Gawain (25 page)

Gawain relaxed his grip on his own sword. “Very well.”

“Don’t do it,” Ragnelle said in an undertone as he removed his cloak and unbuckled his scabbard. “This is all my fault—”

“Probably,” Gawain agreed, handing her his sword. “What happened?”

“His wife was delivered of a babe this afternoon—the others brought me here to help her. She’s a good lass—far too good for
him
—and bore a fine daughter. Well, he comes riding up and what does he say but that she’s worthless for not giving him a son, shouting at the poor girl until she was in tears. So I lit into him. I was that angry that I didn’t mind what I said.”

He regarded her a moment, then nodded briefly. “I see.”

“It had naught to do with you,” she said. “I don’t know why you had to go butting in.”

“Would you rather I had let him go on abusing you?”

“Well, no, but this is my fight, not yours.”

“Your fights
are
mine,” he replied. “Now, if you will stand aside—”

“I shan’t! The king won’t like this,” she said quickly, “you know he won’t. I suppose it wouldn’t kill me to beg Gudrun’s pardon—”

“You shall do no such thing.”

“But what if—”

Gawain took her by the elbows, lifted her, and set her down on the far side of the path. “Stand here. Keep silent.”

She opened her mouth to argue, then seemed to reconsider. “Aye, Gawain. Just as you say.”

“And no magic.”

“Magic?” She widened her eyes. “Me?”

“Aye, you. Promise me you won’t interfere.”

“But—”

“Your word on it.”

She scowled fiercely. “Oh, very well, you have my word.”

GUDRUN was a big man. He was not quite so tall as Gawain, but far heavier, with the thickly muscled arms of a blacksmith. The Saxons ringed them round, shouting out encouragement as the two stepped into the clearing and circled each other warily.

Gudrun landed the first blow, and Aislyn winced as his fist connected to Gawain’s jaw. Gawain rocked back, but did not fall, and he easily sidestepped Gudrun’s second attempt, which sent the Saxon staggering off balance, though he recovered himself quickly and scrambled out of reach. Gawain nodded thoughtfully as they went back to circling, and Aislyn—to the great amusement of the warriors—began to dance with impatience.

“Hit him!” she cried, demonstrating. “Knock him down!”

At that moment, Gudrun rushed forward. Gawain took one step to the side, easily evading the Saxon’s fist, and brought his own up. Gudrun rocked back with a grunt, tripped over his own feet and sprawled upon the forest floor.

Gawain glanced over to Aislyn with a grin. “Like that?” he called, and Aislyn’s answer was lost amid a burst of laughter.

“Sir Gudrun, shall we call it—” Gawain began, but Gudrun was already on his feet again, charging forward with his fists up and his head lowered. Without seeming to make the slightest effort, Gawain knocked him down again.

And again.

And once more, until the Saxon Torquil stepped forward and held up his hands. “It is decided,” he said. “Sir Gawain is the victor.”

Gawain was not even breathing hard as he buckled the sword harness across his chest, giving his shoulders a shake to settle the hilt. Gudrun was sitting up, spitting out a mouthful of blood and angrily refusing all offers of assistance. As she and Gawain turned to leave, Torquil stepped before them.

“Thank you,” he said to Aislyn and touched his brow. “
He
did not say it,” he added, jerking his chin toward Gudrun, “so I do.”

“You are quite welcome,” Aislyn answered, and led Gawain into the clearing where Lady Elga still lay, her baby in her arms. Several of the Saxon women were there, as well, standing about uncertainly. One, Gudrun’s mother, tried to stop them, but fell back at a sharp word from the girl, who gestured them closer. She looked up at Aislyn through reddened eyes and smiled wanly.

“Lady,” Aislyn said. “This is Sir Gawain. My—my husband,” she added. “He’s come to fetch me home.”

Elga’s eyes widened, but she only nodded and shifting the babe, held out her free hand. “Sir Gawain,” she said, “your name is known to me. Thank you for the—the gift of your lady’s help. I know not how we would have lived without her.”

She spoke with a simple dignity that touched Aislyn, and apparently Gawain, as well. He went down upon one knee and smiled. “May I see your daughter?”

Elga’s face lightened as she lifted the babe.

Gawain peered into the tiny, wrinkled face and said with every appearance of sincerity, “She is lovely.”

Tears shone in the girl’s eyes. “Thank you.”

“You rest now,” Aislyn said. She turned to Gudrun’s mother. “Rest,” she repeated. “You ken the word? She’s not to be moved, not for another day or two.”

The woman made a harsh sound and flapped her hands. “Go.”

“I’m going,” Aislyn said, “but you mind what I say. No moving. Not today, not tomorrow. Stay here.” She pointed to the earth.

“Go!” the woman repeated.

Aislyn hobbled off, but before they reached the horse, she saw the young redheaded Saxon hovering between the trees as though he could not quite make up his mind to approach them.

“Hi, there, you!” Aislyn called, gesturing him over. “Lady Elga mustn’t be moved for another day—two would be better,” she said, holding up two fingers. “She stays here and rests.”

The young man nodded. “Two days. Yes.”

“Gudrun might not want to wait,” Aislyn began.

“Gudrun.” The young man turned his head and spat.

“Right then, we understand each other well,” Aislyn said.

The boy looked at Gawain. “Hawk of May,” he said, “I thank you.” He touched his chest with a clenched fist, then turned and ran into the forest.

“What—?” Gawain began.

“He’s in love with her, poor wight,” Aislyn said. “But mayhap he’ll see she isn’t moved. I wouldn’t put it past that old bitch to have them rig a litter today—and drag it over every rut and hillock betwixt here and wherever it is they come from.”

Gawain said nothing more as he helped her mount, then swung himself into the saddle. They rode on for a time, and then he said, “What does the old woman have against her?”

“She’s Gudrun’s mother,” Aislyn explained, “and the girl is a peaceweaver. That means—”

“I know what a peaceweaver is,” Gawain said. “It is a role the Saxons honor highly.”

“The men do. The women see it a bit differently. Yon Saxon laddie explained it—you know, the one that said it must be fists. He likes Lady Elga,” Aislyn said drowsily. “All the men like her. So far as they’re concerned, the fighting’s over and that’s the end of it. But it seems the women have a harder time accepting changed conditions. The peace is not in their hearts—that’s how he put it. Bit of a poet, or so he seemed to me, for all he barely speaks our tongue.”

“A poet?” Gawain snorted. “Those Saxons know naught of poetry. They are savages—”

“No, they’re not. They’re men like any others—fierce in battle but all knees and elbows when it comes to women’s matters. Yet nice enough for all that,” she added on a yawn. “When we were wetting the babe’s head, they were all mannerly enough—more so than some other knights I’ve met.”

“You drank with them?” he asked, surprised.

“Aye, and good mead they had, too. I’d like to know the trick of brewing it . . .” She leaned her cheek against his back, then drew away. “I wish you wouldn’t wear your sword like that. Why don’t you get a hip scabbard?”

“A
hip
scabbard?”

“Half the knights at court are wearing them, and they look right handsome, too.”

“Oh, aye—right up until the moment they need to draw their sword and find it tangled in their cloaks! Then they just look dead.”

“Well, it makes a cruel hard pillow,” Aislyn grumbled, “and those Saxons had me up just after dawn. Can we not stop a bit?”

“We’ll be late enough already—”

Not late enough for me,
she thought, wondering how to best convince him to return her to her hut. “’Tis a pretty wood,” she said, “and the evening is fine. We can get an early start tomorrow. Oh, go on, you’re not in all that much of a hurry to get back, are you?”

“No, I suppose not.” He looked around the glade as though seeing it for the first time, and his eyes lit in the way they used to do so long ago as he took in the running brook, its surface glittering beneath the westering sun, and the deep violet shadows beneath the hanging branches. “Aye, you are right, this is a bonny spot . . . but unless yon Saxon laddie gave you provisions, we’ve naught to eat.”

“A night’s fast won’t hurt us. Unless,” she added, struck by a sudden inspiration, “d’you think there are any fish in that stream?”

That caught his interest as she had known it would. He dismounted and helped Aislyn down, then hung Gringolet’s saddle on a branch and looped the reins over it. The stallion bent his head and began to pull at the thick grass as Gawain walked to the bank and crouched to peer into a pool. “Look at them all! If only I had a line . . .”

“We could use my shawl as a net,” Aislyn suggested. She hiked up her skirts, tucking them into her girdle, and chose a spot upstream from the pool where the water ran shallow, enjoying the feeling of it on her feet, cool enough to soothe but not so cold as to make her bones ache. “I’ll stand here and you can drive them toward me,” she said, spreading her shawl before her.

Gawain regarded her for a moment, no doubt reflecting on the improbability of catching anything by that method, but then he shrugged and snapped two leafy branches from the tree above his head. “Move to your left a bit,” he said, pulling off his boots.

Aislyn was pleased to see him grin as he waded barefoot into the brook. “Ready?”

She grasped the edges of her shawl. “Go on.”

His face was intent as he peered into the water, and slowly he began to move in her direction, sweeping the branches to either side. “There!” he cried, surprising her, and she pulled the shawl tight, lifting it into the air. The unexpected weight of it sent her reeling, but he ran to her and caught her before she fell.

“Are you all right?”

“Aye, I’m fine—and look!” She held the wriggling shawl aloft. “I got one!”

“So you did! Two, in fact.” He laughed as he took it from her. She laughed, as well, feeling a rush of pride when he said, “Well done!”

“Shall we try for another?”

“Are you up to it?”

“Oh, aye.”

By the time dusk gathered beneath the tree trunks, the fish were cleaned and Aislyn was washing her hands in the water. Up on the bank, Gawain was adding dry grass to the tiny blaze he’d kindled. His cheek was a bit red and his lip had begun to swell, but for all that, he looked happier than she had seen him since she arrived at court. She stood a moment, watching him plant two forked branches beside the fire, which would hold another branch upon which their three trout were impaled.

By the time she made her way up the slope, Gawain was stretched full length beside the fire, his expression pensive. “What are you thinking?” she asked, sitting down upon a boulder.

“About the bairn,” he said, surprising her. “Such a wee small thing . . .”

“Big enough,” Aislyn said, shuddering as she remembered the hours it had taken to bring her forth. “And sturdy, too. I think she’ll do well enough.”

“Aye.” Gawain smiled a little, but his gaze was wistful as he stared into the flames. “Gudrun is a fool.”

“That he is, but he’s a sorry fool tonight,” Aislyn said, but Gawain’s expression did not lighten.

“Do you have any faith, Ragnelle?” he asked after a moment, his eyes flicking up to her face.

“Yes,” she said, the answer slipping out before she stopped to think. “At least—well, for a long time I did not. I was brought up to believe one way, you see, and I kept all the rules as I was bidden. I felt I’d lived up to my side of the bargain, so when I needed help and it didn’t come for the asking, I gave up the whole business as a bad job. But now . . . well, now I think I didn’t quite understand. I still don’t,” she said honestly, “but I believe there is something . . . not a stern judge to fear, or a huckster who trades favors for obedience, but . . . something too beautiful to bear, just beyond our sight. I can feel it here,” she added, gesturing around the dusky clearing toward the stream, where a pearly mist hung over the singing water.

“Aye.” Gawain nodded. “Aye, I can, as well.” He sighed deeply, then smiled and sat up to hang the trout over the fire.

The fish were excellent. Only when the last morsel had been finished did Aislyn notice that her skirts were still clinging damply to her legs. She lowered herself from the rock where she’d been sitting with a groan.

“Are you all right?” he asked, putting out a hand to help her down.

“Just a bit creaky in the joints.” She leaned against a tree and rubbed her shoulder. “I hate being old,” she burst out, surprising both of them.

“You did too much,” he said. “I’m sorry—”

“No, no, it isn’t that. A few more aches don’t matter.”

“Then what is it?” he asked, stretching out on his side and propping his head on his hand. “Go on, I want to know.”

“You look at me and see a hideous old woman, but inside, in here—” She touched her heart. “—I’m still a lass.”

Gawain stirred the fire with a twig. “What were you like . . .”

“When I was young?” She laughed without humor. “You won’t believe it, but I was a beauty.”

“Oh, I believe it,” he said quietly. “I can see it in your eyes.”

She looked away, blinking hard.

“And I don’t think you’re hideous.” He touched her hand. “Truly.”

She let out a sound, half a sob and half a snort of disbelief. “You’re a good man, Gawain.”

His lips twisted in a smile. “Is that why you left me?”

Hope flared in her, so bright and sharp that it was close to pain. It wasn’t love he felt—not the sort that a man feels for a woman he desires—but it was something. Could it be enough to break Morgana’s spell?