by Gwen Rowley
“Ugh!” Elaine cried, beating at the air. “Flies!”
Sharp pain stung Lancelot’s thumb, and he instinctively flung out his hand, sending a tiny creature spiraling into the mist.
“Ill done! Ill done!” they chorused in shrill discord as they swarmed him. He beat them off, cursing as tiny teeth drew blood, then froze as the Knight’s voice rang out again.
“Where are you, boy?”
The faeries drew off at the sound, hovered for a moment, then darted off in a cloud of buzzing laughter. “Here, lord, he is here! This way, follow us—”
“Do you see that hawthorn bush in bloom?” Lancelot demanded, pointing.
“Yes,” she said, too tired to argue.
“Elaine, tell me the truth.”
“There is only a dead tree.”
“Is there a branch—look closely now—about three feet from the bottom that falls like an archway to the earth?”
“Yes.”
“Run, Elaine, and go under that bough. Not around, go under. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Lancelot, under the bough,” she repeated wearily. “Come, you can show me.”
“No, you must go ahead.” He reached into the purse at his belt and brought forth a small pouch, which he emptied into his palm. With dull astonishment, she recognized the diamond he had won in the tournament so long ago. “I always meant to have it set for you,” he said with a twisted smile. He returned it to the pouch and hung it round her neck.
“But what—”
He kissed her brow. “That is for Galahad.” His mouth closed over hers. “And that for you.” His hands were on her cheeks, framing her face, his eyes burning into hers. “If you ever loved me, Elaine, listen to me now and do exactly as I say. When you get through the archway, you’ll see a chapel on the hill. Go there and ask for the priest.”
“But—”
“Farewell, my love. Don’t stop for anything and don’t look back.”
And he was gone. Half blinded by tears, she saw him run into the field beside the swamp. His sword, bright Arondight, glinted through the rising mist as he drew it from its scabbard. He waved it as though in battle, thrusting it first into the air, then lifting it as though parrying a blow.
She stumbled toward the tree, brushing at the enormous flies that buzzed around her face, the stink of the swamp mud acrid in her nostrils. Twisted roots seemed to rise from the water to grasp her ankles. When at last she reached the tree, she ducked to pass beneath the bough as she had promised.
“Go,” he had commanded. “Don’t stop for anything.”
Madness, surely … and yet his eyes had been so clear, his voice so steady. Even as she raised her foot to step through, she was seized by the unreasoning certainty that if she left Lancelot now, he would be lost again, this time forever.
“Don’t look back,” he had said, and she had promised to obey.
“No,” she said aloud. “No, I will not leave him. Whatever demons he must face, I will stand with him.”
She turned and halted, one hand clamped across her lips to still her cry.
The swamp was gone. In its place was impossibly blue water that rippled to the horizon. The field was hidden by an impenetrable mist, but even as Elaine started forward, it began to disperse, blown into ragged tatters by a sweet breeze off the lake, revealing a sweeping meadow starred with wildflowers.
Now she could glimpse Lancelot. And he was not alone. He was locked in deadly combat with a knight, clad in armor that covered him from neck to heels, emerald green without a dent or blemish. Shreds of mist twisted around shining green greaves that gripped his massive calves. A helm sat upon impossibly broad shoulders, the slit at eye level revealing naught but inky shadow. A green sword was clutched in one mailed hand; the other gripped a verdant shield.
“The Green Knight,” she whispered, icy terror pooling in her belly. “The Green Knight.”
She started forward, letting out a small cry of disgust when a cloud of winged creatures surrounded her. Her cry changed to one of astonished wonder when she saw that they were not flies but tiny beings in human form with wings that shone like rainbows in the sunlight. “Go,” she pleaded, making gentle brushing motions as she ran, careful not to injure them. “Go!” she repeated more firmly, her wonder turning to annoyance as they continued to dart before her eyes.
She stumbled to her knees as something grasped her ankle. Stark terror seized her when she realized it was no root that held her, but a hand, tinged green and webbed between the fingers. She pulled and fought, but she was no match for the creature she could glimpse beneath the waves. It dragged her forward with inexorable strength, the tinny laughter of the fairies ringing in her ears. Her fingers scrabbled vainly at the earth, and then icy water closed around her.
The creature drew her closer, one hand closing round the pouch about her neck. She beat it off and broke free, rising to the surface long enough to take one gasping breath before it pulled her under. Twisting, struggling, they went down together into the waterweeds. The creature reached again for the pouch; Elaine eluded it again, but now black dots danced before her eyes. She crouched upon the bottom, then straightened her legs, fumbling at the pouch as she hurtled upward. She broke the surface once again, and now she held the diamond in her palm. When the creature’s head emerged, she glimpsed its flat green features and huge black eyes before she flung the jewel with all her strength.
With a flash of scales, the creature turned and dove. Elaine struggled to the shore, dragged herself up upon the bank, and gasped like a landed fish. When the dancing spots subsided, she staggered to her feet.
The meadow lay before her now, each detail sharp and clear. Lancelot and the knight fought on, their blades ringing with each slash and parry. Around them rose banks of cushioned benches, filled with what Elaine first took to be people. Looking more closely, she realized her mistake. Some of the creatures watching were hideous, others were almost too beautiful to bear.
But none of them were human.
In a pavilion hung with rosy silk sat the most beautiful of all, and Elaine knew that at last she looked upon the Lady of the Lake. The Lady looked back at her, her lovely face rigid with cold fury.
“Bah, is this the best you can do?” the Green Knight taunted. “Have you forgotten everything I taught you?”
“Not quite,” Lancelot replied, lunging forward with fluid grace. The Green Knight fell back a step, his blade barely catching Arondight’s edge. Lancelot pressed his advantage, his sword weaving a pattern so intricate that Elaine could not begin to follow it. The Green Knight stumbled and went down upon one knee, awkwardly flinging up his sword to deflect a blow that would have severed his neck had it landed squarely. As it was, Lancelot’s blade sliced through the green armor at the shoulder, though the Knight gave no sign of having felt it as he leapt to his feet and retreated out of reach.
“You are slow, old one,” Lancelot cried, laughing.
“And you are but a foolish mortal.”
“Give thanks for that! And for the magic that protects you!” Lancelot leaned upon his sword, breathing hard. For the first time Elaine saw that he was bleeding; a long scratch ran across his brow and blood dripped from a gash in his shoulder, falling like tiny garnets on the grass.
Yet his smile flashed out, the merry, reckless smile that had always left her breathless. “Mortal I may be, but I will live on in your memory—and that of the gentle company gathered here today!” He laughed aloud, bowing to the stands. “Forever is a long time, old one. A very long time to remember that in a true test of arms, you were no match for Lancelot du Lac!”
The Knight charged with a roar. Metal clashed on metal when Lancelot caught the green blade upon his own. The Knight turned and came in from below; the tip of the his sword caught Lancelot’s sleeve, tearing it from wrist to shoulder, and Elaine clamped her hands across her mouth when his blood began to flow.
The Green Knight hurtled forward as Lancelot retreated, switching Arondight to his left hand long e
nough to wipe his bloody palm upon his jerkin. As the Knight reached him, Lancelot seized Arondight two-handed and swung it with such speed that the Green Knight barely caught it on his shield. The force of the blow rocked him back upon his heels before he leapt forward with a cry. Again they engaged and again retreated, back and forth upon the grass, while the eerie cries of the inhuman spectators urged them on.
At last they stood toe-to-toe, blades locked, for what seemed an eternity. Elaine could see every muscle of Lancelot’s arms, corded beneath the bloodstained remnants of his shirt, and the tendons in his neck standing out sharply with the effort of holding the Green Knight’s sword at bay.
Yet he could not last forever. He was a man, and the Knight was something more. Elaine watched in horror as slowly, inexorably, Lancelot was forced down to his knees. For a time, he managed to keep Arondight aloft, but at last the Green Knight struck the sword from his hand.
“Now we see who is the better,” the Knight howled in an ecstasy of triumph, his blade pressed to Lancelot’s bare throat. “Beg for mercy, mortal.”
Lancelot’s laughter rang out. “Men do not beg.” He gazed up at the Knight, defiant to the last, a scornful smile on his lips.
“Stop this!” Elaine screamed to the pavilion. The Lady did not take her gaze from the field, but only shook her head.
Lancelot glanced over at her, his smile fading. “Elaine,” he cried, “oh, love, what do you here? Run, go now—”
The Green Knight laughed. “Too late. Die, du Lac, die knowing you have failed, and when your blood is let, your lady will be mine.”
Lancelot twisted and threw himself backward, the green blade missing him by inches as he scooped Arondight from the grass and surged up to his knees. With a hoarse cry, he thrust the blade hilt deep into the Green Knight’s breast.
A trumpet sounded, its clear peal lost in the cheering from the stands. The Green Knight stood a moment, gazing at the sword protruding from his breast, then sheathed his own sword and drew Arondight from his body. He knelt and offered Lancelot the blade, hilt first, across his arm. The moment Lancelot had taken it, the Knight vanished, as did the stands, the pavilion, and the Lady. Lancelot knelt alone in the center of the meadow.
Elaine ran to him, her sodden skirt clinging to her legs. She stumbled the last steps, and Lancelot caught her in his arms, his sword dropping from his hand. It fell with a clanging thud upon the floor of the tower where they stood embraced with flames dancing all around them.
“Here again!” Lancelot laughed, and then Elaine was laughing, too, as he lifted her and spun her round.
“Am I mad?” she demanded, breathless.
“You ask me that?” Still laughing, he bent and slipped a hand beneath her knees, sweeping her up into his arms. “Which way, my lady, to the door?”
She pointed. “There.”
The flames died as he stepped into them, and he grinned down at her, leaning forward to gaze out the window. “Your sense of direction leaves something to be desired.” He shifted her in his arms. “Look.”
“Is it a feast day?” she asked, gazing through the narrow slit. “Why is no one at work? There is Torre—and Lavaine! When did he arrive? And look, ’tis Sir Gawain! And Sir Dinadan, and see, Lancelot, there are Bors and Lionel and Ector. But where—oh, there he is, do you see Galahad? How big he looks!” She looked up at Lancelot, her eyes wide. “It was true?” she whispered. “I have been in here a twelvemonth?” She touched his face with shaking fingers. “I am sorry; I should have believed you—”
“Why? The last time we met, I was a madman.”
“But not now.”
“No, not now,” Lancelot said as he bore her down the stairway. “Through God’s grace, I heard you call and found myself in time to come to you.”
Elaine leaned her head against his shoulder. “What of the Lady?” she asked. “She was so angry with me. Why did she let us go?”
“Avalon has its own laws. I do not understand them, but I know when they are at work. Nothing less would have brought the Green Knight to his knees to me!”
“But do you think—will she come for you again?”
“No. The Lady has spoken. She is finished with the world of men.” He grinned, his dark eyes alight with happiness. “At least for now. In a hundred years or so she may change her mind, but she is done with me for good, and I am but a man.”
“How very fortunate.” Elaine looked up at him through her lashes, wondering that she still remembered how. “A man is precisely what I want.”
“I should think a winsome lass like you could have any man she chose.”
“There is only one I have ever wanted.” She clasped him tightly round the neck. “And that is you.”
“I think you must be a little mad, but you’ll get no argument from me. For I am yours, Elaine, as I have always been and always will be.”
With that he kicked open the door and stepped out into the sunlight and the cheering of the crowd.
Chapter Forty-Eight
The feast lasted far into the night. Elaine and Lancelot slipped away soon after it began, and Brisen smiled as she watched them go, then retired to her own chamber off the kitchens. She found a small scrap of parchment sitting in her empty trunk and read it, a frown creasing her brow, before packing her belongings and shutting the lid firmly.
She lay down upon her narrow pallet and stared at the ceiling for a time, then rose and took the parchment from the table. She glanced at it again as she went out the door and after only the briefest hesitation, crumpled it and tossed it in the fire. She went through the hall, stopping now and then to exchange a greeting, and finally reached the door.
The night was cool as she walked quickly through the garden, past the tower where a candle glowed in Elaine’s window, and into the forest. Her steps led her to a small clearing where she lingered for a time, bidding a silent farewell to the place that had been both refuge and temple.
From there she wandered restlessly down the path to the river and sat upon the dock, watching the full moon ripple in the water until a sudden gust of icy wind drove her to her feet. She stood a moment, looking from the path to the boathouse, then walked the few steps to the door and opened it. Blinking in the dim light of a rushlight, she found Torre seated at the table.
“I thought you would not come,” he said.
“I had things to do,” she answered shortly.
“Now that you are here, come in and sit. If you would like, that is,” he added gruffly.
A cup and pitcher stood before him, but when he poured, she saw it was only water that he drank. Following her eyes, he said, “I’m not drunk, Brisen, if that’s what you are thinking.”
“I did wonder,” she admitted. “Everyone else is, after all.”
“Everyone else doesn’t have to be up at dawn.” He kicked a stool from under the table. “Are you going to sit down or not?”
She sat, wondering why she bothered. All they had to say to one another had been said long since. In the past twelvemonth, she doubted they had exchanged a dozen words, and those but empty pleasantries.
She had not seen him so closely for many months. Looking at him now, she saw again the young knight who had caught her heart in the surgeon’s tent so long ago. Since their return from Camelot, he had turned his energies to the management of Corbenic with the same single-minded zeal he had once given to debauchery. Both he and the manor had flourished.
It is finished, she thought. He is truly well at last. As he continued to sit silent, she glanced at the doorway. She, too, must be up at dawn, and the night was drawing on.
“Elaine told me you are leaving,” he said abruptly. “Is it true?”
“Yes. Sir Gawain mentioned that Lady Morgana is at Camelot. He kindly offered to let me ride with him.”
“But you can’t abandon Elaine! She needs you.”
Brisen smiled, tracing a pattern on the splintered table. “She and Sir Lancelot will be going to his home at Joyous Gard. It is a new lif
e for her. I doubt that she will miss me.”
“Others might.”
“I can’t think of anyone who would.”
Torre scowled, then gave a short, unwilling laugh. “There was a time,” he said, “when I thought you were a fiend. ‘Try again,’ you always said. And again and again and again. Even when I was half-dead with pain, you never would let up.” His eyes, always so changeable, shone leaf green in the rushlight. “I hated you.”
“I know.”
“Why did you do it? I used to think you enjoyed watching me suffer.”
“No.” The table blurred before her eyes. “I never enjoyed it. But it had to be done.” She frowned, blinking hard. “I can’t abide waste.”
He said no more, and at last, with a little sigh, she stood. “Good night, Sir Torre.”
“Don’t you mean farewell?”
All at once he was on his feet. In two steps he stood before her. Brisen had never realized quite how tall he was. She was used to seeing him slouched, not standing straight as he was now. She had to tip her head back to look into his eyes. “You told me once what you thought of me,” he said, “and you were right. But I hope—I believe I have done better since.”
“You are … somewhat improved.” She tried to meet his gaze with cool composure, but it wasn’t easy when he looked at her that way, as though he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or … or …
His kiss was all she had imagined it would be. She pulled the tie from his hair and buried her fingers in his curls, her lips parting beneath his. “Until the new year,” he said huskily. “If you wish to leave then, I will not stop you.”
She stepped back quickly. “I’ll not be your leman, Torre.”
“I never thought you would.”
She waited for him to say more, but he did not. “Very well,” she said, speaking firmly to cover her confusion. “I will stay until the new year.”
His smile flashed out, and he drew her close, resting his cheek against her hair. “You won’t be sorry.” And slowly, with a gentleness she would not have imagined in him, he took her face between his hands and kissed her once again.
