Gawain (30 page)

But still, there was far more to magic than this book of spells, or the terrible mistakes Aislyn had made. In itself, magic wasn’t good or evil, no more than a sword was good or evil. Both could kill or maim, but wielded wisely, both could save lives, too.

And neither should be given to a person who was not in complete control of their emotions.

Her
emotions.

Shame flooded her at the memory of Gawain’s face when he realized his erotic dream had been no dream at all. It had been unforgivable of her to make him think he was still sleeping . . . though he hadn’t seemed to mind it at the time. In fact, as she remembered, he had enjoyed himself right well, and it wasn’t as if she had forced him or taken him unwilling. She’d merely convinced him he was dreaming, and everything after that had been entirely up to him.

But that, she told herself sternly, was not the point.

He should have known it was really her, and what was happening was actually happening. It had been wrong of her to deny him that knowledge. And yet, when he
had
known, he had done just the same and enjoyed it just as much.

But that wasn’t the point, either.

Was it?

Come to think of it, she wasn’t quite sure what the point was, or what she’d done that was so terrible, which either proved Gawain was right and she was lost to common decency or that he was making a great deal of pother over nothing. At least in that one instance. His other grievances could not be so easily dismissed.

She had lied to him. She had humiliated him before his friends—and more importantly, his enemies. Through her own spite, she had forced him into a marriage he would never have chosen for himself. Those were genuine complaints, and against them she had no defense.

Sighing, she went to the window and gazed out upon the courtyard. Ambrose leapt up upon the window frame and she stroked him absently as he turned and twisted beneath her hand, purring loudly.

She summoned her memories of their night together, the joy of being one with Gawain, the utter certainty that all was completely as it should be. In that moment, her entire life had made perfect sense, for every step had led her to the one place she belonged.

If only it could always be like that. If only Gawain wasn’t so damned dictatorial, with his “I should do the thinking for us both,” and his “you cannot have two leaders of a battalion” speeches, as though she were some witless squire who could not be trusted to pull up her own hose.
Oh, he is insufferable,
she thought, anger rising in her again.
He is an arrogant bully, and I hate him.

She had always taken pride in her own cleverness, but what if that pride had been entirely misplaced? Looking back, what did she have to show for her life but a series of failures? Was there one single person in all the world who was the better for having known her? She had no friends, no family—and whose fault was that but hers? And then look at Gawain, so strong and honorable and—yes, she must admit it—kind. The wonder wasn’t that he wanted to bring order to her life—it was that he cared enough to try. And when he did try, what did he get from her but arguments and complaints?

“He
is
right,” she whispered, horrified. “I
can’t
be trusted.”

Slowly she walked back to the table. One by one, she tore the pages from the grimoire and held them to the candle’s flame. It took a long time, and the chamber was thick with smoke by the time the last page had crumbled into ash.

She walked to the window and breathed in the fresh air. Now she did not only want to weep, she needed to. But even at that she failed. She could only stare dry-eyed into the courtyard, her throat aching with the tears she could not shed.

GAWAIN told himself he had every right to be angry. And he
was
angry. Surely it was rage that made his heart pound jerkily, fury that stopped the breath in his throat.

He did not expect her always to obey him without question, at least not all at once. But in time she would understand that he was a rational man, a fair man, one who was prepared to indulge her in most things.

But not this one.

Why could she not see that? Why must she insist on doing what she knew would bring him pain? She did not love him. Not as he loved her. He leaned against the wall of Arthur’s antechamber, trying to convince himself that he was wrong and she would renounce her powers altogether. Because he did not know how he could bear it if she did not.

“Sir Gawain?”

A page touched his arm, looking up at him with worried eyes. “Shall I announce you?”

“Yes. Thank you.” Gawain straightened and passed a hand quickly across his face, composing his features with an effort as the boy threw open the door to the king’s presence chamber.

Arthur was seated behind the long table. Dinadan leaned against its edge, arms folded across his chest. Sir Kay sat rigidly in one seat; Sir Sagramore slouched in the other. A young man stood just before the window, sunlight catching the edges of his reddish hair and leaving his face in shadow. “Ah, at last,” Arthur said.

“I am sorry to have kept you waiting, sire.”

“No matter, you are here now. Do you know this lad?”

The lad in question came forward and went down upon one knee, looking up at Gawain with desperate hope in his eyes. Very green eyes, they were, an unusual shade, rather like Aislyn’s—and why must he think of her now?—but darker, even as his hair was more chestnut than Aislyn’s ruddy gold. God help him, could he think of nothing but—? And suddenly he realized why this lad brought Aislyn so sharply to his mind.

“Sir Gawain,” the lad said, releasing a long breath that was half a sob.

“You remember him, then?” Arthur said. “He seemed to think you might not.”

“Of course I remember him. How came you here, Launfal?”

“I—oh, Sir Gawain, I—”

“He came here in chains,” Kay said. “And he’ll be going to the gallows in the same fashion.”

“He murdered poor old Marrek,” Sagramore said. “We were there, all of us—me and Kay and Dinadan, that is.”

“Launfal,” Gawain said, “is this true?”

“No!”

“We caught him in the act,” Kay said.

“But why?” Gawain demanded, looking from Launfal to Arthur, who had resumed his seat and assumed his most noncommittal expression, the one that usually meant he was about to do something he disliked intensely, but deemed unavoidable.

“Sire, I don’t see what purpose is served by dragging Gawain into this,” Kay said, annoyed. “What difference does it make if they have met before? The lad will hang whatever,” he declared with perfect confidence and Sagramore nodded his vigorous agreement. Arthur sighed but spoke no word, and Gawain, though his heart was wrung with pity for the boy, could think of nothing pertinent to add.

“Oh, must it be a hanging?” Dinadan drawled into the silence. “Beheading is so much more amusing for the common folk, and I cannot remember the last one we had. What say you I arrange an entertainment—nothing too elaborate, of course, just a few jugglers, mayhap a tumbler or two . . . ?”

The king rounded on him. “By the Rood, Dinadan, you go too fast! The lad hasn’t been convicted yet!”

“Oh? I rather thought—my mistake, sire,” Dinadan replied with a courteous bow. “Do carry on.”

As he straightened, he caught Gawain’s eye. It was only a fleeting glance, but enough to convince Gawain that Dinadan, at least, did not consider the matter to be cut-and-dried.

“Now that I
have
been dragged into it,” Gawain said. “I would like to hear Launfal’s side of the story.”

Launfal drew a deep breath. “It happened like this . . .”

WHEN Launfal had finished and been led from the chamber, those remaining sat in silence for a moment.

“He seems an honest lad,” Arthur began.

Kay sat up. “Honest? Sire, we came upon him kneeling over Sir Marrek’s corpse with the dripping dagger in his hand! The lad’s story is utterly fantastical from start to end. Anyone who knew Marrek would agree.”

“It
is
fantastical,” Dinadan said. “So very fantastical that I, for one, am inclined to believe it is the truth.”

“You have no proof!” Sagramore said. “I saw with my own eyes—”

“I have eyes, too,” Dinadan snapped, “and I saw just what you did. And I still say—”

“Thank you,” Arthur said, holding up a hand to still them. “I believe I understand the situation. I shall think on this carefully, and—”

The door burst open. When Gawain saw his mother stride into the room, he stepped back into a shadowed corner. “Sire, I must—oh! Forgive me, I did not realize you were not alone.”

Guinevere came in after Morgause, her expression half guilty and half defiant. “My lord,” she said, “you promised to attend us this morning.”

“I know,” Arthur said, looking harassed. “But this matter could not wait, and—”

“There is always some matter that cannot wait,” Morgause retorted. “But you
promised
.”

“Yes, you are right, I did. And I shall, as soon as I am finished here. If you would excuse me—”

Guinevere began to make him a courtesy, but Morgause put out a hand to stop her. “Arthur,” she said severely, “you are being deplorably rude.”

“Kay, Sagramore, Dinadan,” Arthur said, “I thank you for your assistance. Should I think of any further questions, I shall call upon you.”

The three knights bowed and retreated.

“Yes, my lady?” Arthur smiled at his queen, though Gawain could tell he was annoyed. “What is it you wanted of me?”

“Well, it was Mor—the queen of Orkney, really,” Guinevere said. “She—that is, we—wanted to speak to you about Sir Gawain.”

“Then let me make haste to depart,” Gawain said, stepping forward. “So you can speak more freely.”

Guinevere reddened. “Sir Gawain,” she said. “Forgive me. I did not see you—”

“Don’t apologize to him,” Morgause said. “He’s only trying to put you in the wrong when you are nothing of the sort. See here, Gawain, I’ve had more than enough of your impudence. I demand to meet this woman you married, and—”

“Sire?” A guard stood at the door, holding Launfal by the arm. “Will you be wanting the prisoner again?”

“No,” Arthur said. “Not just now. Return him to the dungeon.”

Gawain nodded encouragingly at Launfal, but the young man did not seem to notice. His face was blanched of all color as he stared past Gawain before the guard pulled the door shut.

“The dungeon!” Guinevere exclaimed, her voice warm with pity. “Oh, but he’s so
young
! What did he do?”

“He is accused of murdering Sir Marrek.” Arthur raked a hand through his hair. “His only excuse is that Marrek attacked him first, which seems unlikely, to say the least.”

“What—what is his name?”

“Launfal. Now, lady, you can see that I have pressing business to attend to.”

“Launfal?”
Guinevere turned to Morgause. “Oh! Is that—”

“Arthur, forgive me,” Morgause declared, taking Guinevere by the arm. “We shall wait until you are at leisure to attend us. I had not realized you were so occupied.”

“But, Morgause—” Guinevere began.

“Come, my dear, let your lord be about his work. These matters,” she added deliberately, “are no concern of ours.”

“No
concern
—? But—”

“Good day, Arthur,” Morgause said, drawing Guinevere from the chamber. “Gawain, I shall speak to
you
anon.”

"MORGAUSE!” Guinevere exclaimed once they had reached the privacy of the deserted corridor. “Why did you not tell the king—?”

“Tell him what?”

“That this Launfal is known to you!” Guinevere said, astonished.

“I fail to see how that information would shed any light upon the business. If Launfal has committed murder, ’tis naught to do with me—or you. I suggest you put it from your mind.”

“But—no, wait—” Guinevere cried, hurrying after her. “You said the lad was a danger—a madman—”

“I believe Arthur has already deduced that for himself.”

“But my lord must know the truth!”

“The truth?” Morgause halted. “What truth is that?”

“You—you told me—” Guinevere stammered. “You said Launfal was coming here to murder my lord—”

“I?”
Morgause raised her brows.

“’Twas the night you first arrived. You said he blamed my lord for his misfortunes. You had him confined, but he escaped, and you feared . . .” What
had
Morgause feared? Thinking back, Guinevere could not remember Morgause ever saying, but the implication had been clear. “You said my lord’s knights should be warned,” she went on a little desperately.

“Yes,” Morgause said, frowning. “I
did
advise you to have the knights look out for Launfal, lest he accost poor Arthur and make some sort of unpleasant scene.”

Guinevere blanched. “A
scene
?”

“Alas,” Morgause said, “apparently the poor lad’s wits were more disordered than I knew. To have attacked one of your lord’s knights without provocation . . .” She shook her head, sighing. “But there is naught to be done about it now.”

“But it was not without provocation!” Guinevere cried, seizing Morgause by the arm. She had never realized how imposing Morgause could be, but now, as the older woman drew herself up, Guinevere felt almost frightened.

“You are distraught,” Morgause said coldly.

“But ’twas I who told Sir Marrek to detain him—to stop him at all costs—that he was coming hither to assassinate my lord—”

Morgause gazed at her in astonishment, then her expression changed to one of deepest pity and concern. “My dear, is
that
what you thought? Oh, no, you completely misunderstood me! And now—what a terrible tragedy! But still, had Launfal gone peacefully, all would have worked out well. He did very wrong to resist a knight.”