Gawain (26 page)

“I wasn’t leaving you for good,” she said gently. “Just for a bit. I did not want to meet your mother.”

“Are you afraid of her?” he asked, surprised.

“I’d be a rare fool if I wasn’t! I thought that if I could meet her at the Midsummer Feast, it would be easier. So why don’t I go back to my little hut tomorrow, and—”

Gawain shook his head. “She’ll mind her tongue, I’ve seen to that. And you needn’t meet her if you’d rather not.”

“That’s kind of you to say, but I think it would be best if I just stayed away for a few days.”

“No,” he said decidedly, “I want you where I can keep an eye on you. And you must promise not to run off again without so much as a farewell.”

“It was wrong of me to do that,” she admitted. “But when I learned your mother had come to court I didn’t stop to think.”

“And that,” he said, “is why
I
should do the thinking for us both. You are coming back with me tomorrow. Now, don’t let’s quarrel,” he added, smiling and holding out his hand. “Come and see the nice bed I made for you.”

Aislyn knew when she was being managed, but when she saw Gawain’s cloak laid upon a thick mound of soft greenery, her resentment collapsed into a muddle of confusion.

“Where will you sleep?” she asked, lying down on the pallet, which smelled deliciously of fresh-cut grass.

“I’ll be fine here,” he said, sitting cross-legged by the fire and laying his sword within reach.

She wanted to protest, or at least offer to share the watch with him in turn, but she was asleep before she formed the words.

GAWAIN wasn’t looking forward to telling Arthur what had happened with Sir Gudrun, but in the event, he never had the chance.

“What,” Arthur said by way of greeting, “were you thinking?”

The king sat behind the long table in his presence chamber, doing what he hated most. Parchments were piled all around him, his hair was awry, and the finger he tapped impatiently upon the table was stained with ink.

“You are speaking of Sir Gudrun, I presume?”

“None other. This—” Arthur plucked a parchment from the pile and waved it in the air. “—is from King Aesc. He wonders why my nephew—my
heir
—seems determined to wreck an alliance we have worked so long and hard to build—one that is in danger, as well you know, of imminent collapse. An alliance,” he went on, his voice rising to a shout, “purchased at the cost of many brave men whose lives I believed—perhaps mistakenly—you valued as much as did their widows and their orphans. For their sakes, perhaps you would be so kind as to give me an answer I might pass on to our ally, and that he, in turn, might relate to those of his council who are demanding your head. Because I tell you, Gawain, I tell you in all honesty, I have no idea what to say to him.”

“Sir Gudrun was impertinent,” Gawain began.

Arthur drew in a sharp breath. “
Impertinent?
He had better have been a good deal more than that.”

“I didn’t kill the man!”

“No, you did worse. You
shamed
him. You know how these Saxons think, you’re not a fool. Gudrun is now your sworn enemy—you have all but driven him into the arms of his Wessex kin! He was one of the few voices on Aesc’s council we could trust to speak for us, and now—”

“Is he really such a half man that he would bring all his people to war simply because he cannot endure a beating? One he all but begged for, I might add, and one I was right pleased to give him.”

Arthur began to speak, checked himself, then bent his head, raking his ink-stained fingers through his hair. “Tell me what happened.”

“Sir Gudrun’s lady was on the way to meet her mother when her birth pangs overcame her. Her escort went in search of a woman to help her, and they came upon Dame Ragnelle. She delivered Sir Gudrun’s daughter—single-handed, in the depths of the forest—and when Sir Gudrun arrived on the scene, he began to abuse his lady for not giving him the son he had hoped for.”

Arthur nodded briefly. “Go on.”

“Ragnelle took him to task for it. You can say that it was foolish and I will not disagree, but she felt herself bound to defend the lady. Gudrun, being what he is, decided to vent his spleen on Ragnelle, and so I came upon them. I tried to withdraw peacefully, sire. On my word, I did all I could to take Ragnelle and leave. But Gudrun spoke such insults as could not in honor be ignored.”

“In short, Dame Ragnelle interfered in a private quarrel between a man and his wife, and you, for reasons known only to yourself, upheld her.”

“Had she been at fault, I would have been the first to chide her. But the Saxon lady, Gudrun’s bride—who is little more than a child, sire, and had just endured a terrible ordeal—did not merit such treatment at his hands.”

“I find it passing strange, Gawain, that you would concern yourself with a lady hitherto unknown to you—a Saxon lady, at that!”

“What has that to do with it? Is not the protection of all women the duty of all knights?”

“Of course it is, but—damn it, the lady is Gudrun’s wife! ’Tis only natural he would be disappointed, and at such a time any man might say things he would later regret.”

“
Any
man? Would you, sire?”

Arthur frowned. “What I would say is not the issue.”

“Gudrun drew back his hand to strike Ragnelle—he told me to take my bitch and begone. What would you have had me do?”

“I had not heard that,” Arthur admitted, “but from all you’ve said, he was sorely tried. Gawain, Dame Ragnelle is simply unendurable, and she has brought you naught but misfortune and unhappiness.”

“I thought you don’t approve of interfering between a man and his wife,” Gawain said evenly.

“I don’t. But when she endangers Britain, it becomes my concern. I am sorry, Gawain, but Dame Ragnelle must go. Send her to Lothian or Orkney—or if you do not want her so far, find a convent where she can live. But she cannot remain at court.”

“So all the blame is to fall on her?” Gawain demanded. “Is that what you mean to tell King Aesc? That Ragnelle is at fault, and has perforce been
banished
?”

“Yes,” Arthur said. “That is precisely what I mean to tell him.”

“But I—”

“You would oblige me very much, Gawain, if you would accept my decision without argument.”

Outside the long window, the sun was setting behind a heavy bank of clouds. Only a few shafts of golden light pierced the mist-laden air, lending the garden an unearthly beauty. Gawain remembered the eve of his knighting, when he and Arthur sat together on the low stone wall planning the future. He had agreed with Arthur then that the Saxon settlers were here to stay; the only way to a united Britain was to ally with them. What battles must be fought should be swift and decisive; not an end in themselves but a preface to the real work that would begin once Britain was at peace. He had lost sight of that goal when he allowed his personal feelings to intrude, but to break his word to Ragnelle and allow her to be punished for his fault would only compound his failure.

“Very well, sire,” he said. “Dame Ragnelle shall leave court for a time, while I go to King Aesc and apologize. And to Sir Gudrun, as well,” he added with an effort he hoped did not show, “formally, before all his kin.”

Arthur shook his head. “I have given this a good deal of thought, and I believe any apologies would only worsen matters.”

“But I must say something to King Aesc,” Gawain protested. “We are meant to meet in ten day’s time and discuss—”

“You will not be meeting with him. In fact,” Arthur said, rearranging the parchments before him, “I think it would be best if you stayed clear of the Saxon matter for a time.”

“I do not understand—”

“You’ve been under a good deal of strain of late, Gawain, even if you will not admit it. I don’t want you to concern yourself with anything; just leave it all to me.”

Not
concern
himself? This was Gawain’s work—more, it was his life. Did they count for nothing, then, all the nights lying on cold earth, the battles he had fought, the weeks—sometimes months—he had spent sweating over each clause of the treaties he negotiated once the battles had been won? He had ridden from one end of Britain to the other a dozen times at least, either in warfare or as the king’s emissary, and now, after one misstep, he was to be dismissed like an erring squire? And someone else was to—

Oh, no,
he thought,
I am wrong. Arthur would not—

“Who is to carry your message, then?” His voice seemed to come from very far away. “Who is to treat with them in your name?”

“Sir Lancelot.”

Gawain felt as though he had been dealt a solid blow between the eyes; numb, but with the certainty of pain to follow.

“He and Sir Gudrun have always been on good terms,” Arthur went on, “and I believe, given his reputation and his—well, his standing at court, that King Aesc will accept him.”

Gawain was on his feet with no memory of having risen from his seat, and once standing, he had no idea of where he meant to go. He had just reached the door when Arthur spoke again. “About Dame Ragnelle—”

“I shall see to it.”

“I only wanted to say that I am sorry.”

“Yes, sire. So am I,” Gawain said politely, and stepping into the corridor, he shut the door silently behind him.

Chapter 28

GAWAIN walked through the courtyard to the practice yard below. Not bothering to go round to the gate, he vaulted the fence around the enclosure where he had spent so many hours, first in learning and then in teaching the lads who flocked to court.

The yard was empty now. The boys Gawain had taught were long gone—some dead in battle, others to their own lands, a few up in the hall, which spilled light and laughter into the dusk. All that was left was the quintain, standing to attention like a forgotten soldier on a deserted battlefield.

A few wooden swords lay in the dusty patch of earth. Gawain picked them up and set them neatly in the rack before passing on, giving the quintain an absent push as he walked by, instinctively leaning to one side as the arm with its dented shield swung round with a squeak.
I’ll have to see to that.
He cut the thought off before he could pursue it.

He reached the back of the yard and climbed the fence again, grasped the bough of an overhanging chestnut tree and pulled himself aloft, until he was sitting with his back against the trunk and his legs drawn up before him.

A warm breeze ruffled the leaves around him; the quintain squeaked in the practice yard below. The sound was comforting, as familiar as the scents of horses and honeysuckle and new-turned earth drifting on the evening air. He inhaled deeply, his eyes stinging. He could travel the whole world and never find a place he loved as he loved Camelot. It was his home.

The sun was gone now, the battlements a shadow against a star-strewn sky, the Pendragon pennant invisible in the darkness. But he could see it in his mind’s eye— splendid, invincible, the proud banner of a new Britain. Arthur’s Britain.

But no longer his.

AISLYN jumped up from her seat when the door opened.

“Well?” she said. “How was it with the king? Was he sore angry?”

“Yes.” Gawain removed his cloak and hung it on its hook, then unbuckled his sword harness and hung that, as well.

“Did you tell him—”

“There was no need,” Gawain answered, smoothing the folds of his cloak. “Sir Gudrun apparently ran off to his brother, and King Aesc lost no time in complaining to the king of me.”

“And of me, I’ll be bound,” Aislyn said. “I am sorry, I know how important this alliance is, and now I’ve gone and put my foot in it. Will you have to beg Sir Gudrun’s pardon?”

“No. I am relieved of my duties as envoy to the Saxons.”

Gawain turned to her at last, but there was something off about his smile. Even in the reddish glow of the candles burning on the table, his face looked pale and drawn as he sat down on the edge of the bed. “I have been thinking . . . what say you we go to Orkney for a time?”

“Orkney?”

“It has been long years since I visited my demesne. That was wrong of me,” he added in a lower voice, passing the tip of his finger through the candle’s flame. “I have neglected my obligations.”

“Orkney?” she said again.

“It is very beautiful,” Gawain said, watching the candle flicker. “The sound of the waves against the shore . . . the terns swooping from the cliffs . . . I spent a year there as a boy—just before I was sent here—and have often longed to see it again.”

“Orkney?”
Aislyn gave herself a shake. “But you have duties here—”

Gawain smiled, his eyes still fixed on the flame. “Sir Lancelot can take my place.”

“He could never take your place! He isn’t fit to wipe your boots!”

Gawain stood abruptly. “We shall travel slowly—you can have a litter if you like—”

“A journey like that could take months,” she protested. “It would hardly be worth it if you were to . . . just how long were you thinking to stay?”

“Some time. A long time.”

“Forever?”

He looked away without answering.

“Leave Camelot?” she demanded shrilly. “
You?
Does the king know of this?”

“Not yet.”

“He won’t just let you go off to Orkney!”

“He cannot stop me. I am his liege man, not his prisoner.” He turned to gaze out the window, adding in a lower voice. “Not anymore.”

“I reckon the king’s not the only one in a temper, but it’s not like you to run away. You
are
his liege man, you’ve given him your oath, and what you’ve sworn to do, you
do
. What are you not telling me?”

“Nothing—it does not matter—”

“If the king isn’t going to make you beg Gudrun’s pardon, then . . .” She sat down hard. “It’s me, isn’t it? What did he say to you?”