Gawain (33 page)

Silence descended like a thunderclap. Sir Sagramore choked on a mouthful of mutton and no one even thought to pound him on the back. Sir Kay dropped his goblet with a clatter. Sir Griflet leaned so far back to catch a better glimpse of her that he tumbled off his seat.

Still Aislyn went on until she stood before the high table. The king gaped, his goblet frozen halfway to his lips. Guinevere looked from her lord to Aislyn, her eyes narrowed.

“My lord king,” Aislyn said. “I bid you good even. Will you permit me . . . ?” She stepped onto the dais and a murmur passed across the hall.

Aislyn held up a hand, asking for silence. When it had fallen, she bowed to the king and queen. “I thank you for your courtesy in receiving me. A few moments of your time are all I ask—yours and this gentle company’s.” She smiled, gesturing toward the crowded hall. “Good people, I have come to tell you a marvelous tale. Some of it you know already, but if you will be patient, I think I may surprise you.”

“Say on,” Arthur said graciously. “You have our full attention.”

“Thank you.” Aislyn flashed him a smile that brought a warm glow to his cheeks. “This tale begins with you, my liege, and what befell you in Inglewood Forest one day last spring. As you all know, our good King Arthur was set upon by a knight calling himself Somer Gromer Jour, and overset. This knight demanded that in return for your king’s life, he answer one simple question: what is it that all women desire? Was that not the condition, sire?”

Arthur nodded. “It was.”

“King Arthur had one year in which to find the answer. During that year he—and his heir and nephew, Sir Gawain—traveled the kingdom over, asking many women to enlighten them. They sought high and low, and during their journey collected a great tome of answers to this question. Some of these answers were wise and some were foolish, but, alas, none was the one King Arthur sought. He and Sir Gawain suspected as much, though—being men— they had no real idea.”

As Aislyn waited for the burst of laughter from the ladies to subside, she caught a flash of movement in the doorway at the far end of the hall, but it was only Sir Lancelot arriving late to the feast. Her heart lifted when she saw a tall, yellow-haired man behind him, but when he stepped into the light, his face was not Gawain’s, but that of a stranger.

“They set out on the appointed day,” she went on, “the king and Sir Gawain, with their book of answers. And I tell you, good people, I tell you in all honesty, that on that fine spring day, your king was riding to his death.”

The last of the laughter died; the people watched her, rapt.

“But something happened on the way—as surely you have guessed, for here sits your king, alive and well. And what happened was this: they met an old woman in the forest, and she was a hideous creature. Her back was bent in a hump, her skin sagged, her teeth—well, there is no need to describe her fully. Suffice it to say that she was a most
loathly
lady. But as wretched and hideous as she was, she possessed the one thing the king needed: the answer to his question. And she offered this to him . . . but not freely. I regret to say that this loathly lady asked a grievous tithe. In return for this answer—the one thing that could save King Arthur’s life, mind you, his only hope of escaping certain death—she demanded that his most loyal knight, his own nephew, Sir Gawain, take her to wife.”

She waited a moment, allowing the startled murmurs to subside as she searched the hall, but if Gawain was there, she could not find him. At last she held up her hand, and when silence had fallen, she went on.

“That Sir Gawain agreed should come as no surprise to those of you who know him. But I ask you now—which of you fair knights would have done the same? For you have all seen her. She has lived among you, has she not? You knew not why Sir Gawain had chosen to wed this vile creature, for he, too, had a price for his part in saving King Arthur’s life, and it was that none should know of the noble sacrifice he made—one that had not been made for any gain to himself, but purely for the love and loyalty he bore his king. Tell me, my liege, is that not how it befell that day?”

“It was,” Arthur said. “Though I know not how you have divined such things.”

“We shall come to that in time. Sir Gawain wed this loathly lady. You were all witness to his wedding. And many a jest was made at his expense during that wedding—and after, too. Good people, did you not laugh behind your hands? Did you not revile the lady he had wed? You knights of Camelot—sworn, every one of you, to protect the weak and respect the aged—how many of you were true to your vows?”

She looked at each in turn, her gaze resting on Sir Lancelot the longest. Only when he blushed and looked away did she move on, ending with Sir Dinadan. At him, she smiled, and he grinned, a speculative gleam in his eye.

“Not many, I regret to say. This horrid old woman—and she was a very horrid creature, I do not deny it—received little of charity at your hands. As for Sir Gawain . . .” She shook her head sadly. “You saw a man punished for no apparent cause, and because he bore it uncomplaining, you believed the punishment must be deserved. You forgot what he was—what he has always been—the truest and most honorable of knights, and assumed him guilty of some secret sin. You judged him and condemned him—” She looked straight at the queen. “And you reveled in his downfall.”

Guinevere’s eyes flashed, shame and anger warring on her face. “Lady,” Arthur protested, “you are too hard—”

“Am I? Perhaps, my liege; I confess freely that I am not a judge impartial. For there is yet another secret hidden in this matter, and I will tell it to you now. That loathly lady Sir Gawain so generously took to wife was not a simple woman bent by age. She was an enchanted creature, a maiden cursed to bear a crone’s form until a true knight could win her freedom. She was, in fact, none other than myself.”

Cries of astonishment and disbelief greeted this pronouncement.

“Yes, I am Dame Ragnelle,” Aislyn said, raising her voice to be heard above the tumult. “I have lived among you, unable to ask for help or reveal my grievous plight. The fell enchantments binding me could be broken only by one whose honor shines more brightly than the sun, and many tests and trials has Sir Gawain endured to prove himself that knight.”

And then, when she least expected it, she saw Gawain, leaning against the wall, arms folded across his chest.

“Yet he won through,” she went on, not daring to glance at him again. “Not for gain or profit, nor even out of pity for my state, for he knew no more of me than any man among you. Yet Sir Gawain—he, who above all others, had every reason to detest me—has shown me naught but gentle courtesy and kindness. I ask you, good people, to consider his plight. He bid farewell to all hope of a union befitting his station—yet that was only the beginning of his trials. How many of you could bear such scorn as he has suffered in silence, all the while knowing it to be completely undeserved? I tell you—I tell you in all honesty that my enchantments soon came to seem as nothing when compared to the vile aspersion cast upon the character of such a noble knight.”

She stopped, her breath coming quick and short. Heads were turning now, and a low buzz ran across the hall as one pointed Gawain out to the other. If he was aware of the stir he was causing, he gave no sign. He merely watched Aislyn with hooded eyes, his face revealing nothing of his thoughts.

“If I consider him the finest knight in all the world, I think I have good cause. For here I stand before you, restored to my true state, and here sits your king, as hale and hearty as he ever was, and so he may continue with God’s grace for many a long year.”

Aislyn bowed again to the king and queen, and once more to the hall. “I thank you for your patience, and bid you all farewell.”

“Farewell?” Arthur cried. “But—”

“Tell us how Sir Gawain broke the enchantment!” a lady called.

Aislyn’s throat was tight with unshed tears, but she managed a laugh. “That is his tale to tell—or not, as he sees fit. For he, too, is free now. Our marriage was not a binding one, based on falsehoods as it was.” At last she found the courage to meet his eyes across the hall. “So I declare with all of you as witness.”

Gawain’s expression did not alter. Aislyn whirled and made a hasty reverence to the king and queen before she fled the hall.

“YOU did rather well,” Launfal said as they walked together into the courtyard. His words were light, but his arm was firm about her shoulders as he guided her across the cobbles. “Now, I spoke to Sir Dinadan before, and he agreed to lend me a horse. You wait right here, and I will bring it.”

Aislyn sat down on a mounting block and rested her head in her hand.
Don’t think,
she told herself,
not now. Just do what needs to be done and you can think about it later.
When she felt a light touch on her shoulder, she looked up, expecting to see her brother, but Gawain stood beside her.

“That,” he said, “was humiliating beyond words.”

She shrugged. “You could have left.”

“I wanted to. It was like a nightmare I sometimes have.” He sat down beside her on the mounting block. “Have you ever dreamed that you were having an ordinary day—that you were in the market, say, or in the hall—and suddenly you realize you are wearing nothing but your skin?”

Aislyn made a sound between laughter and a sob.

“It was like that,” Gawain said. “I couldn’t seem to move.”

“I only spoke the truth.”

“Part of it—”

“Of course! To tell the whole tale, I would have to go back to the moment of my birth. I doubt the court would sit the whole night through while I explained the whys and wherefores of every decision I have ever made!”

“You exaggerated shamelessly.”

“I only gave back what I had taken from you,” she said wearily.

“Do you expect me to thank you?”

“Don’t bother. I wouldn’t want you to do yourself a damage.”

His eyes were dark in the flickering shadows cast by the torches above their heads. He touched her cheek where a teardrop still lingered. “Aislyn . . . You will not ever obey any man, will you?”

“No.” She frowned down at the earth between her feet. “But if a man earned my respect, I would ask his opinion.”

He caught her jaw and turned her face to his. “And would you heed it?”

“Always.” She gave a choked laugh. “That doesn’t mean I would
agree
with it. He could be wrong.”

“What happened earlier—” Gawain shuddered. “It sickened me.”

“I know. But I could think of no other way to stop her. The duchess of Cornwall once told me that there is more to magic than learning spells. After what I saw today, I know exactly what she means. That sort of power—I don’t want it anymore.”

“Then will you—?”

“But given the same circumstances,” she finished sadly, “I would do the same again. I am sorry, Gawain, but that is the truth.”

He nodded. “I knew you would say that. But I have come to see that there are times when sorcery can only be fought in kind. That does not mean I will ever like it, but if you were to ask my opinion first—and heed it—”

“So long as it is sensible,” she put in, a smile tugging at her lips.

“Am I ever less than sensible? Don’t forget, I am the finest knight in all the world, one whose honor shines more brightly than the—”

“You are right.”

His smile was smug as he stroked a thumb across her lips. “Am I?”

“Yes. I
did
exaggerate.”

His brows lifted. “I am not those things?”

“Some of them.”

“Some? Which ones?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

“Mmm.” He regarded her through half-closed eyes. “When might you?”

“It could take some time.”

He smiled slowly. “A long time? Perhaps . . . a lifetime?”

“It could be. That is, if—”

His gaze moved over her shoulder. “Ah,” he said softly. “Morgana is here.”

Aislyn stood. Her mouth went tinder-dry and her knees were trembling as the duchess walked from the direction of the stables.

“Morgana!” Gawain called.

“Oh, Gawain,” the duchess said, holding out her hand to him. “I began to think I would never get here! My horse foundered in—Well! Dame Ragnelle, is it?”

“Sometimes,” Aislyn replied, bowing. “But tonight, I am Aislyn.”

“A vast improvement, I must say.”

“I agree,” Gawain said. “And you would oblige me very much if you were to make the change permanent.”

Morgana’s smile vanished. “That,” she said, “I cannot do.”

“Oh, but I have learned so much,” Aislyn said. “Truly I have, Your Grace.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Morgana answered. “But it is not in my power to release you.”

“Of course it is!” Aislyn cried. “The spell was your own. You can reverse it.”

Morgana touched her cheek. “I cannot. I am sorry, but that is the truth. You—like all of us—are in the hands of the Goddess now.”

“Oh,” Aislyn said faintly. Gawain pulled her hard against him and wrapped his arms around her. She rested her cheek against his chest until the world righted itself, then gently drew away.

“I will find a way to free you,” Gawain said.

“But that could take—”

“I don’t care how long it takes. Aislyn—” He cupped her cheek in one strong hand. “I would rather spend half my life with you than the whole of it with any other woman.”

“You don’t mean that,” Aislyn cried. “I cannot give you children, or travel with you or—”

“I don’t care.”

“You do. Let me go away, Gawain—Launfal and I will go back to my cottage. You can visit me there when—when you like. That way you will be free, and if you decide— that is, if you meet someone—”

“No.”

“But—”

“I said,
no
. You will stay here.”

Aislyn glared at him. “And what if I don’t
want
to stay?”