by Gwen Rowley
The Pentecostal tournament had become a yearly tradition in the years of Arthur’s reign. What had started as a solemn ritual during which the king dispensed justice to his subjects, and his companions renewed their vows had become, over time, an event of great magnificence.
Last year the castle had been filled and the surrounding fields crowded with what seemed to be every knight in Britain, along with their servants, squires, and families. There were others, too—knights who had traveled from all corners of the world to compete in the tournament, eager to test their mettle against the Knights of the Round Table—and to win the generous prizes Arthur offered.
With so many competitors, the tournament dragged on for days. Even when it was finally over, no one seemed in any hurry to depart. Quarrels had sprung up between the knights, resulting in private challenges that kept the marshal busy. There had been fights between their squires, too, and their servants, until the castle guards were exhausted with the effort of keeping order.
Yet to hear Guinevere tell it, the real war had been waged within the castle. The ladies fought sweet and deadly battles over precedence in claiming this chamber over that, or a seat at table, or, in one memorable instance, who had the right to bow first to the queen. The last had turned into a furious argument in which a stately dowager completely lost her head and accused her rival of resorting to witchcraft to steal Uther Pendragon’s notice from herself some forty years ago, upon which the second lady used her walking stick to deal the dowager a stunning blow.
“Oh, it’s easy for you to laugh,” Guinevere had said sourly to the king and Lancelot when they dined together in the gardens, “you didn’t have to pull the two apart.”
After the last guest finally departed, Sir Kay took to his bed for a week, and the court was reduced to dining on cheese and increasingly stale bread. It was then Arthur declared that this year’s tournament would not be the traditional combat fought at Camelot but a melee lasting only a single day and held far enough from court to discourage any visitors. To soften the blow, he was offering a prize of such magnificence that any knight put off by the inconvenience soon changed his mind. Judging from the crowd below, their families had all decided make the best of changed conditions.
Lancelot searched the pavilions, finally locating his cousin Bors’s standard floating in the breeze. Bors would keep his secret, little as he might like it. But Lancelot would have to be careful not to draw attention to himself if he hoped to fight unknown. His armor was plain enough; if he kept his visor down, he should pass unnoticed. He took a quick look at his saddle to assure himself there was nothing that could be recognized, and he groaned aloud as his eyes fell upon his shield, covered now in canvas but bearing his own, instantly recognizable device.
He wheeled his charger about, cursing himself for not considering the need for a blank shield, the haste with which he’d pulled his own from the peg, and most of all, Guinevere for putting him in this position in the first place.
But he didn’t want to think of Guinevere. That would only make him angry, which could lead to more mistakes. He would have to ride to Camelot and back again, which meant his charger would be weary before the tournament began. A weary mount was easily injured, and Lancelot was fond of this one. To lose him would mean months of inconvenience while he found and trained another to his ways.
His mood was not improved by the sight of a group of horses approaching down the road. With an irritated sigh, he flipped down his visor, though even so, he felt ridiculously conspicuous. But they had no reason to stop for a stranger; he should be safe enough—and then he noticed the banner held proudly in the squire’s hands. His gaze moved past the squire and fastened on a lady, her bright blue hood thrown back to reveal auburn hair glinting in the sunlight.
Queen Morgause of Orkney.
Lancelot told himself he had no reason to fear Gawain’s mother—and yet he did. Morgause’s sharp eyes saw far too much, and she had once said that magic was her … How had she put it? Oh, yes, her passion. He remembered now how she had purred the word, and every instinct screamed a warning he did not stop to question. He pulled his horse off the path and plunged into the forest.
An hour later, he was hopelessly lost. The track he had thought would be a shortcut to Camelot had dwindled into a tiny path and finally vanished in a swamp. Rather than turn back the way he’d come, he’d found another path leading roughly west, and when that veered off to the north, he’d tried another that doubled back upon itself so many times that he was now utterly confused.
But at least he was off the road and far from prying eyes.
This latest path seemed to offer some hope; it had clearly been well traveled in the not-too-distant past. It must lead somewhere, and with any luck, to a place where he could buy or borrow a blank shield. It was blessedly dim beneath the trees, the air pungent with the scents of swamp and loam, and birds chattered busily overhead. Lancelot fell into a half doze as he rode along. “Oh, the broom, the bonny, bonny broom,” he chanted softly in rhythm to his charger’s plodding steps.
As a rule, he had no ear for music, but there had once been a harper in the Lady’s hall in Avalon who played so marvelously that even Lancelot had been enchanted. Thomas, the minstrel’s name had been, sometimes called the Rhymer, and the Lady had said he’d come from far, far away, which seemed odd because Thomas spoke the tongue of Britain with an accent very like Gawain’s.
Lancelot’s thoughts drifted to Gawain, and a scornful smile curved his lips. The noble Sir Gawain—what a hypocrite he was! He was always so very courteous to Lancelot, at such pains to disguise his resentment and dislike. Not that Lancelot was deceived. Nor did he care a whit. Let Gawain detest him. Why should he care? He remembered suddenly that he had dreamed of Gawain the night before, a vivid dream of their one meeting in the lists on the day Lancelot relieved Gawain of the title of First Knight of Britain. Gawain had fought well that day, but of course he never stood a chance. It was Lancelot’s destiny to gain that title, the great destiny bestowed upon him by the Lady of the Lake.
Lancelot only wished the Lady had mentioned how it would befall that he would win the title. But the Lady kept her own counsel, he reflected drowsily; she never answered any question straightly. About the mysterious origins of her harper, she would only say that miles were not the only measure of distance, which Lancelot still did not understand.
There had been one song he sang that Lancelot liked best of all, about a lass climbing a hill on her way to market fair and the lad who wagered that she’d not come down again a maiden. As a boy, Lancelot had often sung it in his empty courtyard where there was no one else to hear. Now, though, he could not seem to catch the tune, and the words he had once known so well slipped from his mind before he could quite grasp them.
It was happening again. Lately he’d had the oddest feeling that his past was disappearing, the memories blending together like a painted panel left out in the rain. That minstrel’s song—what had been his name? For a moment his mind was quite blank, then he remembered. Thomas. Thomas, who they called the … the Singer? The Harper? No, something else … but it was gone.
Had there ever really been a harper? he wondered with a sudden stab of fear. Or had that been a dream? He didn’t know. He could not be certain which of his memories of Avalon were real and which he had imagined.
He thrust the disquieting impression away. The past was not important. It was the present that mattered.
But Lancelot found he did not want to think about the present, either, or how he had come to be lost in this dark forest. Arthur’s face—but no, he would not think of that. Better—safer—to think about the future, a future so distant that today’s disturbance in the queen’s chamber would be quite forgotten.
’Twas folly to doubt that it would be forgotten. He was Lancelot du Lac, beloved foster son of the Lady of the Lake, and through her grace he served King Arthur as no other knight could ever do. Arthur knew his loyalty. How could he not? Had Lancelot not pro
ven himself a hundred times already? His fame had spread throughout Britain and beyond, just as the Lady had foretold. Whenever he rode out, people lined the streets to cheer him, and the minstrels competed to make songs of his adventures. Perhaps by now they were even sung in Avalon itself by that harper of the Lady’s … What had been his name? Lancelot searched his mind, but the memory was gone.
No matter, he told himself, trying to ignore the cold pricking of his spine. Belike I imagined the whole thing. Yet a part of him was certain that he hadn’t—that there had been a harper in the Lady’s hall—though now, when he tried to picture him, there was only a blank space where he had sat, and only silence when he sought for the song about … what had it been about? A market? Or had it been a broom?
If only there was someone he could ask, someone he could tell of his days in Avalon and the glorious destiny that was his, someone who could help him understand all the questions that seemed to have no answers, long though he had pondered them in the dark watches of the night. Even Arthur, who knew him best of all, did not really know him. And it was best that way.
There is only one question that need concern you now, he told himself sternly, and that is how to get out of this wretched forest. A moment later he had the answer, when he glimpsed a stone tower rising above the treetops. With a sigh of relief, he turned his charger’s head toward the tower and kicked the beast into a canter.
Chapter Five
They had nearly reached the hall when Elaine realized they were not alone. A knight stood before the mounting block, holding his horse’s reins. She halted, thinking at first that Cousin Geoffrey had remembered his promise, until she realized that this was no knight she’d ever seen before. Even Geoffrey did not have armor half so fine, and his charger, the envy of five manors, was like a cart horse compared to this blooded beast.
The knight’s helm, adorned with a blue plume, turned in their direction. Though the visor was up, the face beneath remained in shadow.
Her father stepped forward. “Good day to you, Sir Knight, and welcome to Corbenic.” He gestured proudly across the shabby courtyard to the crumbling tower. “I am Pelleas, lord of this demesne. Whence comest thou, my guest, and by what name?”
Elaine held her breath, dreading the strange knight’s mockery, yet when he spoke, there was no laughter in his voice. “I am a knight of Arthur’s hall,” he answered with grave courtesy, “and tomorrow I joust as one unknown to win King Arthur’s diamond. Hereafter you shall know me, but I pray you ask me not today.”
At his last words, Elaine’s smile died upon her lips. It was unheard of for any stranger to refuse to name himself. Why, he could be any sort of outlaw—Bruce sans Pitie, who had abducted dozens of maidens to his stronghold, or the infamous Sir Turquine—he could be anyone at all! Elaine and Torre exchanged a look, but before either of them could speak, their father forestalled them.
“As you will,” Pelleas replied easily. “I hope that for tonight, you will remain with us.”
“Thank you,” the knight said with a little bow. “And if I might ask another favor …”
“Please do.”
“By mischance, I came out with my shield. I pray you to lend me one, blank if such you have, or at least with some device not mine.”
Elaine glanced at the shield in question, strapped to his saddle in its canvas cover. What device did it bear, that its owner was ashamed to show? She threw her father a warning glance, but he was smiling at the stranger as though his extraordinary request was no great matter.
“Oh, that we can give you easily. My elder son, Torre, was hurt in his first tilt. His shield is blank enough.”
Elaine sensed Torre’s shocked anger at this casual bestowal of his equipment upon a nameless stranger, but there was nothing to be done about it now. “Why not?” he said, “you may as well have it; ’tis no use to me.”
“Fie, Sir Churl!” Pelleas chided, laughing. “What sort of courtesy is that? I beg you to forgive him, sir.”
The blue plume dipped as the knight inclined his head. “I am grateful for the loan, Sir Torre.”
Torre nodded briefly, still unsmiling.
“Now, my younger son, Lavaine,” Pelleas continued, “who is but lately knighted, he would ride with you to yonder joust. Why, he is so full of lustihood that he will win yon diamond in an hour, then bring it home to set it in this damsel’s hand! Is that not what you were telling us, Lavaine?”
“No, Father,” Lavaine protested, “do not mock me before this noble knight! I was only joking, sir,” he said earnestly to the stranger, “I but played on Torre—”
“Enough,” Torre ordered sharply, but Lavaine hurried on.
“He was so sullen, vexed he could not go—”
“Did I not say, enough!” Torre growled, and aimed a blow at his young brother’s head. Lavaine skipped nimbly away.
“And so I jested with him—for you see, Sir Knight, my sister dreamed that someone put this diamond in her hand, but it was too slippery to hold—”
“Lavaine!” Elaine cried, but he ignored her, too.
“And she dropped it in some pool or stream—belike the castle well—and so I said that if I went, and if I fought and won it—but it was all a jest, a joke between ourselves—that she must keep it safelier. It was all in fun. But Father,” he cried, “do give me leave to ride to Arthur’s tourney with this noble knight! I shan’t win, but I will do my best to win. I know I am young, but I would do my best.”
“He won’t want to be bothered with you,” Torre began.
“On the contrary,” the stranger cut in smoothly, “I would welcome a friend and guide. And you shall win this diamond if you can—for I hear it is a fair large diamond—and yield it to this maiden, if you will.”
Whoever he might be, his manners could not be faulted. He had a lovely voice, as well, deep and musical and tinged with the faintest suggestion of an accent she thought might be Gaulish. Surely no man who spoke so prettily could be evil.
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.
