Gawain (23 page)

Gawain sat down on the bed and raked a hand through his hair. “It is my duty to find her.”

“Be damned to that! I’m sure Arthur can have this farce annulled, particularly as she has now deserted you. I mean to say, it isn’t a
real
marriage.” He felt his cheeks burn. “That is, you didn’t . . . did you?”

“Nay, nay, there was nothing of that sort between us. Although,” he added with a grin, “Ragnelle did her best to give the impression that there was.”

Gaheris stared at him. “And that is
amusing
?”

“You can be sure I did not find it so at the time. But—if you had seen their faces—ach, never mind, ’tis impossible to explain.”

He began to rise, but Gaheris put a hand on his shoulder. “Try.”

Gawain sighed. “Camelot is a fine place, Gaheris, but we are none of us quite so noble as we like to think ourselves. That is not a pleasant truth to have flung in one’s face, but it is a thing worth knowing.”

“Yes, I daresay it is,” Gaheris said slowly. “But if you want my opinion—”

“Oh, I have a choice? Well, then—”

“
Will
you be quiet and listen!” Gaheris could hardly believe he was speaking to Gawain in such a tone, but he was more than uneasy now: he was frightened. “Don’t you understand what you’ve been telling me? This witch has deliberately deceived the court about your marriage—and that is no joke, Gawain, it is a trap. Not only that, but now she is attempting to turn you against your friends and kin. No, hear me out,” he urged as Gawain began to protest. “You take her side in everything, even when she is clearly in the wrong, and dismiss the king’s concerns as moaning. Gawain, that isn’t like you! Can you not see how you’ve changed? Think back on everything you’ve said, and then tell me again there is no harm in her!”

Gawain shook off his hand and stood. “You don’t understand.”

“I think I do.”

Gawain shot him an exasperated look. “Look you, Gaheris, this is all much simpler than you would have it. I married Dame Ragnelle. You can dispute my reasons or hers, but in the end they make no matter. We are wed. I vowed to honor and protect her and what I have sworn to do, I
do
.”

That, at least, sounded like Gawain, proud and stubborn as the devil. “But if your oath was given under—”

“Enough.”
Gawain swung the cloak over his shoulders, settling it so his sword hilt poked through the split in the fabric. “I don’t want to brangle with you, Gaheris, particularly not on your first night at court. Believe it or not, I
am
glad you are here.”

“So am I. Lothian is a bad place these days.”

“Ach, that’s right, you were going to tell me about your quarrel with our mother. As soon as I return we’ll have a good, long talk.”

Gaheris sat for some time after his brother had left him, a worried frown creasing his brow. At last he went through the door and down the passageway. He was almost to his chamber when he turned back, and finding a page, asked him to run and see if the king would grant him an audience.

DAMN
Morgana. Damn her coming and going, sleeping and waking, damn her eyes and her hands and her feet and . . . and everything else,
Aislyn thought as she stopped yet again to detach a clinging branch from her skirt. Beneath the shelter of the trees, the air was warm and still, and the underbrush a mass of blossoms.
Very pretty,
she thought, though she would rather have kept to the road—if only she didn’t think Gawain might be on it, too. Not that she didn’t want to see him—she missed him sorely, another misery for which she had Morgana to thank—but she could not afford for him to find her yet.

She reached her hut at dusk and slipped inside. Her supper was a handful of nuts and a mug of water from the stream, and by the time she had finished, full dark had fallen. Too weary to kindle a fire, she lay down on her pallet and waited for sleep. It was long in coming, giving her plenty of time to reflect on how she had gotten into this pathetic mess and the unlikelihood of ever getting out of it again.

She had never stopped to measure the crone’s years, but now she found herself counting each beat of her heart and cataloging every ache and pain. How much time was left to her? What if Morgana did not return as promised? What if Gawain was called to battle? He could be gone for months or even years. What if some other lady caught his heart?

She twisted on the thin pallet, feeling the dampness of the earth beneath creep into her bones. Strange that she had never noticed before how uncomfortable it was. She had always cast herself down thoughtlessly and closed her eyes, drifting into sleep without a backward glance. But then, she had been young and strong—what adventures she might have had, what great deeds she might have accomplished had she not hidden herself away here! What was it Gawain had said?
In destinies sad or merry, true men can but try.

Coward,
she thought,
that’s what you are, skulking here for years while the world went on without you.
Had she but faced Gawain that first day in the forest and spoken her heart honestly, she would have known that his was hers and always had been. But he had never really known her—and she had never really known herself. Only Morgana had seen the truth. She
had
been selfish and irresponsible, and she had no one but herself to blame for her predicament.

If only I could go back, I would do it all so differently.
But there was no going back. She must go on and not fall into despair. Gawain was likely lost to her, but even if she could never have his love, she could live in such a way as to earn his respect—and more importantly, her own.

The next few days passed slowly. She saw no one but an elderly woman who lived high up on the hillside; the woman’s son, a shepherd, had begged Aislyn for a potion to cure his mother’s ague some winters back. Now when Aislyn puffed up the hill and introduced herself, she was greeted as an old friend. Sitting among drifts of wool, she learned that Sir Gawain had passed through the village on the day after Aislyn had left Camelot.

“He was seeking an old woman,” the shepherd’s mother said. “I thought it might be you.”

“What would Sir Gawain be wanting with me?” Aislyn asked. “Are you sure it wasn’t you he was after?”

They laughed together, and Aislyn obligingly put a charm upon the woman’s loom in return for half a loaf.

So Gawain had been here,
she thought, making her way carefully down the hillside to the forest. She wondered if he had given up or whether he would be back.

The next morning she woke to the sound of fists hammering on her door. For a moment she was entirely disoriented, then she remembered where she was and why, and thought with a sinking heart that Gawain had found her. “A bit of patience, if you would!” she called. “I’ll be there as soon as I can manage!”

Grunting, she raised herself to hands and knees, and using the wall for a handhold, slowly pulled herself upright.

“All right, you found—” she said as she flung open the door, then halted, speechless when she saw four warriors upon the doorstep.

Saxon
warriors. They towered over her, blocking the sunlight, barbaric, fierce, and terrifying. Their backs were to the sun, their faces shadowed. Light hair was oiled and twisted into complicated plaits that hung over broad shoulders. One carried an enormous bow, another a battle-ax, and all were armed with sword and dagger. Every instinct screamed for her to run, but even if she could have forced her legs to move, the warriors filled the only exit.

They seemed equally surprised at the sight of her. As one, they stepped back, and all at once, when the sun shone on their faces, Aislyn realized they were not merely Saxons, but men. The one who carried the battle-ax—who Aislyn now saw was little more than a boy with curling reddish hair—flung up his hands, fumbling his grip on the ax as his fingers twisted in what Aislyn imagined was a sign against the evil eye. The tallest, who wore a circlet of beaten bronze round his brow, bent to retrieve the fallen ax, lips curving in a sardonic smile as he handed it back to the lad.

If they’d come to kill her, they were going about it very oddly, she reflected, and straightened her back. “What do you want?” she demanded boldly.

The redheaded lad, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment, stepped forward. “We need a woman,” he said.

Aislyn leaned against the doorway and grinned. “Bit early in the day for that sort of thing, isn’t it?”

The boy’s face reddened, and the tall man beside him— who seemed to be their leader—laughed. “I am Torquil. We are escorts for my lady Elga, bound for Winchester. The lady—” He frowned, then sketched an arc before his belly. “It is—before her time. Yet she is . . .”

He clutched his stomach and groaned in such a lifelike imitation of a woman in labor that Aislyn couldn’t help but laugh. That he took it without insult impressed her. Any man prepared to set aside his dignity for the sake of accomplishing a mission so clearly foreign to his nature was a man to be reckoned with. For a moment she was reminded of Gawain and thought that the two of them could be friends.

If only they weren’t enemies. He
was
a Saxon, after all.

“Where are her women?” Aislyn asked suspiciously.

“There is but one.” Torquil sighed, clearly mastering his impatience with an effort. “The one knows nothing of . . . birthings. There is time, the lady said when we set out, much time. But now there is no time. We tried the vill, they slam the doors and send us here. You come.”

It wasn’t a question, but Aislyn pretended to consider it and Torquil did her the courtesy of pretending to allow her to do so. Another surprise, as the Saxons were said to be barbarous folk who knew naught of gentle manners.

“Aye,” she said, “I’ll come. Just let me fetch my bag.”

THEY found the lady in a small clearing. Like most Saxons, she seemed uncouthly tall, though Aislyn noted her broad shoulders and wide hips with approval, for strength would be needed to survive such a rude birthing as this was like to be. Her hair, caught back in a single plait as thick as Aislyn’s wrist, was not the butter-yellow of the men’s, but a soft honey-brown. She paced slowly round the clearing’s perimeter, pausing now and then to lean a hand against a tree, her expression one of deep concentration.

A serving girl sat on a fallen log, munching a hunk of bread and looking bored. A few men hovered about uncertainly, and greeted Aislyn with such relief that they scarcely seemed to take note of her appearance. Nor did it matter that she did not understand a word they said. When they bowed and touched their brows, their gratitude was plain enough.

The lady dismissed the men with a wave of her hand and a smile. The moment they had vanished, her smile did, as well, and the eyes she turned to Aislyn were wide and frightened.

“Good day, lady,” Aislyn said. “I’m Dame Ragnelle. Now, if you don’t mind . . .”

Aislyn had seen many births before, in her own home and at Morgause’s castle, but there had always been a midwife in attendance to take charge of things. During the short ride to the clearing, she’d cast her mind back over everything the midwives had said and done. She felt the girl’s swelling belly, and as far as she could tell, the baby seemed to be head down. “That’s all in order. Why don’t you take another turn about the clearing while I get things ready here?”

When the lady had gone out of earshot, Aislyn turned to the serving girl. “Get the fire going,” she ordered sharply, “and heat some water. And have those men dig me a good deep hole by yonder oak.” She pointed to a towering tree some distance from the clearing.

The maid looked up at her, uncomprehending, jaws working as she chewed her bread.

“Go on, get moving!”

“Bah, bah,” the maid said, and giggling at her own wit, she made a flicking motion with one hand.

Her laughter turned to a shriek as Aislyn seized her by the ear and dragged her from the log. “Heat. Water.” She twisted her fingers until the girl screamed. “You’ll mind me now, I’ll warrant! Hi, there!” she cried. “Who can understand what I say?”

“What is it?” The boy who had borne the battle-ax appeared between the trees, his gaze fixed on the lady, who had stopped on the other side of the clearing and was watching Aislyn with a small smile.

“I need hot water,” Aislyn said. “This lazy slut doesn’t seem to understand.”

The lad barked a harsh order to the serving girl, who slipped from the clearing, her expression sullen.

“Have someone dig by that tree,” Aislyn went on, pointing to the oak. “A good hole, mind you, not a scrape.”

“A—a hole? For what?”

“That’s my business,” Aislyn retorted sharply. “Just do as I say.”

She hobbled over to the lady and took her by the elbow. “Now, that’s better. Why don’t we keep walking and you can tell me when the babe was meant to come.”

Elga looked at her blankly, and with a sigh, Aislyn held her outstretched arms before her belly. “The babe,” she said slowly. “When did it—” She lowered her arms. “Drop?”

“Ah! Two—three days. My—my man’s mother says—” Elga drew in a sharp breath. “She says there is time. She says, go and come back and still many days—” Another pain gripped her, and when it passed, she said fiercely, “She hopes I die. But I will
not
.”

“That’s the spirit. But I’m sure it was just an honest mistake,” she added, though she could hardly keep the doubt from her voice. Anyone looking at this girl must have known that she was due in the straw at any moment.

“She lied. She hates me. I am peaceweaver, you see.”

“Piece weaver?” Aislyn repeated. “You mean with a loom?”

The girl laughed, revealing strong white teeth, and Aislyn could see that she was really quite attractive in her own way. “No, no, I bring the peace. Between our people. I marry the thane’s brother—he who was our enemy—and we have no more war between us.”