Lancelot (33 page)

His eyes sharpened, and he seized her wrists so hard that she cried out in surprise. “Elaine, what do you here? Why are you not in Corbenic? Get you gone, it is not safe to be near me.”

“I am not afraid,” Elaine said.

“You should be. Oh, love, if you only knew where I have been! The stars sing terrible songs too beautiful to
bear, and the stones walk in the moonlight. But it is not for you, can you not see that?”

Guinevere’s eyes were wide. “He is mad,” she whispered. “Sweet Jesu, he is mad, like our—like King Ban—”

“Lancelot,” Elaine began helplessly.

He threw her hands from him and backed clumsily away. “Do not touch me! I am not human anymore, not in any way that matters.”

“You are not well,” the king said firmly. “Lie down while I send for—”

“No!” Lancelot looked from the king to Elaine and then out across the rose garden. “Galahad,” he said clearly. “Galahad.”

Before anyone could stop him, he flung himself headlong from the window.

The fall was not a great one, and it ended in the rosebushes planted at the garden’s edge. Elaine, leaning far over the windowsill, watched Lancelot scramble to his feet, blood streaming down his face from a dozen scratches.

“Lancelot!” she called, and though the king joined his voice to hers, Lancelot did not look back. He ran through the garden, vaulted the wall, and vanished into the forest.

A
RTHUR strode from the chamber, shouting for his knights, the slam of the door cutting off his voice.

“They will find him,” Guinevere said. “They will bring him back.”

“And then what?” Elaine cried. “You have the king—he is a good man, an honorable man. Why could you not leave Lancelot alone?”

Guinevere looked at her, as ashen-faced as Lancelot had been before, the same shocked bewilderment clouding her eyes. Tears spilled over her lashes and trailed down her cheeks. Even weeping, she was lovely.

“I never meant to hurt him,” Guinevere said, holding out her hands. “Not Lance.”

“But you did. You have broken him. Good day, madam,” Elaine said coldly. “I shall return to Corbenic alone, it seems.”

“But stay . . . he may regain his senses and come home,” Guinevere said faintly.

“That is my only hope. And if he does, I will be there waiting for him with his son.”

Alone, Guinevere went to the window and watched the knights leaving Camelot, riding off in search of Lancelot. The horses’ hooves made puffs of dust upon the road before they, too, disappeared beneath the trees. The sound of horns winding in the distance was carried back faintly on the evening breeze.

DUSK gathered in the hollows, then spread to drain the color from field and tree and flower. The knights were mere shadows when they returned. When the last gold faded from the treetops, the door opened behind Guinevere.

“He is not found?” she asked without turning.

“No.”

“I am sorry for it. My lord,” she added swiftly, before he could reply, “I would have speech with you.”

“Now?” Arthur laughed harshly. “What is there left to say?”

“Only this.”

She turned, hands braced on the windowsill behind her. She was coward enough to be glad the chamber was too dim for him to see her face.

“Lancelot is not my lover.”

“Indeed?”

She could imagine Arthur’s expression, one brow lifted and his mouth curled upward at the corner.

“He is, as I have said, my friend, but there is another bond between us.” For a moment, she feared she would be sick, but she steeled herself and finished. “King Ban was father to us both.”

When the silence had spun out beyond bearing, she said, “Did you hear me? I said—”

“That King Ban was your father. Yes, I heard. Why would you say such a thing to me?”

“Because it is the truth, my lord.” Quickly, her voice shaking, she explained how it had happened.

“Do you always greet your . . . brother . . . by flinging yourself into his arms as you did earlier?”

“This fortnight past,” Guinevere said, “I believed I was carrying your child. When I learned it was not so I was . . . upset. It was not the first time, you see. Twice before I hoped . . . There was no one I could tell,” she went on, twisting her long sleeves between her fingers. “My women gossip so, and there is none I would confide in. Save Lance, of course. I could always—” Her throat tightened. “I could always tell him anything.”

“Did it not occur to you to come to me?”

“Oh, no, my lord. I saw no reason to disturb you.”

The moon was rising above the trees. It gave enough light for her to discern Arthur’s outline, but not enough to read his expression.

“Was it for the same reason you kept silent about your birth when first we met in Cameliard? So I might not be
disturbed
?”

“I did not know until you sued for my hand. Then Leodegrance told me all.”

“I would rather he’d told me,” Arthur said. “But I suppose he wanted to have you on the throne. Was that it, Guinevere? Did he force you to keep silent?”

Guinevere closed her eyes briefly. “No. ’Twas I who begged
him
not to speak.”

“You wanted to be queen that much?”

“I wanted to wed
you
. Do you remember the day you rode into Cameliard? I stood on the battlements—”

“Yes, I remember.” Arthur’s voice was brusque. “So you took a greensick fancy for your king?”

“To the man who smiled at me that day, a man whose name I did not know. I was young, my lord. I’d spent all my life shut away in a convent. I believed,” she added very low, “in true love.”

“And that it would flourish when rooted in a lie?”

“Yes,” she said steadily. “I thought it wouldn’t matter much. No one knew, save Leodegrance—and Lancelot, of course. Leodegrance told him, as well, when Lance came to Cameliard to bring me to my wedding. It was so strange—Lance and I met when we were grown, yet it seemed I’d always known him.”

Arthur sighed. “I see. It must have come as a shock to learn he was such close kin to you.”

“No, not a shock, more of a surprise. And such a happy one! I’d always longed for a brother, and Lance had no family of his own. He guessed at once how I felt about—about our marriage—but I didn’t mind him knowing, because he was so fond of you himself. We only quarreled once, when I said you weren’t to know about my mother and King Ban. Lance always said you would not mind if I told you, but you would be angry if you found out for yourself.”

“He knows me well,” Arthur said.

“I saw later that he was right, but by then it was too late. He hated me not telling you—it made him so unhappy. I did mean to. I planned to confess everything after the birth of our son. But as we both know that will never come to pass, I thought it best to tell you now.”

“And what,” Arthur said, “am I meant to do with this information?”

“Use it. Our marriage has failed, there is no point pretending anymore. I know some on your council have already suggested that you put me aside and seek a younger bride; it will hardly come as a surprise if you decide to do so. Tell them what you like; I shall pack at once and go
wherever you see fit to send me. You can wed again, my lord; you are still a young man with time to beget a dozen heirs.”

There, she had said it. It was over. She sank back against the windowsill, arms wrapped about herself to still her trembling.

“Upon my new queen,” Arthur said thoughtfully, “I see.” She heard the creak of a chair as he sat. “You will be relieved to go, won’t you? I daresay our marriage has not been all your girlish dreams led you to expect.”

Guinevere was grateful for the darkness that hid her tears. Careful to keep them from her voice, she answered, “No, my lord.”

Arthur gave a grunt of laughter. “At least you don’t deny it.”

“How could I? I think we both know we are . . . ill suited.”

“In bed, you mean.”

She could not answer for a moment for the pain in her throat. At last she managed to whisper, “Yes. The fault is mine. My fa—King Leodegrance—told me it would be so, but I did not believe him.”

“He told you that you would not enjoy bedding with me?”

“No. Not that. He said—my mother, he said, was a—a sinful woman who could not control her lust. He said he saw the same taint in me. I thought he spoke from bitterness, but I have always known, since the first night . . . Well, ’tis no matter now, my lord, only that I’m sure you will do better next time. And now, if you will excuse me—”

“No, stay a moment. I am curious, Guinevere. What did you learn that first night? That you were nothing like your mother, after all?”

“No, my lord,” she said, feeling her face flame in the darkness. “I learned that I was very like her.”

Arthur gave a short, mirthless laugh. “When? Where? I’ve seen no sign of it.”

“I have always endeavored to perform my duties as befits a queen,” she answered stiffly.

“And how does a queen perform her royal duty in the bedchamber?” he asked, his voice mocking. “With brave endurance?”

“With dignity.”

“Dignity?” Arthur laughed again.
“Dignity?”

All at once he stood before her, his hand upon her neck. “Why do you lie to me now?” he demanded harshly. “What can you hope to gain?”

She felt the pulse in her throat fluttering against his palm. “Nothing.”

“Then admit the truth. You cannot bear for me to touch you.” His hand traveled downward. “See, even now you shrink away.”

“No,” she whispered. “’Tis but—but that I am weak and sinful.” She caught his hand and drew it to her breast. “When you do this, I—”

He bent over her, his breath warm against her lips. “You what?”

“I do not want you to stop.”

“A very great sin,” he said, gravely mocking. “But ’tis best that you confess it. What else would you have me do to you?”

“I—I would—” She put her hand on his neck and drew him down. He hesitated but a moment, then his mouth closed over hers in a kiss unlike any she had known. This was no courteous touch of mouth to mouth, but a fierce assault upon her senses. A small moan escaped her when his tongue met hers, and she turned her head, deepening the kiss, abandoning herself to the dizzying sensations
sweeping through her like a flame. She twined her hands in his fine, soft hair as she’d always longed to do, reveling in the iron strength of the arm around her waist, running her hands over the hard muscles of his back and shoulders that she had traced so often with her eyes when he lay sleeping.

At last he drew away. She could not see his face, but his voice was ragged as he said, “And have you slaked your sinful desires upon other men? You may as well tell me; there is nothing left to lose. If not Lancelot, then—”

“I never wanted any other,” she said simply. “Only you.”

He released her so suddenly that she stumbled, catching herself upon the windowsill. “Oh, very good, Guinevere! That was quite well acted, so well that you’ll forgive me if I don’t believe it was as unrehearsed as you would have me think.”

“I do not take your meaning,” Guinevere said, straightening her gown with shaking fingers. “I have told you nothing but the truth tonight—”

“But what of all the other nights? Do you think I could live with you so long and know you so little?”

“Yes. For I have lived with you equally as long, and I would have sworn you were incapable of such cruelty. I have admitted all to you, I have said that I will go wherever you will send me. What need had you to—to—”

She pushed past him and stumbled to the doorway. The torchlight from the corridor fell across the chamber, showing her Arthur standing by the window, his hair falling loose about his face. It seemed impossible that she could still desire him, and yet she did, with a force that brought hot tears to her eyes and left her nearly breathless.

“Farewell, my lord,” she said, and despite her efforts, her
voice wavered. She lifted her chin and finished steadily, “I trust there will be no need for us to meet again.”

Without waiting for the answer she could not bear to hear, she closed the door behind her and ran blindly to her chamber.