by Gwen Rowley
Elaine leaned upon the bench, feeling suddenly ill. “And you think—you believe—”
“—that Sir Lancelot was one of those poor children,” he finished with a nod. “You marked, perhaps, that the knight was hostile to Sir Lancelot, his menace held in check only by the Lady, while she was kindness itself. That is an old trick, Elaine, oft used to break a captive’s spirit.”
Elaine stared at him, appalled.
“Which is not to say,” Bernard added, “that they entirely succeeded.”
“But—but the tapestry,” Elaine faltered. “He said it moved.”
Bernard nodded gravely. “Do you see now how they worked? He was so confounded that even today he cannot distinguish between illusion and the truth. Don’t look so surprised, child. The world is full of folk who employ all manner of cunning arts to convince people they are seeing the impossible. To practice such deceptions upon a helpless child—to convince him that pictures upon a tapestry could shift, or that in doing their will he was fulfilling some great destiny—”
“You think that is what the Lady is? A charlatan?” Elaine interrupted. “And when Sir Gawain struck off the Green Knight’s head—they say the knight picked it up, his own head, and galloped off—’twas but a mummer’s trick?”
“I doubt it was a miracle,” Father Bernard answered dryly. “Though he went to great pains to make it look like one.”
“I knew it could not be as they said it was. And yet,” she went on, troubled, “by all accounts, the Lady of the Lake is King Arthur’s friend.”
“At one time she may have been. But I hear things even here, and they say that those of Avalon have turned against King Arthur.”
“Not Sir Lancelot,” Elaine said at once. “There is no more loyal knight than he.”
“So he has said. And I believe that he believes it. Yet the fact that he remembers so little before he arrived at Camelot is troubling.”
“Do you think—oh, Father, is he mad?”
Bernard frowned down at his folded hands. “No,” he said at last, “I do not believe he is. I fear, Elaine, that someone took steps to ensure that he would not remember certain orders he was given. Such things are possible, and they had him from his infancy. Having met the king, Sir Lancelot’s natural inclination was to love him and serve him with all honor. And yet … there are distressing rumors coming from Camelot. You know of what I speak?”
“Yes. And … and do you think they are true?”
“True or false, they still exist. And they are all concerned with Sir Lancelot himself. Is this chance? Or is it part of a larger plan to discredit King Arthur’s rule?”
“This is all supposition,” Elaine began.
“Oh, I know,” the hermit agreed instantly. “And believe me, I do not seek to cast blame upon Sir Lancelot—quite the contrary. If what I suspect is true, he is in peril.”
“From the … folk … of Avalon?”
“Very possibly, though there is another danger, too. I have no doubt that Sir Lancelot has served King Arthur to the best of his ability. But if this is contrary to what he was sent forth from Avalon to accomplish—” He broke off, frowning. “I cannot say more, only that such a conflict, unresolved, could break his mind asunder.”
“What can I do?” she asked. “How can I help him?”
Bernard shot her a keen look from beneath his bushy brows. “I have never known you to shrink from a challenge, but I want you to be careful here. I believe Sir Lancelot to be a good man, but there are forces at work—both within him and around him—that could well bring you into danger.”
“Do you think that matters to me?” Elaine cried.
“No, I don’t suppose it would. And that,” the hermit said with a trace of his old tartness, “is because you are in love, and therefore impervious to reason. I implore you to do nothing hastily. But—” he added, raising a finger to still her protest, “—if you will not be dissuaded, the best thing you could do for him would be to take him to Corbenic and keep him close.” He covered her hand briefly with his own. “He is a very fortunate young man, Elaine. If he has any sense at all, then time—and God—will do the rest.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
During the next fortnight, Elaine could see no sign of madness in Lancelot, only a very natural irritability at being kept abed as his strength returned.
“Why don’t you go out and get some air?” he said to her one fine afternoon, when the scents of rain-washed earth and apple blossoms drifted through the open doorway. “You’ve been cooped up here long enough, and I’m no fit company for anyone. Run along,” he urged her when she hesitated. “I will be fine.”
Elaine emerged from the dim cave, blinking in the sunlight. She lingered for a while by the river, breathing in the cool, fresh air and chatting with Father Bernard as he checked his lines. She took the catch of fish and started back toward the cave, halting behind a broad oak when she heard voices in the clearing.
Peering cautiously around the tree, she spied two riders who had halted their steeds at the cave’s entrance. She could see at once they were brothers, for they were much alike, both good-looking young men with distinctive high-arched brows and angular faces. One had hair of chestnut brown, drawn back severely from his face, while the other’s tawny mane curled about his shoulders.
“This isn’t it,” the tawny one said decidedly. “I told you we should have taken the left-hand turn back at the marker.”
“If you hadn’t insisted on going off after that maiden, we wouldn’t have lost the path in the first place,” the other replied sharply.
“What was I supposed to do when she cried out for help?”
“She wasn’t crying out for help, she was calling back to her companion to make haste.”
“Yes, well, I didn’t know that then, did I?” the tawny brother muttered. “And nor did you. She might have needed our assistance—”
“But she did not.” The dark one shook his head, frowning. “You’re such a scatterbrain, Lionel, running hither and yon to chase every new adventure! A true knight is steadfast to his purpose.”
Elaine studied the knights with interest. Lionel was Lancelot’s cousin, which meant the dark young man must be Sir Bors, who had so nearly killed his kinsman Lancelot in the tournament.
“A true knight will always take the unknown path,” Lionel retorted hotly. “Only cowards turn from an adventure!”
“And only silly, stupid children can’t keep a thought in their head for longer than a moment.”
“Be damned to your infernal caution!” Lionel cried. “Everyone knows a knight is honor bound to assist any lady in distress!”
“Don’t swear,” Bors said tightly. “How many times have I told you that swearing is—”
“Be damned to swearing, too! I said I was sorry that we lost our way. I admitted I was wrong! And you said you forgave me!”
“So I did.”
“Well, if this is your forgiveness, I’d hate to see you bear a grudge.”
Elaine stepped out from behind the tree. “Good day, Sir Knights,” she said, raising her voice to be heard over their argument. They broke off at once, staring at her.
“Good day, demoiselle,” Lionel said, shooting her a melting smile. “I fear we have lost our way in this wood.”
“Oh, I shouldn’t think so, Sir Lionel. That is, if you have come to see your kinsman. Sir Lancelot lies within.”
They dismounted instantly and bowed. “You must be Elaine of Corbenic,” Lionel said, his eyes moving over her with interest. “The Lady of the Red Sleeve. Gawain said you were lovely.”
Hot color rushed to Elaine’s cheeks. “Sir Gawain is very kind,” she murmured awkwardly.
Bors lingered beside his horse, twisting the reins about his hands. “Is Lance—how does he fare?” he asked, not looking at her.
“Much better,” Elaine said, “though still weak.”
“Will you tell him I am here?” Bors asked.
“I’ll take you to him now.
”
“He might not want to see me …”
“Of course he will. I’m sure he will be very glad that you are here.”
She led the way to the entrance of the cave, the brothers falling into step behind her.
“See, Bors? I told you we would find him.”
“No thanks to you. Take the left-hand path, you said, the other feels wrong.”
“What if I did? We’re here now, aren’t we? Must you throw every mistake into my teeth?”
Laughter, faint but genuine, met them at the door to Lancelot’s rough chamber. “It must be Bors and Lionel,” he said. “Is this the same argument you were having the last time I saw you, or a new one?”
“A new one,” Lionel said, grinning, as he ducked through the low entrance to the chamber. “We laid the old one aside so we could come and see you.” He stopped before the pallet. “You look like a plucked chicken, Lance. Haven’t they been feeding you?”
“They say they are, but ’tis all gruel and pap.”
“You may have some fish tonight,” Elaine said, raising the string. “There will be plenty for all. You will stay the night, won’t you?” she added to Lionel.
Lionel did not answer at once. He looked to his brother, who still hovered half-in, half-out of the doorway, staring down at his feet.
“They will,” Lancelot said. “Unless Bors was planning to sneak off without so much as greeting me. What are you doing out there?”
Bors raised his head; his gray eyes were shimmering with moisture. “Lance, I am so sorry. Can you ever forgive me? I didn’t realize it was you—”
“I know, Bors,” Lancelot said. “That is the whole point of riding in disguise.”
Bors crossed the floor in two steps to fall on his knees beside the pallet and embrace his cousin in the Gaulish fashion, kissing him on either cheek. “I thought I’d killed you,” he said.
“Well, you did not. Even if you had, I wouldn’t take it personally.” He hooked an arm briefly around Bors’s neck before falling back upon the pillow.
“See, Bors?” Lionel remarked, “I told you he’d forgive you.”
Bors gave a choked laugh as he sat back on his heels and wiped his eyes. “He didn’t, you know,” he said to Lancelot, “he said you’d never speak to me again.”
“No, I said I would never speak to you again. And I meant it. But he was so miserable about the whole thing,” Lionel added to Lancelot, sitting cross-legged on the far side of the pallet, “that I relented.”
“I’m sorry you were miserable,” Lancelot said.
Bors smiled. “Now that I’ve seen you, I feel much better.”
“Everyone has been horrid to him,” Lionel said. He took Lancelot’s knife from the bedside table and tossed it in the air so it landed point down in the earthen floor. “He took it well—probably considered it a penance—but even Bors has limits. He lost his temper in the end, and of all people, with the queen.”
Elaine, watching from the doorway, saw that both Bors and Lancelot grew very still. “Bors shouted at her,” Lionel went on, laughing. “Can you believe it? But it’s true, I heard it for myself. Well, I could hardly help it, could I? We all heard, a whole crowd of us who were in the queen’s antechamber, waiting for her to come out hunting. No one even knew that Bors was in there until the door flew open and there he was, shouting that he couldn’t stop people saying things.”
Elaine looked to Lancelot, who stared fixedly at the rushlight burning at his bedside. Bors was scowling at his brother, but Lionel was focused on the knife, which he flipped again, this time so it turned twice in the air before sticking in the floor.
“The queen came after him, crying, ‘But is it true that Sir Lancelot—’ And then she saw us. It was an awkward moment, to be sure, but before anyone could say a word, she slammed the door in our faces. Bors, of course, won’t tell me anything, but I reckon she’d been at him about the latest rumor going round.”
“I’m not interested in rumors,” Lancelot said evenly.
“Oh, I don’t mean the one about—” Lionel broke off, glancing quickly toward Elaine. “I mean, it has nothing to do with the—with—” He floundered to a halt and cast a pleading look to his brother.
Bors had gone nearly as white as Lancelot. He opened his mouth as though to speak but shut it again without uttering a sound.
“They were saying Bors murdered you so he might inherit Benwick,” Lionel said rapidly. “Have you ever heard anything so ridiculous? I mean, Benwick isn’t even yours, no more than Ganis is ours, since that bastard Lucius holds them both. Not that Bors would murder you even if it was,” he added with an awkward laugh. “I mean—that is to say—”
At last Bors found his tongue. “Shut up, Lionel.”
“Yes. Yes, perhaps I should.” Lionel tossed the knife back on the table. “We’d better go and let you rest a bit, Lance.”
He rose to his feet and held a hand out to help Bors up. “I’m sorry if I tired you,” he said to Lancelot. “My tongue ran away with me again. But I didn’t—I wasn’t talking about—”
“Lady,” Bors said to Elaine, “is there somewhere I might put my brother? Some dank, dark cell, perhaps, where he won’t trouble anyone?”
“Yes,” Elaine said. “That is, no—but why don’t you come out and meet Father Bernard and have something to drink while I take these to my woman?”
“Elaine.” Lancelot spoke from the bed. “You stay.”
“But—”
“Allow me,” Bors said, taking the fish from her hands. “We will find the good Father for ourselves.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Elaine wiped her palms upon her skirt, miserably aware of the scent of fish that clung to her, the hair straggling down her back, the mud spattering her ankles. She had, she realized now, been living in a dream. Lancelot had needed her when he was ill, but he was better now. Had she really believed he would come with her to Corbenic? Perhaps he had meant to, but now everything had changed. He would—he must—go back to Camelot where the queen waited, distraught, for his return.
Guinevere. The very name, so sweetly musical, had the power to drain all light and happiness from the day. Guinevere, the most beautiful woman in Britain—some said in all the world. Guinevere, so charming and witty and merry, the radiant young queen no man could look upon without desiring.
Guinevere, who had eyes for only one man. The one who lay before her now, naked save for the coverlet over his hips, one long leg stretched out, the other bent slightly at the knee. His dark hair—had she really combed it just this morning?—curled over his shoulders, brushing the collarbones that still stood out too sharply. Every spare ounce of flesh had been stripped from his face, revealing the perfect harmony of brow and cheek and jaw. His was a bone-deep beauty that even his long illness could not mar. It was no wonder Guinevere desired him. Any woman would. As so many had before, to their eternal sorrow. Deadlier than the plague, Brisen had named him, what with all those maidens pining themselves into the grave for love of him.
Not me, Elaine thought with rising anger. I refuse to be reduced to some pathetic footnote in the tale of Lancelot and Guinevere, just one more maiden who could not face life without the great du Lac.
“Lionel is a fool,” Lancelot said abruptly.
“He is a young man who finds it impossible to dissemble,” Elaine replied evenly. “You may call that foolish; I thought him rather charming.”
Lancelot smiled grimly. “Have you ever tried to stop a rumor? Stay silent, and you are damned—protest, and you are damned twice over. I have enemies at court. They dare not challenge me directly, so instead they choose to blacken my name.”
With the truth? The question trembled on Elaine’s lips, but she feared she already knew the answer. “I was sent to serve King Arthur,” Lancelot had said, “but then there was Guinevere …”
What more was there to say?
Elaine nodded. “I see. Well, Lancelot, ’tis time you took some rest. Supper should be r
eady—”
“The queen and I came to court at about the same time,” Lancelot said rapidly, “we are of an age, and were often thrown together in our duties to the king. That, and some similarities in temperament—I don’t deny that I count the queen a friend. We laughed at the same things—court life is often quite ridiculous—and now I realize we were not always discreet in our amusement.”
Elaine remembered the day she had first met Lancelot, and he had exercised his wit at Sir Gawain’s expense. Now, having met Sir Gawain herself, she knew Lancelot, had been not only unkind but unjust. If the queen was of a like mind, she could see quite well how the pair of them had managed to make dangerous enemies.
“Elaine, I am ashamed that that these rumors began in the first place,” he said earnestly. “My only excuse is that I was young and foolish, and life at court was strange to me.”
She longed to believe him, wanted it so much that it frightened her. “There is no need to tell me these things,” she said. “When you return to court—”
“But I thought—you said—” He looked down, his long lashes veiling his expression. “Ah. You have reconsidered your invitation.”
“No, of course not. You are still welcome at Corbenic. But once you are well—”
He looked up at her. “I’m not going back to court.”
“But your duty to the king—”
“Britain is at peace; the king has no real need of me. Save in times of war, he cannot compel my service—and he would not, even if he could.”
He wasn’t going back to court—to Guinevere. Her heart leapt, but she dared not believe he meant more than he had said.
“Will you return to Benwick?”
He sighed. “I suppose I should do something about Benwick, but in all honesty, I would be hard put to care less about the place. No, I have a castle—at Norhaut, that was once called Dolorous Gard. ’Tis my own; I won it years ago and have not set foot in it since. I had hoped,” he added diffidently, “to show it to you. If you would like to see it.”
