Gawain (17 page)

“It is kind of you to say so, but—”

“There’s no kindness in speaking the truth. I know what I saw.” She sat down on the edge of the bed. “Tell me about Sir Lancelot du Lac.”

“He is the son of King Ban—”

“And you know that for a fact?” she interrupted.

“I know what the king has said. How
he
knows, I never asked, but I’m sure Sir Lancelot has proved his claim.”

“Hmph. The Lady of the Lake is a mystery, but everyone agrees she is a powerful enchantress at the least. I reckon she gave her foster son a little extra protection before sending him out into the world. That is, if he’s not her
real
son. How do you know he’s even human?”

Gawain looked startled. “Of course he’s—”

“Have you ever seen him bleed?”

“Yes. He was wounded in his first battle—a glancing blow, but it did bleed.”

“Well, that’s something,” she allowed. “But still—”

“I’m sure he is exactly who he says he is,” Gawain said firmly. “And he won today fairly.”

“He did not. I’m telling you, I saw—”

“Whatever you saw—or thought you saw—goes no farther than this chamber. You haven’t said anything of this to anyone else, have you?”

“Well,” Aislyn said reluctantly, “I did mention it to the king.”

“Oh, God.” Gawain leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes. “What did he say?”

“To hold my tongue or he’d have me gagged. He seemed to think I was saying it to shame you—”

“As it would have done had it gone any further. Just let it be, I beg you.”

“It isn’t right,” she protested. “He’s fey, I tell you, and he beat you unfairly—”

“Fairly or unfairly, it is done. I will not complain of it, and I forbid you to do so.”

“Don’t you think the king should know what sort of knight he’s welcoming to court?”

“Sir Lancelot has given me no reason to doubt his loyalty. He is an exceptionally skilled warrior, devoted to the king—”

“And to the queen,” Aislyn muttered.

“And to the queen,” Gawain repeated steadily. “He is her champion, after all, and her friend, and if the king has no complaint of that arrangement, it is not my place—or yours—to question it.”

He rose stiffly, stifling a groan. The shirt fell to the floor. He bent to retrieve it, then halted, one hand moving to his bound ribs. Aislyn tried not to stare as he eased his way onto the bed.

“I could give you something for the pain,” she offered, “that is, if I had my bag.”

He hunched on the edge of the bed, looking miserable, but shook his head.

“Don’t be a fool,” she said sharply. “If you go and marry a witch, it’s only sensible to let her use her magic to good purpose.”

He turned his head and regarded her intently. “Are you a witch? Truly?”

She snorted. “You seemed sure enough the first time you laid eyes on me.”

“I was wrong to say that. You surprised me, appearing so suddenly that day, but that does not excuse my rudeness.”

“Well, my looks are against me,” she conceded. “Live long enough to gain a bit of wisdom and a few warts, and most men will cry witch without thinking twice. What is a witch, really, besides a woman who’s old and a bit cleverer than the men who fear her? What passes for magic with most folk is just a smattering of herb lore and telling people what they want to hear.”

“For most folk, that might be true,” he said quietly. “But you forget, or perhaps you do not know who my mother is.”

“Oh, I know well enough. And as she’s neither old nor full of warts, they call
her
an enchantress. A much nicer word, isn’t it, than witch? And before you ask again, I’ll answer your question. I know a bit of herb lore, and I know a bit of magic, too. The one you don’t much care for—fair enough. Having the Queen of Air and Darkness for a mum could sour any man on magic. But that’s no reason to keep me from using my other talents, especially when you need them.”

Gawain braced his arms, making the muscles leap, and eased himself back against the bolster with a hiss of pain. “There’s probably a flaw in that argument, but I hurt too much to find it now. Hand me that leather purse on the table.”

GAWAIN fished inside his purse, which was stuffed full of odds and ends. “What the devil do I have in here?” he muttered irritably, and finally his fingers touched the little key. He handed it to Ragnelle, saying, “Your bag is in the trunk.”

He was faintly ashamed of making such a pother over a cracked rib or two, but there wasn’t anyone to see but Ragnelle. He watched her unlock the trunk, wondering if he’d done wrong. Morgana had been insistent about the bag . . . but he did not need any woman, aunt or not, to tell him how to manage his own wife.

He made to toss his purse on the table, then changed his mind and upended it on the bed. A shower of coins fell onto the coverlet, mixed with a handful of stones he’d picked up to mark one battle or another, a twig—why was he carrying a twig? Oh, it was rosemary—he remembered now, he’d plucked a bit from his father’s grave, meaning to press it, but the leaves had long since crumbled into dust. A bit of twine, tangled with a twist of red-gold . . . oh.

He picked up the braid, which had been twisted into a circle and tied with a bit of ribbon, carefully brushing the rosemary dust from the strands glistening in his palm. He hadn’t looked at it in years. But he always knew it was there, a secret talisman shielding him from pride. From folly.

From love.

He should throw it in the fire. Many a time he’d started to, but something always held him back.

He closed his fingers on the braid as Ragnelle appeared beside him. “Here,” she said, offering him a cup. “Drink this down.” He was careful to give no sign of his revulsion as their fingers brushed; she had been kind to him and he would not offend her willingly.

“I thought it would be bitter,” he said, handing back the empty cup. “My mother’s potions—”

“I am
not
your mother.”

He sighed, relaxing back against the pillow. “God be thanked for
that
.”

“You don’t like her much, do you?” Ragnelle asked as she tidied her things away. “Your own mother. Why not?”

“I have my reasons,” Gawain said shortly, his fingers clenching on the braid.

“What are they?” Ragnelle asked, pulling the stool beside the bed and sitting down.

“It is a long story . . .”

“I’ll stop you when I’m bored,” she said, and began to gather the scattered coins from the counterpane.

“My mother has certain . . . ambitions.” He stopped, wondering what he was thinking of to speak of such things to a stranger.

Even if she was his wife.

“Oh, aye,” she said easily, “’tis common knowledge your father led the rebellion against King Arthur all those years ago, and there’s not a woman in Britain who didn’t suspect your mother was behind it. She’s the Queen of Air and Darkness, after all, and your father—well . . .”

“He was just a man,” Gawain finished. “Though in truth, they were of one mind over the rebellion. But once defeated, my father accepted the king’s pardon, and his terms.”

Unto death.
The words seemed to echo in the little chamber. Morgause stared at him, eyes narrowed.

Gawain’s limbs were heavy, and it was very peaceful in his chamber as Ragnelle sorted through the pile on the bed. She dropped the coins back into his purse, then the stones, as well, and began to untangle the twine.

“And your mother?” she prompted. “Did she accept King Arthur’s terms, as well?”

Gawain smiled grimly. “She merely changed her tactics.”

“Really?” Ragnelle asked, her eyes bright with curiosity. Strange, but he’d never really noticed her eyes before. The lids were drooped and wrinkled, but the irises were a very clear light green. “What did the Queen of Air and Darkness do?”

“She knew I was the king’s man, but she still hoped to win me to her side,” Gawain said. “So she used a maiden— her apprentice—to do her work. The maiden was . . . very beautiful. I knew her only as my mother’s guest, I had no idea she was . . .”

“What?”

“A sorceress.” He laughed shortly. “I suppose you’d call that a pretty word for witch.”

“It’s all one to me.” Ragnelle wound the twine around her fingers. “So what did she do, this beautiful maiden? Put a spell on you?”

“No. She was meant to, but—no.”

“Botched it, did she?” Ragnelle’s eyes glinted before she lowered them again to the twine. “What happened? Did she turn you into a toad? Vanish in a puff of smoke?”

Gawain managed a wan smile. “She did not even attempt it.”

“Then how did you find her out?”

“Aislyn told me. That was her name,” he said, running his thumb across the soft strands in his hand. “Aislyn. She told me all. How she was meant to seduce me, then use foul sorcery to bind me to her will. Which would, of course, have been my mother’s will, for Aislyn was completely in her power.”

“She told you all that, did she?” Ragnelle asked. “Now why would she do that?”

“She said . . . she said it was for love of me.”

Ragnelle snorted. “A likely tale!”

Gawain bristled at her tone. “Is that so impossible?”

“Did
you
believe it?”

“No.”

“Well, then, there we are. I imagine she thought herself discovered. You suspected her already, didn’t you?”

He shook his head. “I had no idea.”

Ragnelle set his purse on the table. “Then what did she have to gain from telling you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Oh, come now, you’re not trying! Mayhap your mother sent her—”

“No,” he said decidedly. “Aislyn came on her own.”

“Then it sounds as though she had turned against her mistress—but why would she do that? Did she ever say?”

“She said . . . she told me she had not really understood what she agreed to.”

“Lost her nerve, eh?”

“No, she found herself,” Gawain said slowly. “And she was frightened at how close to evil she had drifted.”

“Weak,” Ragnelle muttered, shaking her head. “I expect she wanted you to save her.”

Gawain bent his head, remembering Aislyn begging him to take her with him. “Yes,” he said. “She did ask—but I was too angry to think clearly. How could I trust anything she said? She was a witch. And she had
lied
to me . . . so many lies.”

“That hurt you,” Ragnelle murmured. “Aye, of course it did.”

He nodded without speaking, ashamed that even now the memory should cause him pain.

“Did you love her?”

“Yes,” he whispered. “More than— But I left her anyway.”

Ragnelle was silent for a time, studying his face, then gave a harsh cackle of laughter. “Well, good for you. Why burden yourself with a foolish girl who would only make your life a misery? If she’d drifted once, she likely would again. I daresay she’s gotten herself into some new mischief by this time.”

No.
Gawain’s throat was oddly constricted; he stared down at his clenched fist, blinking hard.

“There, now, lie back, just put your head down,” she said, her voice gentler than he had ever heard it. “You’ve earned your rest. It’s been a hard day, hasn’t it?”