  “Cry—rage—hit someone! Here—” she offered Elaine a crystal vial belonging to Morgause. “Smash this.”

  “I don’t see how destroying Morgause’s scent will help anyone,” Elaine answered, taking the bottle and setting it on the shelf.

  “You never know until you try.”

  “I’m well enough, Brisen. Just leave me as I am.”

  And what am I? Elaine wondered as she left the chamber, her arms piled high with linen. Sometimes it seemed that she had died the day Lancelot had gone, and all that was left was the shell that had once housed a woman called Elaine. But that was as it was, and for Galahad’s sake she must go on as best she could.

  SUPPER passed uneventfully. The only break in the dullness was Morgause’s expression when Torre came into the hall, ruddy from the hunt and limping only slightly. Well, they said Morgause had an eye for young men, and Torre had shed years since their return from Camelot. Brisen noticed, too, of course. She paled and left the hall when Morgause smiled at Torre and beckoned him to her side, purring t
hat he must tell her all about his hunt.

  Poor Brisen, Elaine thought; much as I would miss her, it might be better if she did go. For all she’d claimed that she was over Torre, it was clear he still had the power to wound her.

  Elaine finished her meal and stood, murmuring an excuse that no one heard, and went quickly to the nursery. Galahad had seemed to be sickening for something earlier. It was unlike him to fuss at bedtime, yet tonight he’d clung to her, screaming, until she pulled his arms from round her neck and left him to his nurse. He had not been fevered then, nor was he now, she noted with relief. She bent to kiss his curls, and he stirred with a plaintive little cry before settling back to sleep.

  “You will watch him?” Elaine said to his nurse.

  “Aye, lady,” she said, “don’t you fear. I reckon it’s his teeth that are a-paining him.”

  By the time Elaine returned to the hall, the trestle tables had been taken down, and the piper she’d sent for from the vill was blowing out a merry tune. Brisen and Sir Agravaine were gone, Torre was playing at tables with Lord Pelleas, and Queen Morgause sat watching them.

  “Oh, good,” she said when Elaine returned. “I’m afraid I overindulged—the meal was so fine. Will you walk with me?”

  “Of course,” Elaine said dutifully.

  “I was hoping you might show me yonder tower,” Morgause said when they had walked through the garden. “It looks quite old. Did I understand Sir Torre aright when he said it is rumored to be haunted?”

  “So the story goes. There are some chambers that have not been opened for years, and you know how servants are. It’s a bit tumbledown, I’m afraid, but if you don’t mind . . .”

  “Not at all!” Morgause hooked her arm through Elaine’s, laughing. “I take it you do not believe in ghosts?”

  “No. My chamber is in the tower, you see, and I’ve never seen anything unusual or heard a sound that could not be put down to wind or creaking beams.”