Gawain (2 page)

“Did you think some simple goose girl would alter my opinion?” Gawain demanded, his lip curling in a contemptuous smile. “I knew quite enough about women before I started out, and greater knowledge has only confirmed my worst suspicions.”

“Well, I still think it’s a grand marriage they want,” Arthur said a little grumpily. “It’s what most of them said, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but the question isn’t what most women want—it is what all women desire.
All.
Which is precisely why it is impossible. Arthur, you
must
let me take this challenge for you.”

“Must, eh? Who is king here, I’d like to know?”

“You are. And you will go on ruling so long as I draw breath.”

Arthur laughed. “Oh, Gawain, I
am
fond of you! I honestly don’t think it has occurred to you that
some
heirs would take a very different view of the matter. A
clever
nephew would be pushing me forward with one hand and arranging his coronation with the other.”

“I will not rule—” Gawain began.

“You damn well will if I die without issue. That is what it means to be my heir. I chose you and I expect you to do your duty.”

Gawain let out a long breath and said with straining patience, “That is what I am attempting to do, sire—”

“Oh, so now it’s
sire
, is it?”

“—And what I
will
do. Arthur, I am taking this challenge.”

“I forbid it,” Arthur said. “And if you ask again—hello, what’s this? Oh, damn it all, I think he’s thrown a shoe.”

AISLYN stood, resting a hand against the tree trunk, absently brushing a strand of red-gold hair from her eyes as she peered down at the forest path. Her heart stuttered when she glimpsed a flash of crimson between the leaves, still far off in the distance. King Arthur. It must be. And another rider, no doubt his squire. Though they were too far off to make out their words, she was almost sure she caught the sound of laughter. King Arthur must be either a brave man or an utter fool. Did he not realize he was riding to his death?

She settled down again, her back against the tree trunk, bare feet dangling above the road. Another few minutes and he would be upon her. What would she do then? Only a fool would throw away the security she had worked so hard to gain, and a fool Aislyn certainly was not. She’d been one once, but now she was . . .

The witch in the wood. That’s what they called her. Someone to be approached only as a last resort. The peasants never spoke to her; they never even came as far as the door of the abandoned charcoal burner’s hut she had taken as her own. If they had, she wouldn’t answer. They left their offerings of food and cloth on the stump and when they returned, they found whatever potion it was they needed. It had been a good enough arrangement for the first few years, when she desired nothing but solitude, but now . . .

“Not much of a life, is it?” she asked a squirrel on the branch above her, but its only answer was a flip of the tail before it vanished up the trunk.

No, it wasn’t much of a life, but at least she was alive. Which she would not be if Queen Morgause learned who had foiled her plot against King Arthur’s life.

Of course Morgause was behind this. Aislyn knew her former mistress too well for doubt. The riddle was one Morgause had used of old, and the entire business had been carefully designed so no blood guilt would stain the queen’s white hands. The challenge accepted freely by the king, the champion to do the deed itself—oh, it was clever, but Aislyn had never taken Morgause for a fool.

She was, after all, the reason Aislyn had spent five years hiding in this forest. Morgause still sought her former pupil—and the grimoire Aislyn had stolen from her, the queen’s own book of spells—and would not give up the hunt until one of them was dead. So far Aislyn had managed to elude her, but what now? She, Aislyn, the witch of the wood, held a king’s life in her hand. What was she to do with it?

To save him was to reveal herself, for even if Morgause did not guess from whom the answer came, she would bend all her considerable powers to the problem. Yet to simply sit and let the king ride past was tantamount to murder. Which would it be? His life or hers? Or was there a way both could be saved?

She had no proof, nothing but her own word against that of a queen who was, moreover, King Arthur’s half sister. Would the king believe her? Even if he did, would he thank her for such information? Would he not want to hush up the entire matter . . . including the messenger?

She had asked herself these questions a thousand times over the past few days, and the answers still eluded her.

The sound of a horse’s whinny shattered her reverie. They had stopped; the king was off his mount. The moment of decision was upon her. She alone could stop Morgause. She alone could save the king. And then where would she run?

“Oh, bugger it,” she muttered, jumping down to land noiselessly upon the path. “I’ve nothing else to do.”

The king hadn’t seen her. She straightened, smiling as she opened her mouth to call out to him. She stood thus, her mouth agape, then turned and stepped behind a tree, peering cautiously around its trunk.

That was no squire with Arthur. It was
him
. The one person in the world Aislyn hated more than Queen Morgause: Morgause’s eldest son, Gawain.

He looks just the same
was her first thought; her second was that he had changed almost out of recognition. His hair was still as golden fair as ever, though he no longer wore it loose, but drawn back severely from his brow. Five years had stripped the last boyish roundness from his face; his cheekbones were more prominent, his jaw squared, and his mouth was set in a hard line, as though he had forgotten how to smile. She thought he might have gained an inch or two across the chest, though that could be a trick of her imagination, or the effect of the glittering mail he wore beneath a snow-white surcoat.

But he was still Gawain, still the fairest man she had ever seen, sitting proudly on his destrier—

—Gringolet. Gringolet, nearly as famous as his master: Sir Gawain the Fair, they called him, Sir Gawain the Courteous—Sir Gawain, the Hawk of May, First Knight of Camelot, and heir to Britain’s throne.

Sir Gawain, the faithless churl who had professed undying love for her—and then abandoned her to almost certain death.

Aislyn had scarcely noticed the other man, bent low over his horse’s hoof, until King Arthur glanced up, saying, “It’s all right. I think it’s just a stone.”

Aislyn had expected Arthur to be older, for she could scarce remember a time when he had not sat on the throne. Now she remembered that he had been little more than a boy himself when he was crowned; he still had some way to go before he would see thirty, and looked even younger than his years. He was not a handsome man—or perhaps it was unfair to judge him with Gawain so near—but he had a kind face.

If only it wasn’t Gawain with him! She could not reveal herself to
him
, it would be madness, though almost worth the danger to see the expression on his face. Oh, how satisfying it would be to tell him precisely what she thought of him in words honed to perfection during five long and lonely years! The temptation was near unbearable, save for the fact that her satisfaction would be short-lived . . . as would she, most likely.

But now that she had seen the king, she would not let him pass without such help as she could give him.

Well, there was only one thing to do, though she sighed a little to remember the care she had taken with her appearance today. If she was going to meet the king—as she had been almost sure she was—she’d wanted to look her best. It had been a long time since any man had seen her as she really was, and she’d been looking forward to the king’s reaction when she stepped out of the trees.

Leave it to Gawain to spoil all her fun.

Well, she amended, hurrying back to the oak where her satchel hung upon a branch, perhaps not
all
. Now that she came to think of it, this could be even more amusing than she’d hoped.

She mixed the potion with the ease of long practice and downed it in a gulp, grimacing at its bitterness. A small moan escaped her as it began to work, but she was accustomed to the pain of transformation now. A few moments later, she reached out a gnarled hand to fumble in her bag, and sighing, emptied the contents of a small vial over herself, her nose wrinkling in distaste as a sickening odor stung her nostrils. Taking up a stout stick, she turned back toward the path.

“I almost have it,” Arthur was saying when Aislyn hobbled between the trees. The king’s tawny head was bent as he probed the hoof with his dagger. “Son of a donkey! Stand still! I won’t hurt you, if you would just—Gawain, hold his head for me, would you?”

Gawain dismounted and took hold of the bridle. The king’s horse stilled instantly at his touch.

“It’s deep . . . but if I can just . . . There!” Arthur set the hoof down and sheathed his dagger. “I don’t think any harm’s done, but—”

“Arthur, King of Britain!”

Arthur turned. Aislyn had to give him credit; he did not scream or even flinch . . . much. And he controlled his instinctive start almost instantly. He even managed a smile; a rather sickly smile, true, but she was impressed that he had made the effort. Most men, confronted with the crone that was Aislyn’s particular creation, turned tail and fled.

“Grandmother,” he said politely. “How may I serve you?”

“Oh, how courteous!” Her laugh was a truly hideous cackle, one in which she took great pride. “But it is I who desires to serve you.”

“I thank you,” Arthur said, and amazingly, he did look grateful. “But I have no need—”

“Do not be so quick to spurn my gift, Arthur, King of Britain, he who rides to his own death!”

No sooner had the last word left her lips when Gawain’s sword was in his hands. He braced himself and cast a quick, assessing glance to either side of the path.

“Put up your weapon, Hawk of May! I bring not danger, but salvation to your king. Would you know the answer you have sought, King Arthur? I can give it to you!”

“You can? Well, I call that lucky—see, Gawain, I told you it would turn out well! How very kind of you, Grandmother.” The king’s smile was so unaffected and so charming that Aislyn felt the warmth of it even where she stood.

“Come here, Arthur King,” she croaked, crooking one twisted finger. “What I have to say is for your ear alone.”

“Don’t do it.” Gawain stepped before the king, drawn sword at the ready. “Sire, I mistrust this . . .”

“Lady?” Aislyn suggested.

“Witch,” he finished flatly.

“Gawain, what are you thinking?” Arthur cried, pushing him aside. “Pay him no mind, good dame. He’s a bit unreasonable about magic, but he means no harm.”

“Does he not, my liege? I beg leave to differ. Men always seek to slay that which they fear.”

Gawain lifted his perfectly sculpted chin. “I fear no woman.”

Aislyn smiled. Arthur fell back a pace; Gawain paled, the sword trembling briefly in his grasp before he managed to control it. “Come here, my liege,” Aislyn crooned, “come and I shall tell you the answer to your riddle.”

“There
is
no answer.” Gawain had recovered swiftly; he faced her, all belligerent male arrogance. “The question is impossible.”

“I daresay it is—to such as you. But methinks your king has more wisdom.”

Arthur took a few steps toward her, then halted, looking as though he might be sick. The stench, Aislyn had always thought, was a particularly good touch. She did not smile again—no need to terrify the poor man—but worked her jaw so the lower tusk slid against the upper with an unpleasant grinding crunch.

Arthur winced but held his ground. “Yes, Grandmother? What is it you want to tell me?”

So here it was. This had been amusing, but the moment she spoke, the fun would be over and the trouble would begin.

Once Morgause realized that the king had slipped through her grasp again, her anger would be terrible. Aislyn did not grudge the king his life—now that she had met him, she was glad to be of service—but she could not discount her danger.

I might escape,
Aislyn thought.
I have before. But how much longer can I trust to luck?

It was her problem, not the king’s, one assumed of her free will, and there was no point in whinging about it now. What galled her was that Gawain should ride merrily back to Camelot, leaving her behind to face his mother’s wrath.

Again.

No, not again. Not this time.

The plan dropped into her mind, perfect and complete. She would be as safe as she could be, and Gawain . . . The sound of her own laughter startled her, but the harsh cackle only made her laugh the more. Yes, she would do it. Let Gawain see how it felt to be betrayed by honor. Let him fully taste the misery of doing the right thing and losing everything that mattered most.