Gawain (3 page)

Let him spend a little time in hell and see how well
he
liked it.

“I have a favor to ask in return,” she said to the king, who was eyeing her uneasily, no doubt as a result of her sudden outburst. “’Tis just a small thing, nothing of importance . . .”

“Name it and it is yours.”

“I want . . . well, lately, sire, I’ve had the fancy to wed.”

“To wed?” Arthur struggled manfully to control his mirth. “Why don’t you come to court—as my guest, of course—my
honored
guest. Stay as long as you like— forever if that pleases you—and we shall look about for someone who might suit.”

“I don’t need to look about.”

The merriment vanished from Arthur’s face. “You don’t?”

“No.” She smiled again, and he reached out to support himself on a tree trunk. “Sir Gawain here is a bonny knight and he says he fears no woman. Well, says I, that’s the man—the
only
man—for me.”

“Grandmother,” he replied carefully, “Sir Gawain is— well, he is a good deal younger—”

“Oh, I don’t mind
that
.” She nudged Arthur in the ribs and winked. “I will soon teach him all he needs to know.”

Arthur’s pallor deepened. “I cannot permit this.”

“What’s it to do with you? He’s a grown man, isn’t he? Let’s hear what he has to say.”

“I’ll give you anything else—gold, you would like that, wouldn’t you? Or—or lands. A castle—”

“Him,” Aislyn said firmly. “Or nothing.”

“Then I fear it must be nothing.”

She shrugged. “I still say you should ask him, but if you won’t, you won’t. Farewell, my king, and—well, I won’t wish you long life or health, why waste my breath?” She patted his arm kindly. “Let’s just leave it at a quick and painless death.”

SOMETHING was wrong. Gawain could see it in Arthur’s face as the king strode back to his horse. The hideous creature who had accosted them hobbled a few steps and stood by the side of the road, leaning on her stick.

“What did she say?” Gawain demanded.

“Nothing.” Arthur swung himself onto his horse and urged it forward. “Hurry up, Gawain,” he called over his shoulder, “we’ve wasted enough time.”

Gawain leapt onto his charger and kicked it into a canter, his stomach churning as he swept by the stinking crone. “Hold up, Arthur! Tell me what she said!”

“Oh, some nonsense—it doesn’t matter, you were right, she didn’t know the answer after all.”

Gawain glanced back uneasily. The hag still stood there, watching them, smiling—at least he thought it was a smile. With those . . . teeth . . . it was difficult to tell.

He shuddered and turned back to the king. “What nonsense?” he insisted. “What are you not telling me?”

“Leave it,” Arthur ordered curtly.

“Did she curse you? Is that it? By God, if she did, I’ll—”

“You’ll do nothing. She’s a bit mad, poor creature, but harmless. Let’s forget her.”

They rode on in silence for a time. Arthur gazed ahead, his expression abstracted, one hand tapping out a rhythm on his knee—always a sure sign that he was upset.

“Arthur, look at me. Something happened back there. Either you tell me what it is or I’ll go ask the witch myself.”

“You will not.”

Gawain pulled his charger to a halt.

“Damn it, Gawain, I am the king! I
order
you to stay here.”

“Then tell me the truth!”

“It was nothing—no, wait. She said that she would tell me if I—if I made her one of the queen’s waiting women.”

“And you
refused
? Are you mad?”

“Guinevere wouldn’t like it,” Arthur said. “Would you? Having to look at that face every day—dear God, those teeth! D’you think that was actual moss growing on them?” He shuddered. “And her stench! I don’t know how I managed to keep my breakfast.”

“I am sure the queen would put up with a bit of inconvenience to save your life!”

“Yes, well, perhaps—I mean, of course she would, but I won’t ask it of her. And that’s an end on it. Belike the old woman doesn’t know the answer, anyway.”

Gawain seized the king’s bridle. “Arthur, you are the greatest king Britain has ever known, but you are a wretched liar.
What did the crone want?
”

“Oh, very
well
!” Arthur laughed. “It’s so ridiculous, I didn’t like to say—”

“Arthur.”

“Shewantedyoutomarryher,” Arthur said. “Now let’s get moving.”

“She wanted . . . to marry her?
Me?
”

“Come along, man, we can’t sit here all the day.”

Gawain did not move. “To
marry
her? To marry
her
?”

“Stop
saying
that. It makes me sick to even hear the words. Gawain, I would never ask you—”

Gawain jerked his horse’s head around. “Do you think you have to? Of course I’ll do it.”

THE hag was still standing where they’d left her, leaning on her stick as though awaiting their return.
Witch
, Gawain thought again, and forced himself to look her in the eye.

She gazed up at him through tangled brows, her expression both amused and strangely knowing. What she knew, he could not imagine, and he found he did not want to try. Her face was a mottled red, wrinkled as a winter apple, and only two teeth—tusks, he thought with dull horror— remained to her, one pointing downward toward her protruding chin, the other nearly touching the wart upon the end of her nose. Filthy gray hair hung in a matted knot to her shoulders, which were bent and oddly twisted.

“I accept your terms,” he said. “Give us the answer.”

“Hold up a moment, laddie, I want to be sure we have things clear between us. I stay with you at Camelot. Don’t think you can go packing me off to one of your manors in the back of beyond.”

Gawain’s jaw clenched. “Very well—that is, if your answer is correct.”

“It is.”

“Let’s have it, then. Please,” he added between clenched teeth.

“Not you,” she croaked. “’Tis for the king alone.”

“Sire?” Gawain said, and Arthur, who had been staring at the crone, shook himself as though waking from a dark dream.

“Right.” Arthur dismounted and approached her. Two steps away, he halted and looked back. “Gawain—”

“Go on, sire.”

“That’s right, Arthur King, you just bend your ear to me . . .”

She leaned close. A moment later, Arthur drew back and stared at her incredulously. “That’s
it
?”

“Aye, that’s it.” She wheezed with laughter. “You didn’t find it for yourself, though, did you?”

“No,” Arthur said slowly. “No, I did not.”

“Well, then, off you go. I’ll be waiting here for your return.”

“And you are certain I
will
return?”

“Oh, aye. That is, I’m certain you’ll give that Somer Gromer Jour what he’s after. Whether you return or not . . .”

“If your answer is the right one, we will be back,” Gawain promised. “You have my word on it.”

“And I’ll hold you to it. Even if I have to walk all the way to Camelot to find you.”

“That will not be necessary.” Gawain could not bring himself to look at her again, but he bowed in her direction before turning Gringolet and starting down the path.

AISLYN eased sideways in the saddle, trying to find a comfortable position. The crone was well enough for an hour or two, but after a morning’s ride, every joint throbbed like a separate toothache and her own stench was making her queasy. The thought of remaining in this form for even a few days was not a pleasant one.

Then she looked at Gawain and decided it was worth it.

He rode perfectly upright in his saddle, his face set in the expressionless mask he’d worn since he returned from the king’s meeting with Somer Gromer Jour. He’d brought with him a pretty little mare for her, a gesture that she suspected sprung more from his unwillingness to have her share his mount than any generosity on his part. Still, it looked well, and he had been nothing but polite during the ride, once or twice going so far as to ask if she would like to rest.

It was a good performance. She wondered how long he could sustain it.

“We are nearly there,” he said. “Camelot is just over the next rise.”

Pennants. There they were, splashes of color against gray stone, the standards of visiting nobility hung according to their rank with the crimson Pendragon banner over all, its golden serpent writhing as it snapped in the breeze.

It was all just as he had said, exactly as she had seen it in her dreams. And here she was riding over the crest of the hill with Gawain beside her, on the way to their wedding.

She gave an inelegant snort of laughter. If this didn’t teach her to be careful what she wished for, she didn’t know what would.

THEY did not go to the main entrance, but to a private courtyard apparently belonging to the king. It was a pretty little place, surrounded on two sides by low stone walls twined with trailing honeysuckle just coming into flower. It must smell lovely here, Aislyn thought with an inward sigh. Unfortunately, she could not smell anything but herself at the moment.

Just as they reached the entrance, Gawain halted. “Sire,” he said. “A favor, if you would.”

“Good God, do you think I would refuse you anything?” The king shot Aislyn a look of deepest disgust. “Name it and it is yours.”

Aislyn’s stiff fingers clenched on the reins. What was this? Had Gawain thought of a way out? Or did he only mean to be rewarded for his sacrifice?

Impossible to tell from his face. When had he become so adept at concealing his thoughts? “Then I would ask that you do not disclose to anyone what has befallen us today, save that you succeeded in your quest.”

“Not
disclose
—? But—but how else to explain—” Arthur broke off abruptly. “Yes, all right. Whatever you like.” And for the first time since they’d set out, he smiled.

Aislyn eyed Gawain suspiciously as they entered the courtyard. What was he up to? Was he going to attempt to buy her off? Have her banished? Wring her neck and stuff her down the well?

“Arthur!”

For the first time, Aislyn noticed a young woman sitting on a bench beside the castle wall. She leapt to her feet, the book she had been reading falling from her hands.

Raven hair waved softly about the pure oval of her face and her eyes were luminous between starry lashes as she ran to the king as though she meant to throw herself into his arms. Two paces from him, she halted, blushing—like a rose, Aislyn thought, a stab of bitter envy piercing her heart—and, taking her trailing skirts in her slender white hands, sank gracefully to the flagstones.

“My lord,” she said formally. “I was—it is good to have you back.”

The king, who had started toward her, halted, his arms falling stiffly to his sides. “Guin—my lady,” Arthur corrected himself quickly. “How kind of you to wait for me.”

“It was no trouble,” Queen Guinevere replied.

What was the
matter
with these people? Aislyn wondered, staring from the king to the queen. Did they always act like two villagers in a bad pageant, or only when others were there to see?

Gawain swung himself from Gringolet.

“My queen,” he said with frosty courtesy, going down upon one knee.

Guinevere wrested her gaze from the king to the golden-haired knight kneeling before her. “Sir Gawain,” she said with all the enthusiasm of a woman presented with a posy of dead blossoms. “So you are back, as well.”

Aislyn’s gaze sharpened.
Either the two of you detest each other,
she thought,
or you’re putting on a very good show. I wonder which it is?

“Yes,” Gawain said, rising and turning to help Aislyn from her horse. She groaned as her feet hit the ground and Gawain, surprising her, handed her the staff strapped to her saddle. “May I present . . . ?”

Only then did Aislyn realize that no one had bothered to ask her name. “Dame . . . Ragnelle,” she croaked, using that of a demon in a pageant she’d once seen.

Guinevere backed up a step, raising one trailing sleeve to her nose, her lovely face twisted with disgust. “What do you mean by bringing this—this—”

“Guinevere,” Arthur began, “let me explain. You see—” He broke off, obviously remembering his promise. “We can talk about this later,” he finished lamely.

They were up to something. Gawain had a plan—of course he did, Aislyn should have known victory could never be so easy. He meant to—to imprison her. Of course! She should have thought of that before. Toss her into some dark dungeon, lock the door, and throw the key into the river—

“Dame Ragnelle and I are to be wed,” Gawain said. “Today, if possible.”

Guinevere’s pink lips parted in astonishment. Arthur rounded on Gawain, anger and amazement warring on his face.

“These young men!” Aislyn cackled, hobbling forward to rest a claw on Gawain’s arm. “Think a wedding feast can be conjured from the air! Me and you know better, don’t we, Your Grace? But don’t bother yourself, whatever you can manage will suit me well enough. Let’s face it, dearie,” she said, dropping Guinevere a wink, “at my age, I can’t afford to stand on ceremony.”

Guinevere’s jaw dropped a little further. She turned to her husband, but Arthur only nodded, still looking at Gawain.

“If that is what Sir Gawain wants,” he said, tight-lipped. “We shall, of course, oblige him. Won’t we, my lady?”