Gawain (15 page)

“Where did they go?” she asked Guinevere.

“Off to drink, no doubt, and make up their quarrel.”

Aislyn wondered why they couldn’t wait for the feast to drink together; it seemed odd that Lancelot had abandoned the field when he surely would have carried off the prize, which turned out to be a two-handed cup filled with silver coin, presented by the queen to a rather stunned-looking Sir Sagramore.

Maybe Lancelot was so wealthy he did not care, though he must be very wealthy indeed to turn down such a prize as that! She’d have to ask Dinadan about it at the feast.

But Dinadan was not in his usual seat in the hall. Nor was Sir Lancelot. The first course was finished, and the second, before Dinadan arrived, though Aislyn did not recognize him at first. He was escorted on either side by Sir Lancelot and another man—the Saxon, Gudrun—who held him firmly by the arms.

And he was wearing the yellow gown.

His armor was beneath; it gleamed through the many rents in the saffron fabric, which was stained now with earth and what looked like blood. She could not read his expression, for his head was bent, his tangled hair obscuring his face.

“My queen!” Lancelot cried. “I have brought a new damsel for your service!”

“G-good my lady,” Guinevere choked, “you are welcome here. Come, sit by me.”

Dinadan wrenched free of his captors. He turned, gathering the tattered hem, but on his first step he stumbled, half falling in a dreadful parody of a curtsy.

Knights beat upon the tables with their fists, convulsed with mirth, and the ladies shrieked with laughter. Guinevere bent double, one arm clasped across her middle, half sliding from her seat. Aislyn was reminded of a bear-baiting she had seen as a girl. Everyone had laughed at that, as well—but she had run off to be sick behind a bush.

She felt the same nausea now, the same pity and rage. But this time, she could do something about it.

She stumped into the center of the hall and stood before Lancelot, hands fisted on her hips.

“What’s this you’re playing at?” she demanded. “For shame, Sir Lancelot, to treat a brother knight so!”

Lancelot looked momentarily taken aback, but he soon recovered. “Why, Dinadan, it seems you have made a conquest! Does Sir Gawain know of this?”

“Watch yourself, lad,” Aislyn said quietly. “Your tongue is outrunning your manners—and your sense.”

“What is this?” the Saxon asked, raising his hand. “Begone, before I fetch you a clout to remind you of your place.”

Aislyn eyed him up and down. “Am I meant to be frightened? Of
you
?”

Lancelot caught the Saxon’s wrist. “Gudrun, don’t,” he said in a low voice. “The king wouldn’t like it.” He glanced about the hall, then smiled. “Lady Ragnelle, if you want this . . . damsel for your own service, you only need appeal to our gracious queen.”

The queen exchanged a glance with Lancelot and smiled. “Lady Ragnelle,” she said, “I will grant thy boon.”

Aislyn rolled her eyes and reached for Dinadan’s arm.

“In return for a favor from you,” the queen said.

“What’s that?” Aislyn asked suspiciously.

“We all
so
enjoyed your dance the other day,” Guinevere said. “Do you perform it again for us, I beg you.”

Dinadan raised his head. One eye was swollen nearly shut and blood oozed from a gash on his cheekbone. “Don’t,” he said to Aislyn. “I can take care of myself.”

“Quiet, you,” Gudrun growled, jerking him away. “Let the old woman dance for us. Go on,” he cried, raising his voice, “Dance!”

Aislyn didn’t know why she should mind. She’d been more than willing to make a fool of herself in the garden. But somehow that was very different than someone else forcing her to do it.

“Either you dance,” Gudrun added, pulling Dinadan forward so abruptly that he stumbled, “or
he
does.”

Aislyn cast a look about the hall, certain that someone would protest. But all she saw were the avid faces of people half starved for amusement, people who had lived so long in luxury that they had forgotten what it was to be poor and powerless—if they had ever known.

But Camelot wasn’t supposed to like this! It was meant to be different. Better. A beacon, Gawain had called it, and only now did she realize how very much she had wanted to believe him.

But he’d been wrong. This place was rotten to the core. When she could simply walk away, it had been easy to laugh at their pretension, but now it wasn’t funny anymore. Tears rose to her eyes, tears of helpless fury and shame and of sorrow for Gawain’s dream of Camelot.

“Well?” Gudrun demanded. “Why are you still standing there?”

Aislyn nodded. No point in slobbering, she told herself. Get on with it.

She put her hands on her hips and tipped her head back to look up at the queen. “Where’s the music? You can’t expect me to dance without music!”

Gudrun clapped his hands. “Dance!” he cried. “Dance!”

Others took up the cry, crashing fists or tankards on the trestles to the rhythm Gudrun set. “Dance!”

When Aislyn set her jaw and hopped from one foot to the other, they howled like beasts. She had just taken her second step when a voice sliced through the tumult like a blade.

“What in God’s name is going on here?”

Aislyn stumbled on the next step as she whirled, her heart lifting when she saw Gawain’s golden head above the flushed and sweating crowd. His face was set, only the flashing of his eyes betrayed his emotion as he strode between the trestles to stop before the dais. “Madam,” he said, bowing to the queen, “the king sends you greeting and bids me say he will be with you on the morrow.”

He turned, his gaze passing over the group in the center of the floor. “Sir Lancelot,” he said. “Pray explain the meaning of this.”

Lancelot’s cheeks were poppy red, but he managed an insolent smile. “It is a merely a jest,” he said. “A joke between friends.”

“A
joke
?” Gawain repeated incredulously, his gaze moving from Dinadan to Aislyn. “A
jest
?”

“We were having a bit of fun,” Lancelot went on. “A thing
you
wouldn’t understand.”

A few people laughed, but the laughter was uncomfortable. They knew they had done wrong. Yet they were angry, too, like children caught out in some mischief. They would not thank Gawain for this, she thought, nor forget how he had shamed them tonight.

“You are right, I don’t understand,” Gawain answered. “Perhaps Sir Dinadan would explain.”

“Ask your lady,” Dinadan said tightly. He tore the remnants of the gown from his shoulders, stepped out of the puddled fabric and walked from the hall. The people, silent now, parted to let him pass.

Gawain turned to Aislyn, his brows raised in question.

“They were making mock of Sir Dinadan,” she began steadily enough, “and I—but then . . .” She blinked hard, and when her vision cleared, she saw Gawain raise his hand and slowly, with great deliberation, strip off a glove.

For a moment, Aislyn thought—hoped—that he would strike Lancelot across the face with it, but he merely let it fall onto the yellow gown.

“Sir Lancelot,” he said with icy courtesy, “will you meet me in the lists tomorrow?”

Lancelot bent to pick up the glove, looking as though he’d been handed the keys to paradise. “Sir Gawain,” he answered with a sweeping bow, “it will be my pleasure.”

A cheer greeted Lancelot’s words, and Aislyn shook her head. Fools. Fools and children, that’s all they were. And now they had found a new champion, one who would not challenge them to be better than they were, but pander to the worst in them.

If Gawain was aware of the cheering, he gave no sign of it. “My lady,” he said, offering his arm.

Was he
mad
? He could have made a magnificent exit, head high and dignity intact. That was impossible with her hobbling along beside him. But he did not hurry her. The moment they were through the door, the laughter burst out, Lancelot’s rising above the rest.

Gawain was silent as they walked through the corridors to his chamber. “Please excuse me,” he said when they reached the door.

“Where are you going?”

“To the chapel.”

“Aye. But don’t you be staying up too late, now.”

“I won’t.”

She watched him go down the hallway. “Sir Gawain,” she called after him, and he turned, the torchlight falling on his face. “Mind you beat that rascal tomorrow.”

“I will do my best, but . . .” He smiled and his shoulders moved in the slightest of shrugs. “In destinies sad or merry, true men can but try.”

Of course he will win, she told herself as she stepped into the chamber. He is the best, isn’t he? If there is any justice in this sorry world, Sir Lancelot doesn’t stand a chance.

She stripped to her shift and hoisted herself onto the bed with a groan. She was weary half to death, her joints afire. If only she had her bag, she could have brewed something to ease the pain. But Gawain had taken it from her. Anger flared anew, then died when she remembered him striding into the hall, and in her mind, bugles and banners heralded his entrance.

What a tangle it all is, she thought drowsily, wrong and right so twisted together that it is impossible to pick out the knot. That Lancelot is dangerous . . . Gawain himself is dangerous . . . yet she could not deny that she’d been proud of him tonight.

He would not lose tomorrow. He
could
not.

’Tis but a joust, she told herself, drifting on the edge of sleep. Two men riding at each other with sticks. It doesn’t matter who knocks the other down. There was no reason to feel that the fate of Camelot was hanging in the balance . . .

And yet she did.

THOUGH it was the last match of the day, no one had slipped away early to the castle. Princes and duchesses, lords and ladies, knights and squires and pages and damsels—everyone, down to the meanest varlet or kitchen slut who could bribe or sneak their way into the stands were on their feet and shouting as Lancelot and Gawain rode to the royal pavilion to make their bows to king and queen before the joust.

They reached the royal pavilion at precisely the same moment. As neatly as though they had rehearsed it, they bowed their uncovered heads, gold and sable moving in perfect unison.

King Arthur stood. He had returned this morning, and Aislyn had not seen him until he joined her and Guinevere in the royal pavilion. He was very grand in his crimson robe with the jeweled crown upon his brow.

“Kindly bear in mind,” Arthur said, his keen glance evenly divided between the two knights, “that this is a courtesy match. We shall be most displeased if any injury results on either side.”

He was already displeased. That had been clear from the moment he arrived. He had hardly spoken two words to his queen, though Aislyn suspected he’d had plenty to say to her in private. She certainly looked like she’d been scolded soundly.

Lancelot nodded, acknowledging the king’s words. Aislyn wondered if it was fear or excitement that blanched the color from his face. Only Gawain looked himself, impossibly handsome and cool as a mountain tarn.

Arthur sat down. Having been dismissed, the two knights cantered back to their respective ends of the tourney field and accepted their lances from their squires. Lancelot was upright, leaning slightly forward, his lance held straight before him, while his mount—a breathtaking white stallion— pranced restively beneath him. Gawain sat easily in the saddle, as close to slouching as his armor would permit. His steed, Gringolet, stood flat-footed, looking as bored as his master.

Aislyn watched the marshal’s hand rising, rising—the stands were so silent now that she could hear the rapid thudding of her heart. And then the hand fell.

Gringolet took off like a shot from a crossbow. Lancelot’s mount was a bit slower off the mark, but soon found its pace. The two met at a flat gallop, and a cry went up as their lances crashed and splintered. Gawain reeled but kept his balance. Aislyn was on her feet, cheering as Lancelot’s shield spun through the air and he was knocked backward, feet flying from his stirrups, arms pinwheeling in a futile attempt to gain his balance. He was falling, falling . . . Aislyn fell abruptly silent, her mouth still open as Lancelot hung suspended, the force of his fall arrested as though an invisible hand had seized him by the collar. And then somehow he was upright again, clutching his horse’s mane as the animal slowed and stopped at the end of the lists.

The crowd went wild, stamping and screaming as Lancelot’s squire hurried forward to retrieve his shield and present it to him, along with a fresh lance.

That
couldn’t
have just happened . . . but it had. “Impossible!” the people cried. “A miraculous recovery!”

It
had
been impossible, that much was true, but Aislyn had seen the impossible before. She had
done
the impossible by transforming herself into a twisted hag and wedding the fairest knight in Camelot. She knew exactly how she had done it, too, as surely as she knew what had happened here today.

There was power in a name. And the name for what she had just witnessed was not
miracle
, but
magic
.

The marshal signaled the beginning of the second joust. This time Lancelot did not hesitate. He and Gawain met at a full gallop; again, their lances splintered and both knights reeled, though both kept their stirrups and their balance.

The crowd was turning. Aislyn could feel it. They sensed something was amiss, even if they could not say what it was. Now as many cried Gawain’s name aloud as Lancelot’s as the two knights accepted fresh lances from their squires.

A hush fell as the marshal cried the third and final ride. Aislyn was still on her feet, drawn taut as a bowstring. This time, she thought,
this
time Gawain must prevail. His cause was just, his skill so great that he had withstood a magical assault not once, but twice. He couldn’t lose now. He
couldn’t
.