Lancelot (9 page)

“Had you no friends?” she asked, her voice warm with a sympathy that touched him, though he knew it undeserved. “None at all?”

“One or two,” Lancelot said, remembering his cousins Bors and Lionel with a pang, “who would have been my friends. But I’m afraid I did not much regard them, either. Truly, lady, I was detestable.”

She laughed at that. “You seem much improved.”

“Do I?” He winced at the eagerness in his voice. “I hope I am, a little. But any improvement is due entirely to the king. He did not think much of me at first—nor can I blame him, since the only time he was forced to notice me was when I was to be punished for fighting. Which happened rather often, I’m afraid.”

“And did you win?”

“Always. Which did nothing to endear me to the others. But one day—I’d gotten into the devil of a scrape—King Arthur sat me down and talked to me. He was—is—a very kind man, though he can be stern. He was that day,” he said with a reminiscent smile. “No one had ever spoken to me like that in all my life.”

“Were you very angry?” Elaine asked. She drew her knees up and clasped her arms around her shins. Pale golden hair spilled over one shoulder, and her astonishingly blue eyes were fixed expectantly on his face, as though she were genuinely interested in what he had to say.

“No, I was not angry,” he said, then grinned. “Well, perhaps a little, just at first. King Arthur is—I could say he is a good man, and that would be true, but many men are
called good when they possess but a single virtue among a hundred flaws. Arthur is . . . wholly good.”

“No man is that,” Elaine protested, “unless he is a saint.”

“I’ve always imagined that saints are dreary folk, but the king is very human. He has his faults—as he would be the first to tell you—”

“What are they?” Elaine interrupted. “I’ve never heard of any.”

Lancelot thought a moment, then laughed. “Do you know, I haven’t, either. Nor have I seen them for myself. Guin—the queen might scold him for not keeping such state as she deems fitting, but I hardly reckon that a fault. No, if he has one at all, it is that he is too ready to believe that others are as good as he is himself. It isn’t that he’s perfect, but King Arthur always
tries
to do the right thing, no matter how difficult that thing may be or how impossible it seems.”

Elaine rested her chin on her knees. “It doesn’t seem like much, does it, to always try to do the right thing? But when I think of it, there are times I’ve done—not the wrong thing, no one chooses to do that—but what is easy or convenient.”

“Yes,” he said. “For myself, I have done many things that I would change now if I could.”

“I can see why you admire him so,” Elaine said thoughtfully. “So after he had scolded you, what did he do?”

“He sent me off in search of an adventure.”

“And you became a knight.”

“I did. But—but it was not what I thought it would be.”

“I understand,” she said, and though he knew she did not really, he was still comforted. “I always thought—”

“What?”

“That I, too, was destined for great things.” She gestured
toward the flowing river at their feet. “I would sit just here and plan my future.”

“What was it?”

“I had been betrothed to Lord—well, it doesn’t matter now, but he was a man of some consequence. I imagined I would rule graciously over my people—wearing very fine clothing while I did it, of course, and many splendid jewels. I would be famed not only for my great beauty but for my countless acts of charity. Sainthood would, of course, have followed, but only after I’d lived to a great age and borne at least a dozen children.”

Lancelot whistled softly. “Sainthood? Even I never aspired so high as that. But tell me, what happened to Lord Whosis?”

“He did not wait. Alas, when my family vanished, he basely wed another.”

“Churl. Shall I run him through?”

“Would you?” She seemed to consider the matter, her head tipped to one side. “’Tis very kind, but you needn’t bother. I fancy he is gray and stout these days, no match at all for a knight of your undoubted caliber.”

“But lady,” he said, “what I cannot understand—forgive me if this is an impertinence—is why you have not wed since.”

“Can you really not?” Now her smile was mocking, though whether of herself or him he could not say. “Oh, come, sir, you know how it is.”

Deepening her voice, she went on in a drawl—astonishingly accurate—affected by some of the younger knights at court. “Who is her father? Good. Her mother? That will do. What is her dowry?” Her lips twisted into a supercilious smirk, and one hand described a languid, flicking motion. “Quite. And will you introduce me to that other maiden now, the one with the squint and the three manors?”

Lancelot, who had been sipping his wine, choked on his laughter. She obligingly pounded on his back, and when he was recovered, said, “I think I must be somewhat tipsy, sir, to talk to you like this.”

“No, not at all. I have heard that sort of thing before—’tis only that I didn’t think the ladies were aware of it.”

“Of course we are. Or do you subscribe to the common wisdom that females have no sense?”

“At court,” he said, “it is generally accepted that a lady’s intelligence stands in direct proportion to her beauty. The plainest are reckoned to be clever, the fairest somewhat . . . less so.”

“God giving with one hand and taking with the other, as it were.”

“As it were,” he agreed. “Now, by such a measure, you, my lady,” he reached out and touched her cheek, “should by rights be little better than an imbecile.”

She laughed, and the soft skin beneath his fingers took on a rosy hue. “Am I meant to be flattered or insulted?”

“Mayhap the common wisdom is not altogether wrong,” he answered gravely. “Take all the time you need to work it out.”

His hand drifted down to the soft hair hanging over her shoulder. He wound it around his hand and tugged her forward to look into her eyes. She went very still—the stillness of a hind that scents the hunter, of a dove beneath the shadow of the hawk. Yet she did not draw away.

And Lancelot knew why. He knew precisely what he’d done. He had bought her trust with the coin of his own honesty, and she had repaid him with her friendship. It was precious to him, not only because there were few he had ever named a friend, but because he sensed it was not a gift she offered lightly. Let it rest here, and he had the hope of retaining that even when she learned his name. Go on taking
advantage of her ignorance, and he was the basest churl who’d ever lived.

“Lady,” he said, hating himself yet powerless to stop, “to such as you, a dowry would be entirely superfluous.”

His gaze drifted downward to her full pink lips, softly parted in surprise, and before he could stop to think of the terrible mistake he was about to make, he kissed her.

E
LAINE had been kissed before. Once. At her cousin Alienor’s wedding feast—could it have only been last evening?—a knight had trapped her in a corner, grabbed her breast, and attempted to thrust his tongue down her throat. She had been at first revolted, then furiously angry as she jerked away and dealt him a stunning blow across the face. The experience was not one she had looked forward to repeating.

But this kiss was nothing like the first.

It was so hesitant, so soft—the merest brush of lips against her own—yet, strangely, she felt it through her entire body, a sweet fire that seemed to melt her very bones.

Her only complaint was that it was over too quickly, leaving her bereft. But only for a moment. The next time they kissed, her hand cupped the tender nape of his neck, and when he responded in kind, a delicious shiver rippled down her spine. She gasped softly in surprised delight, her lips parting beneath his, and he went very still for a moment
before he tilted his head, deepening the kiss, his mouth firm and supple on her own.

Greatly daring, she traced the contour of his lower lip with the tip of her tongue, and he made a sound—something between a sigh and a moan—and caught her in his arms, throwing her off balance so they fell together, laughing, onto his cloak. Lifting himself on one elbow, he gazed down at her, and she saw her own astonished happiness reflected in his eyes. “You are so beautiful,” he said, his voice filled with wonderment, and smiling, he bent to her again.

This, this is what I have been waiting for all my life,
she thought, dizzy with his kiss. Every hurt she had suffered, each failure and disillusionment were magically redeemed into steps upon the path that led her to this moment, this perfect moment that she hoped would never end.

When he drew away, it was only to bury his face against her neck, his lips moving against her skin. She sighed and ran her hands down his back, feeling each separate muscle beneath her fingertips, breathing in his scent—something spicy and exotic—longing for this precious time to go on and on, yet knowing it could not. Not like this.

They had come to a parting in the road. She could almost see it, two ancient wooden signposts pointing in opposite directions, the writing faded yet very clear. One was marked Dishonor, the other, Respectability. She wound her fingers through his springing curls and tugged him up so she could look into his eyes.

He placed one callused fingertip against her mouth as though to still the question hovering upon her lips, and yet it must be asked.

“Who are you?”

Even before he spoke, she read the answer in his eyes. “I cannot tell you.”

She pulled free of his embrace and sat up, smoothing her tumbled hair. Surely that tearing pain in her breast could not be her heart breaking. That was only an expression, after all.

He sat up, as well. “I would tell you if I could, but I
can
not.”

“Why?”

“A vow.”

“Oh, a
vow
. Well, then, I mustn’t meddle. I’d hate to see you damned forever just for
my
sake.”

“Elaine—” He caught her hand in his. “The name you seek would tell you nothing—less than nothing—of the man I really am. But perhaps another—”

“A false name?” She shook her head and attempted to withdraw her hand. “Thank you, but you needn’t bother.”

“Not false,” he said quickly, tightening his fingers. “’Tis mine—at least it was. I bore it long ago, so long that I have no memory of ever having heard it spoken. It would please me very much to hear you say it.”

“What is it?” Elaine asked.

“Galahad.”

It seemed a hush fell over the glade in which they sat, silencing the chatter of the birds and the rushing of the river. Sunlight fell through the budded branches overhead, striking sparks off the rings upon the long brown fingers, still clasped tightly around hers.

“Galahad,” she repeated softly. A shiver passed quickly down her spine, as though she had unwittingly uttered some forgotten word of power.

“Yes.” He raised her hand to his mouth, brushing his lips across her palm, then laughed aloud. “
Yes.”

And somehow, in a way she could never possibly explain, all was made right. When he bent to her, she swayed
to meet him, her arms rising to clasp him round the neck. All the questions she might have asked, the ones tugging at the edges of her mind, simply ceased to matter when his mouth found hers and they sank together to the ground.

T
HEY reached Corbenic as the sun was sinking behind the trees and walked hand in hand to the entrance of the tower.

“Elaine.”

Galahad turned to her, the last rays of the setting sun shining full upon his face. Confronted with such unearthly beauty, she could only stare in wonder. Even after all that they had shared she could scarce believe that such a man was looking at her with such longing in his luminous dark eyes.

“Would you—that is, may I—” he broke off, laughing.

“What?” she breathed.

“May I wear your favor? Tomorrow, when I joust?”

Elaine’s disappointment was gone almost before she was aware of it, swept away in an uprush of astonished joy. Long ago, before age and common sense had put an end to such foolishness, she had imagined some knight would ask her this very question. It had once been her favorite
fantasy, one she had spent—wasted, she would have said just yesterday—many an hour picturing in lingering detail.