Gawain (27 page)

“You are banished from court,” Gawain said.

“And you?”

He shook his head.

Aislyn’s throat tightened. “You’d do that? Leave court for me?”

“I would indeed, for so I promised. But as it happens, I would like to go anyway.”

“Why?” Aislyn said. “Because the king was angry?”

“Because he does not need me now. As I said, I am relieved of my duties, so there is no need for me to stay.”

Aislyn stood before him. The crone was so short that with Gawain seated, they were almost eye to eye.

“There is a need, and what’s more you know it,” she said. “You cannot just ride off and let that Sir Lancelot step into your shoes. What would become of Camelot then? Why, look at how he treated Dinadan, a brother knight! He doesn’t understand, not as you do! You have to stay.”

“I cannot,” Gawain said. “I promised—”

“You don’t have to tell me what you promised. I’m the one you promised it to. And I’m the one who’s saying you mustn’t keep that promise.” He wavered before her eyes, but she went on fiercely, “I won’t have it. It isn’t right. I’ll go back to where I came from—”

What then?
A small voice asked in her mind.
How will you ever find Morgana? And if you do, why should she care what happens to you now that you’ve been banished?

She pushed those thoughts aside. “I managed well enough before you came along—”

“—And I can go on managing just fine. You have work to do here, and I’ve been keeping you from it, but once I’m gone, things will go back to the way they were before.”

“No.” Gawain shook his head, a faint smile touching his lips. “They won’t. Having known you, I doubt I will ever be the same.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” Aislyn sniffed. “And you’ll know where I am. You can come visit me from time to time, if—if you’ve a mind to.”

Oh, this was hard, the hardest thing she’d ever done, but she refused to spoil it by weeping. But when he laid his hands upon her shoulders, the tenderness of the gesture nearly undid her. “I cannot ask it of you.”

She had never loved him as she did now, and though she could not speak of it, it was in her eyes and in her voice when she declared, “You don’t have to ask.”

His expression altered to one of understanding and pity. “Oh, Ragnelle,” he said helplessly. “I—”

And leaning forward, his hands still resting lightly on her shoulders, he kissed her.

Pain speared through her, driving her to her knees. Gawain was beside her in a moment.

“What is it? Are you—”

She dropped onto her side and drew her knees to her chest. Oh, it had never been this bad before, she must be . . . must be . . .

“RAGNELLE!” Gawain reached for her, but drew his hand back with a disgusted cry when her flesh moved sickeningly beneath his palm. She—it—dear God, what
was
the thing beside him? He scrambled awkwardly across the floor until his back was to the wall and drew his dagger.

Ragnelle—but no, it was not Ragnelle, it was—it seemed to be—a maiden, sat up, her features obscured by a wealth of tangled copper hair. Half laughing, half weeping, she shook her hair back to reveal—no, he was mad or dreaming, it was impossible that she could be— His dagger clattered to the floor.

“Aislyn?” he whispered hoarsely, then signed himself with the cross. “St. Michael and all his angels protect me—”

“I’m not a ghost!” she cried. “I’m not dead, I never was! That was a lie! I’ve been under a spell—I could not tell you, but it is me, Gawain, really—”

His head struck the wall when she flung herself into his arms, pressing kisses on his jaw.

“Aislyn?” He touched her cheeks, her hair, hardly daring to believe that she was real. “But—but where is Dame Ragnelle?”

“I
am
Dame Ragnelle! At least, I was, but you’ve broken the enchantment—well, half of it—”

“What?”
She felt real enough, warm and soft and trembling beneath his hands. “You are—but you—I do not understand—”

“I know and I am sorry.” She took his hand, holding it between both of hers. “Oh, my love, I wanted to tell you— I tried—but it was part of the enchantment—”

He held her at arm’s length, his eyes searching her face. “You are Aislyn,” he said, the words not quite a question.

“Yes. Yes, I swear I am. Dame Ragnelle was a seeming, but she was always me—and I was her, only . . . only . . .”

“Don’t weep,” he said, though his own eyes were far from dry. “Don’t weep, Aislyn, all will be well.”

“Will it?” she said, her sea-green eyes shining between tear-spiked lashes. She had been a lovely lass five years ago, but now—oh, now she was infinitely more beautiful, almost unreal—

“And—are you are certain I am not dreaming?”

She wound her arms around his neck and drew him down to her. “Quite, quite certain,” she whispered against his lips. “Oh, Gawain, I love you—I always have, but now—now I love you so much more—”

His mouth closed over hers. At last he pulled away to gaze down into her eyes. “Aislyn,” he said, drawing a fingertip across her lips. “Aislyn—it
is
you. You’ve come back to me.”

And those were the last words spoken between them for many hours.

GAWAIN shifted Aislyn’s head from his chest to the hollow of his shoulder and stroked the hair back from her brow.

“You were Dame Ragnelle,” he said, as though he could not quite believe it, and traced her cheeks and nose and brow as though to assure himself of her reality. “You said I broke the enchantment. How?”

She turned her head and lightly kissed his mouth. “Like that.”

“That was all? Why did you not ask—? Oh, you did, that day in the garden. Then why—”

“Not just any kiss. One given with love,” she said, “like this.” After a very pleasant interval, she settled back into the crook of his arm, lazily trailing her hand over his chest.

“But you said it was only half broken.”

Aislyn sighed. “Yes. For half each day I shall be as you see me now. For the rest . . .” She turned her face into his shoulder. “I don’t know how I can bear it.”

“But there must be some way to free you. I will go to the king, have him—”

“No!” She pulled away. “No one can know.”

“Not
know
? But—”

“If your mother learns that I am here—oh, Gawain, she mustn’t. We must keep quiet until the duchess of Cornwall returns. She can break the spell.”

Gawain nodded thoughtfully. “But we can trust the king.”

“He cannot help me, and if he were to say the wrong thing—even without meaning to— Please, promise me you won’t say anything. Please.”

He wrapped his arms around her. “I mislike deceiving the king, but Morgana should be back in a day or two. I suppose it cannot do too much harm to wait for her.”

“And in the meanwhile, I can go back to my cottage as we planned.”

“No,” he said decidedly.

“Have you forgotten I am banished?”

He shrugged. “The king will grant me a few day’s grace, I’m sure.”

“But I would feel safer away from here. If I were to—”

“No,” he said again. “I want you with me. You are far too apt to get into trouble on your own.”

Stung, she drew back to look into his face. “I have been getting myself into—and out of—trouble for some time.”

“I daresay you have,” he answered, “but things are different now. You wanted to marry me—or was that part of the enchantment, too?”

“No,” she admitted, “it was not.”

“Well, then,” he said, seeking to draw her down again as though the matter had been settled.

“Then what? I don’t see what you being my husband has to do with me going back to my cottage.”

He sighed. “I don’t want to quarrel with you, Aislyn. Just do as I say.”

“But why should it be as
you
say?”

“Because I am your husband. Look you, sweeting, you cannot have two leaders of a battalion, no more than you can have two kings. I have sworn to obey my liege lord, just as you have promised to obey me. And that is as it should be. Men are fitted by nature to command. We are trained to weigh the risks of any course of action, and not be influenced by . . .” He waved a hand. “By whims and fancies.”

“You think me
fanciful
?” she demanded, remembering some of the decisions she had been forced to make. What about the day, soon after she’d left Lothian, when she woke to find a ruffian bending over her, his stinking breath in her face and his hand halfway up her skirt? Or the time she had been snowed into her hut for a solid fortnight, with the ice so thick she could not force the door to open? She’d gotten through those times, and she hadn’t done it by wringing her hands and waiting for Gawain—or any man—to tell her what to do!

“I have never met a woman so prone to mad fancies,” Gawain said, and laughed. “Do you forget that I have lived with you these past weeks? There is no knowing what you might do next, or what trouble it will lead to.” He kissed her shoulder, then the place where it joined her neck, his teeth moving lightly over her skin.

“But—”

“Let me be a husband to you,” he said, his breath soft and warm in her ear. “Is that not what you wanted?”

“Yes, but—”

He moved to lie atop her, his weight supported on his elbows, his eyes inches from hers. “Is it what you want now?”

“Yes.” She wound her arms around his neck. “But—”

He mouth covered hers, cutting off her words. She began to protest, but his knee glided between hers and she arched to meet him. By the time she could speak again, she had forgotten what she meant to say.

“GOOD morning, sire,” Gaheris said, walking into Arthur’s presence chamber. “How was it with Gawain yesterday? Did he agree to send the witch away?”

“Yes,” Arthur said, frowning. “Yes, he did.”

“God be thanked.” Gaheris took a seat. “And to a rest, as well?”

“Yes. But . . .”

“But what?”

“I think perhaps I should have waited.”

“She has to go,” Gaheris said decidedly. “And you will never have a better chance. Come, sire, he must have understood the damage she has done. You did put the case strongly to him, did you not?”

“As strongly as I could.” Arthur rubbed absently at his jaw. “But he pled his—or should I say her—case with equal strength. What Dame Ragnelle did was unwise, and certainly inopportune, but worth banishment? I think not.”

“What she has done to my brother merits that,” Gaheris argued. “She has obviously enspelled him.”

“We have no proof of that. Even his defense of her to Sir Gudrun was understandable.”

“In any other man, perhaps, but in Gawain? After the effort he put into this treaty, would he really toss it all aside so lightly? And you know as well as I how he feels about sorcery, yet he admitted she is a witch as though ’twere naught.”

“True, but . . . the more I reflect on it, the more I doubt my judgment. It is only that I am so very fond of Gawain—” He sighed. “But I fear I mishandled this badly.”

“No, sire!” Gaheris protested. “You
could
not!”

Arthur laughed shortly. “Of course I could! And it would not be the first time, either. I should have been honest with him, Gaheris. Even if he has been enspelled, it was wrong to deceive him.”

“You meant it for his good. Once she is gone, he will understand that. When is she leaving?”

“I saw him this morning,” Arthur said, “and he asked for a day or two to make a suitable arrangement for her.”

Gaheris frowned. “I do not like this.”

“Nor do I. But I can hardly deny him such a reasonable request. I have given him two days, and I shall take care to keep him from her. Today, he will attend me and tonight, I have bidden all my companions to keep watch with me in the chapel in honor of St. John’s feast.”

“And tomorrow?” Gaheris asked.

Arthur sighed. “The guests will be arriving; it should be no trouble to keep him busy until nightfall and then there is the feast. God send that Morgana will be here by that time, but whether or no, Dame Ragnelle will be gone the next morning.”

LAUNFAL stopped dead in the road when he saw the spires of Camelot rising above the treetops, scarcely aware of the people jostling him as they pushed by on their way to market. There was the Pendragon banner, gold and crimson against the blazingly blue sky. It was real, all real, and he was nearly there. He laughed aloud, drawing a few suspicious glances from the crowd, but the tradesmen streaming down the road were far too intent upon their own concerns to pay such a ragged stranger any mind.

And he was far too happy to care what they made of him. Nearly there, he thought, unconsciously flexing the fingers of his left hand. The skin across his palm was still very tender, but the pain which had been nearly unendurable for the first few days had subsided to a dull ache, easily ignored as he strode quickly toward the distant castle. The road grew more crowded as he climbed the hill, and when he reached the crest, he saw the market spread below. The scent of roasting meat hit him like a blow; his empty belly collapsed in upon itself and his mouth filled with water, but his gaze was riveted to the road beyond, rising on a gentle slope to the open gates of Camelot.

A laden donkey nudged him in the back, sending him staggering into a woman with a basket balanced on one brawny shoulder. “Geroff!” she shouted, fetching him a clout, and he barely stopped himself from measuring his length upon the dusty path.

Impatient with the crowd, he turned off the road and into the wood, enjoying the cool shadows cast by slender birches. The way was easy here, the ground carpeted in springing moss and starred with bluebells. He began to whistle as he leapt lightly over a merry little brook, matching his steps to the rhythm of the tune, keeping an eye out for roots and rocks that might trip him up.