Lancelot (12 page)

She had a dimple—a single dimple on the left side of her mouth that lent her smile a singular, lopsided charm. And a way of tilting her head, just so, when something puzzled her. He had puzzled her greatly, and while a bit of mystery was said to be no bad thing in love, he did not wish to puzzle her at all. He wanted to tell her everything about himself, beginning with his first memory and going on until he reached the moment she smiled at him in the courtyard of Corbenic and he had experienced that impossible feeling of recognition.

They had not met before. He could never have forgotten her if they had. It was only now, looking at the covered shield propped in a corner, that he caught the memory he’d searched for earlier. He walked over and pulled off the canvas cover, a small sigh escaping him as he regarded his shield.

A ridiculous device, he’d often thought it. Not liking to claim the arms of Benwick while it was still occupied, he’d designed his own. He’d sketched it in a fit of melancholy, a knight (argent) kneeling before a lady (or) upon a field of gules. Though at the time he’d been morbidly pleased with the result, he’d come to hate it since.

Now he touched the cool surface, thinking that there
was
something of Elaine in the proud carriage of the painted head. He wondered what she would say if he told her it had been painted in her likeness, years ago when he had given up all hope of ever finding its model in the flesh. She would laugh at him, no doubt, but he thought she would be pleased. He imagined her blushing, not knowing where to look—

He drew the cover on again. When would he tell her? Not tonight. Tomorrow, then, after the tournament was done and he’d made peace with Arthur? Again, that strange feeling pricked his neck, but he shrugged it off, instead imagining himself returning here and sweeping Elaine off to Camelot. Why should he not? They could be happy—they
would
be happy. He would love her so much that surely she must love him in return, even when she knew everything. And he could change. Elaine was so brave, so strong. She could make of him a different man, a better one; he was certain of it.

Whatever trouble you are in, Elaine is not the answer
.

“Touché, indeed,” he murmured, lifting his cup to the door through which Torre had just passed. Torre might be a rude young lout, but he was no fool. Elaine deserved better. If he really loved her, he would stay well away from Corbenic in future. Torre might be too proud to accept help, but he should have it nonetheless; it could be done through young Lavaine with no one the wiser. Then Elaine could have a proper dowry and wed some respectable knight.

Lancelot’s hands were trembling as he drained his cup, refilled it, and emptied it again, wondering if there was enough left in the flagon so he might drink himself insensible.

But that would hardly be playing the game, though why he should suddenly care about playing the damned game was beyond him. Still, for tonight, at least, he would watch how much he drank, lest he lose control and find himself kneeling at the damsel’s feet, her hand in his as he begged her to become his wife. And a neat trick that would be, to pledge his troth to a lady without once mentioning his name.

He drew a shaking breath and passed a hand across his eyes. How strange to think that he had spent so many years
longing for a name, and now he wanted only to be rid of it. Life was so interesting that way, he reflected, emptying the mug again, each day filled with such surprising twists and turns.

Today had certainly brought its share. He had woken in his own bed at Camelot, anticipating a pleasant if uneventful journey, and instead he’d been from hell to heaven and back again. Not bad for a day’s work.

And then there was tomorrow. That strange pricking of his neck was back, and now, at last, he knew it for what it was.

Sir Lancelot du Lac had fought a hundred jousts. He had known joy and pride and excitement at the thought of entering the lists; once or twice, he had felt anger; more often, simple boredom.

Never until tonight had he known fear.

When a ragged little page came to lead him to the hall, Lancelot sent word that he was too weary to join his host. At least that much was true, for when he cast himself upon his bed, he fell instantly asleep.

S
OME hours later, Lancelot sighed and opened his eyes, watching the moonlight paint a glowing path across the floor beside his bed. For a moment he had no idea where he was, and while he was still trying to piece it all together, a voice spoke from the darkness.

“Hello, boy.”

He sat up, breathing hard, his eyes searching the shadows.

“Who’s there?”

“What, don’t you know me?” It was only when the figure moved that Lancelot could make out the outline of an armored knight. Ice pooled in his gut when moonlight flashed off the gauntlet laid casually upon the windowsill, striking sparks of emerald from the metal. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. He was still dreaming—yes, of course he was. He must be.

“Go away,” Lancelot said, forcing himself to lie back. “I need my rest.”

“Oh, you’ll have plenty of that come tomorrow,” the
Green Knight replied, and laughing, pulled off his helm, setting it on the windowsill beside him. Lancelot could not help but stare, for he had never before seen the Knight without his helm. Hair the deep color of pine needles fell to his shoulders. His skin was lighter, like the first green leaves of spring. Lancelot had always imagined the Knight would be hideous, but he was, in his own way, as splendid as the Lady, his features bold and striking, all sharp angles and shadowed hollows.

“I warned you,” he said. “I told you what would happen, but you did not believe me. And now it is too late.”

“Too late for
what
?” Lancelot demanded, trying to sound merely annoyed instead of terrified.

“For everything. You’ve failed, ’tis over—come, don’t tell me you did not know it! Surely even you must have grasped the import of yesterday’s little comedy in the queen’s chamber. How you could have gotten yourself into such a ridiculous position is beyond me, but you did. Keep your oath to Arthur and your word to Guinevere is forfeit, turn it round and it comes out just the same. A broken promise, lad. You know what that means.”

The Lady of the Lake had spoken of this at their parting. She had said Lancelot must be very careful of any oath he undertook, for his strength lay in his honor, and a broken vow would mean the end of all. Lancelot had listened with but half an ear, dismissing her advice as the sort of thing any fond foster mother might say when sending her son into the world.

He should have known the Lady of the Lake never wasted words.

“I have served my king and queen with honor—”

“Honor? You do not know the meaning of the word. But the fault is not altogether yours. ’Twas the Lady who ruined you; you dwelt in Avalon too long. I told her you
weren’t human anymore, not in any way that matters. In fact,” he laughed, “you’re very much like me.”

Lancelot stiffened with outrage. “I am nothing like you!”

“You are. But at least I am what I was made to be; you’re naught but the Lady’s poppet. Oh, you look like a man, but inside—” the Knight tapped his emerald breastplate, “—hollow as a reed.”

Lancelot felt his own chest tighten as though the Knight had given him a blow.

The Knight stood and picked up his helm, adding with sudden fury, “By oak and ash let us hope she has learned her lesson this time, for her morbid fascination with mortals has grown beyond all bounds. To actually steal one for herself so she might keep it like some loathsome little pet was more than my patience could withstand. I told her it would all end badly, but did she listen?”

“What do you mean?” Lancelot demanded. “Enough of your hints and riddles—speak plainly or begone.”

The Knight glanced over at him, the moonlight limning cheek and brow with silver. “The Lady has no time for a servant who disappoints her, lad, and no use for a champion who has forsworn his vow.” His teeth flashed in a grin as he donned his helm. “Work it out yourself.”

Resting one mailed hand on the windowsill, he vaulted lightly into the night. Lancelot threw off his coverlet and ran to the window, leaning far out to stare down at the cobbles below, brilliant in the moonlight. They were empty, and nothing moved in the courtyard of Corbenic save the whisper of the wind carrying a stray leaf across the stones.

E
LAINE sat at her tower window, Lavaine’s jupon in her lap, watching the forest take shape against the lightening sky. When she saw Lavaine himself hurry across the courtyard, she rose stiffly and picked up the sleeve from the foot of her bed, turning it in her hands.

At last she covered it with Lavaine’s jupon and went down to the hall, wishing she had thought to bring a cloak. The long room was deserted; the housecarls were already up, and the shutters had been taken down, but no one had thought to stir the fire. With an exasperated sigh, Elaine knelt and laid a handful of twigs into the pit, scattering ash as she blew upon the buried coals. When they caught, she added a few logs and sank back upon her heels, holding her hands out to the flame.

“Good morning, Lady Elaine.” She started at the sound of the knight’s voice close beside her, so stiff and cool that if not for his accent, she would not have known that it was him.

And that, she told herself firmly, is the difference between night and day. Once again he is a knight of Camelot and now the time has come for him to return to his own world. It won’t be long—a few more minutes—and you can cry all you like, but for pity’s sake don’t make a fool of yourself.

“Good day,” she answered. “I hope you slept well.”

Even before he shook his head, she knew he hadn’t. The rosy flush had vanished from his cheeks, and his eyes were sunk in shadowed hollows. When he held out his hand to help her up, she barely touched his cool fingers with her own and sprang nimbly to her feet, making a business of brushing off her skirt.

“No, I dreamed—” He shook his head, smiling with ashen lips. “It was nothing. Lady, may I leave this with you?” He held out his covered shield.

She took it from him, running a finger over the rough canvas surface. “You will send for it?” When he did not answer, she nodded, not daring to lift her eyes from the shield. “It will be safe until your servant comes for it.”

“Oh, good, you’re ready,” Lavaine called from the doorway. He hurried inside, Torre close behind him, planted a smacking kiss on her cheek, then brushed her brow. “What have you been doing? You’re all over ash. Is that my jupon?” He seized it from the table and shook it out. “And what is this?” he asked, stooping to retrieve the red sleeve from the floor.

“Nothing,” Elaine said curtly.

“’Tis a kind thought, but I don’t think it’s done to wear a sister’s favor in the lists.”

“Lavaine, please—” Elaine began, shooting him a fierce look, but Lavaine only danced away, holding it just beyond her reach. She wished that he was just a little younger so she might box his ears.

“Oh, I
see
.” Lavaine laughed. “It’s not for me at all.”

“Give it to me,” Torre ordered.

“But why, it can’t be yours! And if it isn’t mine . . . I wonder who it’s meant for?” Lavaine wagged his brows comically at his sister.

Elaine waited for the knight to say that he had asked it of her, but he did not speak a word. Indeed, he did not seem to be listening at all, but was staring past her toward the far end of the hall.

“Lavaine, enough,” she said, speaking past the sudden tightness in her throat.

“Wait, I see it now. It must be yours!” Lavaine cried, all high good humor as he tossed the sleeve toward the knight.

Lancelot was only dimly aware of the conversation. His head was aching fiercely, and he could not stop thinking of the dream he’d had the night before. A very odd dream it had been, so vivid—

He stiffened, gazing toward the corner of the hall. There was something in the shadows, he was almost certain of it, but the pounding pressure behind his eyes made it difficult to focus. He started when something hit him in the chest, putting out a hand to catch a small bundle of soft fabric, not daring to take his gaze from the corner, where he was now certain he could make out a pair of green eyes regarding him unblinkingly. He let out a shaking breath when a cat leapt from the trestle table and padded out the door.