Lancelot (16 page)

He told them briefly of the tournament. “We think the knight was Sir Lancelot,” he finished, “but we cannot be certain.”

“He was here,” Elaine said. “The knight. He stayed with us before the tournament and went off with my brother Lavaine.”

Sir Gawain looked at her with new interest, his gaze so searching that Elaine felt herself begin to blush. “The red sleeve . . . ?” he asked.

“Was mine. His name I cannot tell you, but he borrowed Torre’s shield and left his own.”

Gawain stood. “May I see it?”

“Yes, I have it in my chamber,” Elaine said, jumping to her feet. “Come, I’ll show—”

“Bring it here,” Torre ordered sharply. “Sir Gawain will wait with us.”

Torre either had a very low opinion of her morals or a vastly inflated view of her charms, Elaine thought as she ran up the steps to her chamber and seized the covered shield. She focused on the question to hold her fear at bay, and was still undecided whether to be flattered or furious when she arrived breathless in the hall. “Here it is.”

Sir Gawain drew off the cover to reveal a device Elaine had seen only once before, on the day Torre met its owner in the lists. She gazed at it in silence, remembering what was said: that the woman was Queen Guinevere; the knight, Sir Lancelot, the device a silent declaration of his love.

Sir Gawain sighed. “Yes. It is Sir Lancelot’s.”

“So it is,” Torre said, coming over to glance at the shield. “Take it to him, will you, Sir Gawain, and save him the trouble of returning for it.” He shrugged and turned away. “That is, if he should have need of it again.”

Elaine rounded on her brother. “I never thought to be ashamed of you, but I am now. That you could speak so of a brother knight—he who was our guest—”

“The brother knight who did this,” Torre said, striking a fist against his leg, “and then made sport of me to his companions! The guest who took advantage of your innocence and refused to give you so much as his name.”

“He
could
not. He was sworn—”

“God, Elly, don’t be more of a fool than you must. Look!” he cried, pointing toward the shield. “Whose image do you think that is? He
used
you. Can’t you understand that even now? He wanted your token—and whatever else he could have of you. Why not? He had nothing to lose, did he? Not even his good name.”

“Sir Torre,” Gawain put in, “I think you wrong Sir
Lancelot. He has never been accused of trifling with any lady—”

“Well, he trifled with this one,” Torre said. “Come, Elaine, is that not so?”

“It is not,” she said. “Whatever you imagine went on between us—”

“
Imagine
? Did I
imagine
him kissing you in the courtyard? Did I
imagine
that he begged your favor as though it meant more to him than life itself? He is a deceitful, lying bastard, and if he’s dead, I won’t pretend that I am sorry.”

“You are a fool,” Elaine said coldly, “and you understand nothing of Sir Lancelot—or me.” Drawing a deep breath, she turned to their guest. “Sir Gawain, I am heartily sorry you had to witness that. Stay a moment while I fetch my cloak, and I will come with you.”

“Lady,” Gawain began uncomfortably.

“I
will
go,” Elaine said, “if not with you, then on my own. I must. If he is wounded—”

“You will
not
,” Torre declared hotly. “If you think for one moment that I will allow you to leave this hall—”

“Peace.”

They both turned, astonished, to their father. Lord Pelleas raised himself from his seat, palms braced upon the table. “Torre, you forget yourself,” he said mildly. “Sir Gawain, please break your fast with us before continuing your search. I would speak with you before you go. Elaine.” Pelleas shook his head and sighed. “To you I would speak privately.”

He led her to his chamber, piled high with stacks of books and scrolls of parchments, and brushed a sleeping cat from the one stool. “Sit.”

Elaine sat. The cat leapt into her lap, turned itself about, and curled up in a ball.

“Often and often I have heard you speak of Sir Lancelot du Lac,” Pelleas said. “And never well.”

Elaine drew her finger down the cat’s spine. “I did not know him then.”

“And you do now?”

“A little.”

“This man you know—a little—” Pelleas said. “Is it true that he has kissed you?”

“It is.”

Pelleas bent to retrieve a piece of vellum from the floor. He made to toss it on the table, then halted and looked down at it. “With your leave?”

“Yes.” Elaine waited for some response, but once again, her father seemed to have forgotten her. “Indeed,” she added boldly, “with my encouragement.”

Pelleas glanced up. “I beg your pardon?”

“It doesn’t bear repeating,” Elaine said wearily.

“I should think not.” Pelleas set the vellum down upon a pile and turned to her, his expression stern. “I never got on well with your mother’s father, you know. How strange that after all these years, I should find myself in sympathy with him.”

Not now,
Elaine thought.
Not another sojourn into the past. I haven’t time or patience—

“But for a moment,” Pelleas went on, a twinkle in his light blue eyes, “I could have sworn it was your mother talking. So you are determined to seek out Sir Lancelot?”

“Yes.”

“Do you understand what Torre referred to before, the rumors about Sir Lancelot and the queen?”

Elaine nearly fell off her stool, wincing as the cat, alarmed, dug sharp claws into her stomach. She’d had no idea that her father was aware of anything that had happened in Britain since Joseph of Arimethea arrived. “I know of the rumors.”

“They may well be true,” Pelleas remarked, retrieving
another scrap from the floor. This time, when he examined it, she knew it was merely an excuse to keep from looking at her. “Such things happen far more often than is generally known. A young queen, a handsome knight . . . oh, yes, it happens. It may have happened this time. Would you go to him even so?”

Elaine caught the cat’s paw between two fingers and detached it from her kirtle. “I would.”

Pelleas leaned against the corner of the table and regarded her for a long moment. She braced herself, expecting some long-winded lecture, but he only said, “Why?”

“Because I love him.”

Pelleas shook his head. “No. I’m sorry, Elaine, but—”

“If he is—if he and the queen—I can’t believe he would be happy like that. Not knowing how he feels about King Arthur. I think that I could—”

“Change him? Child, if there is one thing I know about men and women, it is that neither can change the other.”

“Not change him,” Elaine said. “I would not do that.”

“Then you would give yourself to a man who loves another?”

“Not that, either. I say I love him, but of course I can’t be certain of that yet. Nor can I say if he loves me. But there
was
something between us. I know it sounds absurd when he was here for but a day, yet it was so. And not only on my side, I’m sure of it. Whether it would grow to love, I cannot say, but I do know that if he is lying wounded somewhere I must go to him.”

“Very well. You shall go with Sir Gawain. He is an honorable knight. But you will take Mistress Brisen, as well.”

Elaine leapt up, spilling the cat from her lap, and threw her arms around her father. “Thank you.”

He smiled and kissed her cheek. “I knew your mother for a fortnight when I sued for her hand, but my mind was
set within five minutes of our first meeting. As was hers—to her father’s great distress. I pray God to send you joy, my child, but for good or ill, this path is yours to follow. I can only trust that you will not forget your own dear mother, nor do aught to shame my trust in you.”

“I won’t,” Elaine promised. “But Torre—”

“I will speak with him,” Pelleas said, and sighed. “Indeed, ’tis past time I did so. Go, make ready, and leave the rest to me.”

T
HEY found Lancelot the next day. It happened quite by chance, when they came upon Lavaine in the marketplace, and he related all that had happened after the tournament.

“Sir Lancelot lives,” Lavaine assured them, “though he is very ill. No, he can’t be moved,” he said in answer to Gawain’s questions as they turned into the forest, “but he is best where he is. Father Bernard is a notable healer.”

Once they reached the cave’s entrance, Gawain declared his intention to leave them and ride back to Camelot.

Elaine was sorry to see him go, and a bit puzzled that after searching so long and hard for Sir Lancelot, he would desert them on the very brink of attaining his goal. But Gawain would not be gainsaid, nor would he stay even to accept the meal that Father Bernard offered him.

“Sir Lancelot is in good hands,” he said, “and I must return to court. Sir Lavaine, would you ride with me? You can give the king a full account of this matter.”

“Oh!” Lavaine flushed. “What do you think, Father? Can you spare me?”

“You go along, Lavaine,” the hermit answered, “we shall manage very well.”

“Then yes,” Lavaine said, “thank you, Sir Gawain.”

Gawain smiled at the boy. “Good. I would hear more of your part in the tournament, and I know the king will want to thank you personally for assisting Sir Lancelot.”

They went off together, Lavaine looking slightly dazed and very happy as he turned to wave before vanishing between the trees.

Father Bernard led Elaine and Brisen into the cave where Lancelot lay sleeping on a pallet.

Brisen’s face grew grim as she made a brief examination. “He’s very weak.”

Elaine stroked Lancelot’s hot, dry brow. She sensed that he was aware of her touch; his eyelids seemed to flicker just a little. She traced the dark, winged brows with her fingertip and smoothed the thick black hair behind his ear.

He lay with his head turned toward her, his face quite still and peaceful, but with a grayish tinge to his skin that frightened her. And he was so thin. Astonishing that he could have lost so much flesh in so short a time. His collarbones stood out, and every bone in his deep-sprung rib cage was visible beneath the bandage wound round his chest. It was clean, she noted hopefully, but when she said as much to Brisen, the dark-eyed healer merely shook her head.

“It isn’t draining,” she said, and Father Bernard, standing just behind her, nodded his agreement.

“Good evening, Sir Lancelot,” Elaine said, watching him closely. Had there been some movement? She thought there was, so subtle that she could not have said just what it was, only that he seemed hear her. Or was she only seeing what she wanted to see?

She took his hand, holding it between both of hers. “Lancelot, can you hear me?” she asked. “I know you cannot speak, but can you show me?”

She searched his face anxiously, but there was no change. The thick black lashes lay unmoving against his pale cheeks, his lips did not seek to form a word or even the ghost of a smile.

“His spirit has fled,” Brisen said behind her. She placed a hand upon Lancelot’s brow. “Lady, he is far away.” She closed her eyes and was silent for so long that Elaine began to wonder if she’d dropped off, but at last she sighed deeply and looked at Elaine, her dark eyes filled with pity.

“What can we do?”

“There is nothing any of us can do now . . . save you, perhaps.” Brisen gazed down upon the sleeping knight. “Talk to him. Call him back if you can. And send for me if there is any change.”

AFTER an eternity, the silence was pierced by another voice. Lancelot could not make out the words, but the tone was as soothing as water over stone, beckoning him, drawing him back into the pain and flame.

“No,” he tried to say, “no, let me rest,” but he could not form the words. Still the voice went on, and still he fought against it. The battle was sharp and brief, but then he knew that he was winning; the pain subsided, the voice faded until he was once again at peace. And then a despairing cry cut through the empty darkness.

“Oh, Galahad, you have to try.”

Something stirred in the silence of the crypt. Not du Lac, for he was dead, slain by the will of the Lady of the Lake. It was the Knight of the Red Sleeve who woke and knew it was his lady’s voice that called to him.