Lancelot (30 page)

“
Y
OU have to face them some time,” Brisen said, tucking the last ribbon into Elaine’s hair and standing back to examine her handiwork. “Come, lady, you don’t want to keep Sir Lancelot waiting.”

“No.” Hearing the reluctance in her voice, Elaine stood and smoothed her skirts. “No, of course not.” That was better; she sounded firm and purposeful, but a moment later she spoiled it by adding piteously, “You will come with me, won’t you?”

“Of course. And your brothers should be there, as well.”

Elaine wasn’t sure if that was comforting or not; given Torre’s aptitude for saying precisely what he thought, she rather thought it wasn’t.

“Sir Torre has promised to be on his best behavior,” Brisen said as they started down the passageway.

“I thought you weren’t speaking to him.”

“I’m not. But I made an exception for your sake.”

“What devotion,” Elaine said lightly. “Thank you. What exactly did he do to get in your bad graces?”

“Nothing he hadn’t done a hundred times before,” Brisen admitted with a wry smile. “But I walked in on him with that Bette from the vill—you know the one I mean, her father owns the alehouse—and suddenly I realized what a fool I’d been. Ah, well,” she added with a brittle laugh, “it happens to us all. Not you, lady,” she amended quickly, “I didn’t mean—”

“I know what you meant, and you’re quite right. But I’m sorry Torre is such a thick-headed idiot.”

“That’s very kind of you.”

Halfway down the stairs, they met a lady coming up. Elaine stopped to let her by. “Why, it’s Mistress Brisen, isn’t it?” the lady said.

“Madam.” Brisen made her a brief curtsy.

“Morgana has missed you dreadfully, you know, she was saying so just the other day.”

“I have been in Corbenic,” Brisen said. “Queen Morgause of Orkney, may I present my mistress, Lady Elaine of Corbenic.”

Elaine nodded. “Madam.”

The lady’s bright blue eyes widened. “My dear!” she cried, “I have so longed to meet you!” She turned back the way she’d come, slipping her arm through Elaine’s and drawing her down the stairway. “Sir Lancelot speaks so highly of you—and congratulations on the birth of your son. Galahad, isn’t it? I only caught a glimpse of him yesterday, but he seems a fine, healthy lad. Does he take after his father?”

“No,” Elaine said, bemused by this outpouring. “I’m afraid he takes after me.”

“Then he must be a very handsome boy—now, my dear,
don’t bother to blush, you must know you’re lovely. Come, let me introduce you to everyone. Run along, Brisen,” she added over her shoulder, “I shall take good care of your lady.”

Before Elaine could protest, she was swept forward toward a small chamber off the hall. “Let’s begin with the queen’s ladies; a sillier bunch of maidens I’ve never met, but I’m sure they—”

They halted at the half-open door, where a girlish voice exclaimed, “—a most vile trick! Apparently her serving maid is a witch—trained up by the Duchess of Cornwall, and you know what
she
is like—and together they plotted to get Sir Lancelot into the lady’s bed.”

“The maid gave him a handkerchief bearing the queen’s scent,” another voice went on in a piercing whisper, “and kept the chamber darkened so he would not know the difference.”

Not know the difference?
Elaine made a low sound, half amusement and half disgust.
That doesn’t say much for the great du Lac’s powers of perception!

“He was quite mad with lust, of course—”

At least they’d gotten that much right,
Elaine thought dryly as a small silence fell within the chamber, followed by a collective sigh before the first voice took up the tale again.

“—for the maid had slipped him a love potion. When he discovered the ruse—the next morning, it was, when the deed was done—he drew his sword and threatened to cut off her head! But of course he didn’t. He is too fine to use any lady ill, even one so false.”

“Poor Sir Lancelot!” a high voice cried, “to be so cruelly used!”

Elaine had heard enough. She whirled, forgetting that Morgause had hold of her arm. “Running is no good,” Morgause said, and though her expression was one of deep
concern, her eyes glittered. For a moment Elaine wondered if she had led her here a-purpose, but the next moment Morgause had all but dragged her into the bower.

“Ladies,” she cried, “look who is here! ’Tis Lady Elaine of Corbenic—or, as some would call her, the Lady of the Red Sleeve.”

A rather dreadful silence fell, during which the girls—for they seemed girls to Elaine, even those few who were her own age—blushed painfully, guilty glances flying in all directions.

“Good day,” Elaine said stiffly to each one in turn as Morgause named them. When at last it was finished, she said, “And now I must be going. Sir Lancelot is waiting.” She knew the last was childish, and it was that, rather than anything they’d said, that shamed her.

The moment she’d left the chamber, a buzz of talk broke out. “Do you think she heard? So what if she did? After what she did to poor Sir Lancelot . . .”

Morgause, who had followed her from the chamber, laughed. “Don’t take it too much to heart. Any one of them would have done the same had Sir Lancelot looked twice at her.”

“The same? I assure you, madam, that I did not trick Sir Lancelot—”

“Of course you didn’t!” Morgause said warmly. “Why, a lass like you would have no need of magic to woo any man to her bed—even the great du Lac! Come, now, dry your eyes, you mustn’t let on that you’re upset.”

Elaine recognized the sense of that advice and obeyed as they walked together to the hall. Yesterday Elaine had not noticed its beauty, but now she hesitated in the doorway, staring about in wonder.

“You go ahead,” she said to Morgause. “I must wait for Sir Lancelot.”

Light fell through a high-arched window set with small panes of colored glass. Amethyst, emerald, carnelian, topaz—she had never seen anything so beautiful. Tapestries adorned the walls, not merely one or two, but dozens, each woven in the same glowing jewel tones as the window. Apparently she was early, for most of the company had not yet arrived, and Lancelot was not among the few who gathered in small groups, chatting easily. The high table was set with gleaming silver, and at its center sat a man in a high-backed chair.

The crown sat solidly on his high brow, and light hair fell to his broad shoulders. He looked kind, Elaine thought, as he bent forward to speak to a serving lad with a tray perched on one shoulder. The boy made some remark, and Arthur laughed, waving him away and relaxing back in his seat. His gaze drifted across the hall and fastened upon Elaine, hovering half-in, half-out of the doorway. His brows lifted, and then he smiled and gestured her toward him.

“Lady Elaine?” he asked when she had made her reverence.

“Yes, sire.”

The king gestured toward the seat at his left hand. “Come and join me if you would.”

Elaine took the offered seat and accepted the goblet the king handed to her. “Welcome to Camelot,” he said, and she could only nod her thanks, too overawed to answer.

They sat in silence while the hall filled. At last, when it seemed that Guinevere and Lancelot were the only ones missing from their places, the king lifted his hand. A clear trumpet sounded, and a young page immediately knelt to present Elaine with a silver basin of water with rose petals scattered across its surface. She dipped her fingers, dried them, and turned to the king.

“Congratulations on your victory, sire,” she said.

“Thank you,” he said absently, his eyes turned toward the doorway. She followed his gaze, praying it was Lancelot, but some other knight walked in and took a seat. The king glanced over at her, and with an obvious effort, said, “I trust your journey was pleasant?”

“Yes, very.”

Silence fell again. Elaine picked up a bit of meat and dipped it in a small bowl of sauce. After one bite that burned her tongue, she set it down again.

“Corbenic,” the king said suddenly. “I remember now. The Saxons took it, didn’t they?”

“And you restored it to us four years ago,” Elaine agreed.

“Gawain did most of it,” Arthur said. “He fought that fellow—what was his name?”

“Binric.”

“Yes, that’s right. The land was in poor condition,” the king said. “How have you fared?”

“It was . . . difficult at first,” Elaine admitted, “but this year our harvest was a good one.”

“And your villeins?” Arthur asked casually. “Any trouble from that quarter?”

Elaine’s cheeks warmed. “We did have some,” she said. “I believe my uncle Ulfric wrote to you with a complaint—”

“Poaching, wasn’t it? He mentioned something of the sort when we were in Gaul. A good man, Ulfric,” the king said thoughtfully. “I can always count on him to send me soldiers, not just a pack of peasants armed all anyhow and ready to bolt at the first charge.”

“A good man . . . and a careful one,” Elaine murmured. “But as I said, we are doing better now. I assure you my uncle will have no further cause for complaint.”

“My dear, it isn’t only Ulfric who concerns me. If your
father is having difficulty, he should have come to me. I told him so when he returned to his demesne. I could see then that he had troublesome times ahead, and he wasn’t quite . . . himself. Perhaps I should send a man to speak with him and offer our assistance.”

“Please don’t, sire,” Elaine said. “Father would only be upset, and he wouldn’t understand.” When Arthur nodded sympathetically, she hurried on, “We have a new reeve now, he’s very able, and Sir Lancelot—” Her voice caught a little on his name. “—has been most . . . generous.”

“Has he? Well, then, we’ll say no more. But if you ever do need help,” the king said, looking straight into her eyes, “I hope you will not be too proud to ask.”

“No, sire,” Elaine promised, “I won’t. And thank you.”

“Ah,” Arthur said, “here is that boy at last with some real food. I can’t abide all this sauce and spice,” he added confidentially. “Would you care for a bit of plain meat?”

“Yes, I would,” Elaine said, and soon she was sharing the king’s trencher as well as his goblet, their heads bent together as they discussed Corbenic, which the king remembered well. He gave her several excellent suggestions about draining the southwest field.

“What became of those sheep Lance sent?” he asked unexpectedly. “I told him it was a mistake—Corbenic is too low-lying for sheep to thrive, particularly those long-legged ones, but he insisted.”

“I was the one who wanted to try them. But alas, I fear you had the right of it, sire.”

“Foot rot?”

“Among other diseases, some of which the shepherd swore were hitherto unknown.”

When Arthur laughed, she found herself laughing, too, though at the time the incident had been anything but amusing.

“I’m off to try my new gyrfalcon,” he said when the trencher was empty. “Would you care to join me?”

Elaine looked around, noting with some surprise that the meal was over. Lancelot had not appeared—nor had the queen. What that might mean, she did not know, nor did she want to think too deeply on the matter.

“Will you be riding out?”

“No, I’ll just fly her on the creance today.” He held out his arm to her and called down the table, “To the mews!”

A small crowd of knights and ladies left the hall. Elaine walked at their head, her hand tucked into the king’s elbow.

“
Y
OU’VE come to scold me, haven’t you?” Guinevere said, after she had dismissed her women and she and Lancelot were alone. “And I deserve it. I was horrid to your Elaine.”

Scold
her? Lancelot wanted nothing of the sort. What he wanted was to shake her hard, as though that might force some sense into her empty head.

“Why?” he demanded furiously.

“I was . . . upset. That’s no excuse, of course—I’ll beg her pardon, I swear I will, only . . .” Her voice trembled and she swallowed hard. “Only don’t be angry with me.”

Only yesterday, Guinevere had seemed quite well—better, in fact, than Lancelot had seen her for some time. He had breakfasted with her and Arthur, and she had kept them both laughing with her complaints about King Bagdemagus’s boorish son, who, among his many sins, had committed the unpardonable offense of belching in the presence of his queen without apology.

Today her glow had faded. She looked weary and distraught as she plucked restlessly at the folds of her gown. But that, Lancelot reminded himself firmly, was none of his affair. Guinevere was a woman grown, a queen, and she must learn to help herself.

“If you apologize, we shall forget the whole incident,” he said.

“Very well, Lance,” she said so meekly that his anger began to fade into the familiar dead weight of pity. “Let me just fix my hair, and I will go down with you. Have you heard the latest on Tristan and his lady love?” she said with a smile as false as it was brilliant as she pinned a flower among her raven braids. “King Mark is suspicious, but that is nothing new! Why he doesn’t simply banish Tristan from Cornwall is beyond me. You should talk to Tristan, Lance, before he goes back there, convince him to give her up before something dreadful happens.”