Lancelot (13 page)

It was only then he became aware of the others watching him expectantly, but he had no idea why or what he was supposed to say. Elaine was flushed, Torre scowling. Only Lavaine seemed oblivious to the tension in the room.

“Come, Elly, give me a kiss,” he laughed, holding out his arms, “and wish me luck today.”

“Good fortune, Lavaine,” she murmured, touching her lips to his brow. “And to you, sir,” she added stiffly.

Lancelot stared down at the bit of crimson fabric in his hands. It was a sleeve. Her sleeve. The token he had begged of her—had it only been last night? It seemed years ago that they had walked hand in hand into the courtyard, laughing. He could not in honor accept this from her now. Yet he had already accepted it, albeit with something less than courtesy, and was now honor bound to keep it. Or was he? What did he know of honor, after all? The pain in his head made it difficult to think.

Elaine made the decision for him. “May I have that?” She held out her hand. When he saw that it was trembling, his hesitation vanished, and he thrust the sleeve into his belt.

“I will wear it.”

“There is no need—”

“But I would like to.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Elly, let him have it,” Torre snapped. “It’s just a sleeve. You have enough to disguise a dozen knights at need. Sir, your horse is waiting.” He flashed a contemptuous look at Lancelot and added pointedly, “’Tis past time you were gone.”

With that, Torre turned to his brother, flinging an arm across Lavaine’s shoulders. With his free hand he gestured Lancelot forward, sweeping them both across the hall. “Now, Lavaine, mind you keep your lance point steady. You have a tendency to dip it at the last.”

“I’ll remember.”

Lancelot looked back. Elaine stood very straight, his shield propped against the smoke-blackened wall beside her. She looked pale today, and older, with her hair scraped back into a thick plait that hung over one shoulder, the edge brushing the plain hempen girdle at her hips. One hand lifted in a gesture of farewell, though she would not meet his eyes.

As he crossed the threshold, he called back, “Lady Elaine, I will come for the shield myself. God keep you until then.”

He had one glimpse of her smile before Torre closed the door behind them.

“There is your horse,” Torre said. “Get on it. Do it now, without another word, for my patience is as worn out as your welcome. If you want your shield back, send a servant.”

Once again, Torre had the better of him. Before Lancelot could begin to imagine a reply, Torre had stepped back into the hall and slammed the door firmly in his face.

I
F I were king of Benwick,
Lancelot mused,
I would make Elaine a queen.
If King Ban’s wits had not been scrambled as a morning egg, Benwick would never have been lost. There would have been no flight from the burning castle, no collapse of Benwick’s monarch upon some distant shore, no chance for the Lady of the Lake to scoop up Ban’s infant son and bear him off to Avalon.

Yet the Lady had said that was Lancelot’s destiny. He remembered well their parting at Camelot, when she said his future was foretold.

But what now? If the Green Knight had not been a dream last night—and Lancelot was becoming increasingly convinced that he had not—then the Lady had no use for him anymore. Did that mean he had somehow turned from the path of his destiny into a strange, uncharted landscape where his future was his own to make? If he was not to be du Lac, champion of Avalon, who was he? For a moment he was entirely disoriented, adrift in a world that
made no sense, and then he remembered Elaine smiling up at him from the shelter of his arms.

I am still Galahad,
he thought.
Elaine is no will o’ the wisp to vanish in bright sunlight, but a woman of flesh and blood.
He thought that he could bear it all—the shame, the loss, the failure—if only he had her.

But first he must survive this day.

Twelve hours,
he thought.
By then, it will be over, and I can go back to Corbenic. All I have to do is ride in the tournament, Arthur’s great tournament, in which his chief knight will play a merry prank upon his lord by riding in disguise. What a good jest it will be!

Lancelot had never felt less like fighting—or jesting, for that matter. The morning sun shone brightly through a canopy of palest green that danced and shimmered as a small breeze rustled the treetops, yet the day seemed dull and drear.
I must take hold of myself,
he thought.
I must carry this off with style, so Arthur will believe it was a joke. Then he will forgive me for my deception.

Though the morning air was mild, he shivered. There was that word again.
Deception
.

It was then he knew why he felt so strange. He was
not
himself—not the man he had been yesterday when he awoke in Camelot, before Guinevere had bidden him to her chamber.

He remembered a day when he was very young, no more than five or six. It was one of the rare times the Lady had decided to play at mothering, clad in a simple linen shift with her bright hair all bound up in a coif. She had led him to a hillside where Avalon lay stretched out before them in glittering green and silver, fed him milk and honey with her own hand, and told him stories of Sir Gahmuret, who traveled all the world in errantry and won the love of three queens.

“I will be a great knight, too,” Lancelot had cried, tugging at her sleeve.

The Lady smiled down at him. “Indeed you will, my pet. The greatest of all. No earthly knight will defeat you.”

His childish heart had swelled with love and pride and a fierce determination to never disappoint her. He had always worked hard—the Green Knight’s hand was too heavy to permit slacking—but from that moment on, he redoubled his efforts. When he arrived at Camelot, he found the other squires laughably soft and shoddy. Even when he faced seasoned knights, their skills were so far inferior to his that he felt himself invincible.

Until his match with Sir Gawain.

Gawain had not been soft. Nor had he been inferior. He had been quick and tough, and the blow he had given Lancelot had nearly flung him headlong from his horse.

Nearly. But not quite. Against all hope—against all reason—Lancelot kept his seat. That was when he understood that the Lady’s words had not sprung from faith in his abilities. They were merely an announcement of the fate she had decreed: No earthly knight
could
defeat him, however deserving of victory that knight might be.

Gawain, not knowing it was hopeless, defended his title with all the skill and strength he had worked a lifetime to attain. He had taken the best that Lancelot could offer and remained upright in the saddle, not once, but a second time, as well. Only on the third try did Lancelot finally manage to unhorse him.

As Lancelot had ridden through the cheering crowd to accept his victory garland, he had known the truth at last. He was du Lac, made invincible by the Lady’s magic so he might serve King Arthur and win glory everlasting. What man would not envy him such a fate?

“You’ve failed, ’tis over,” the Green Knight had said last night, “you know what that means.”

Lancelot did know. He’d known all along, even before the Green Knight appeared, but only now did he believe it. The Lady of the Lake did not dismiss her erring servant with no more than a slap upon the wrist.

Today I die.

“Sir?”

Lancelot started at the touch on his arm. Lavaine was halted beside him, his young face twisted with concern.

“Sir, are you quite well?”

“No. Yes. I am well enough,” Lancelot said, forcing a laugh. “Just a bit distracted. I’m sorry, what were you saying?”

“That my friend lives nearby. I often used to visit him when we lived by the river. He’s a wondrous learned fellow. I thought—we’re nearly there and ’tis so early yet—that we might stop.”

“Very well,” Lancelot said indifferently. “So long as it does not make us late.”

They found the hermit by the river, his robe tucked up into his belt as he checked his lines. “Lavaine!” he called, his broad brown face creasing in a grin as he spied them on the bank. “It has been an age. But as usual, you are just in time to break your fast.”

He climbed nimbly up the path and caught Lavaine in a one-armed hug, holding his catch well away from the young knight. “You look well, my child,” he said. “And who is your friend?”

“A knight of Arthur’s court,” Lavaine answered, “he has been our guest at Corbenic.”

“God’s greeting to you,” the hermit said with a friendly nod. “I hope that you are hungry, too. The river has been generous this morning.”

Above the wild beard, the man’s eyes were kind. “I am afraid we have no time to eat,” Lancelot said. “Though I thank you.”

“Ah, of course, you two are off to the great tournament. Are you acting as a squire, Lavaine, or should I be addressing you as
sir
?”

“You should not,” Lavaine said, hooking his arm through the hermit’s with easy familiarity, “though I have been knighted since I saw you last. This is my first tournament, and I thought—that is, if you are not too busy—that you might hear my confession.”

“I hope I am never too busy to perform my office,” the hermit said. “Come inside.”

He stood aside and gestured them to walk into an opening in the hillside. Lancelot stepped in, expecting a dark cave. Instead, he found himself in a lofty chamber, roofed with tree roots and supported by strong columns of stone. Muted sunlight streamed through the opening, bathing the cavern in a cool green glow. The furnishings were simple: two stools, a table, and a pallet of sweet grass.

Lancelot turned slowly round. “How fortunate you were to find such a place as this!”

“God led me here,” the hermit said, hanging the fish upon a peg.

“It was nothing but a small cavern then,” Lavaine said, “What you see took years of patient labor.”

The hermit smiled. “He speaks as one who knows! My little woodland flock worked off many a sin with spade and pick. Digging is a fine penance for rowdy children. Please, sir, sit down. We shan’t be long.”

He and Lavaine vanished through a second opening, leading to some deeper cavern. Lancelot sat down upon a stool, leaned his elbow on the table, and rested his chin in his hand.

Perhaps he should follow Lavaine’s example and make his confession to this kindly priest. But what difference would it make? Arthur might believe he could be washed clean of sin with a few words, but try as he might, Lancelot could not share his faith. What would a Christian priest know of the vow he had made to the Lady of the Lake? Even if he could be brought to understand, he could not change what had been said and done, nor could any man repair a broken oath.

He seized parchment, pen, and ink from a shelf and penned the few lines that would provide for Elaine’s future, then folded it, dripped wax upon it from a taper, and impressed it with his seal.

When the hermit and Lavaine returned, he was already mounted. “Father,” he said, holding out the parchment, “hold this for me, would you? If I do not return for it within three days, have it taken to King Arthur. Let us go,” he added curtly to Lavaine, “the hour grows late.”

Lavaine glanced up at him and nodded, his smile vanishing. “Yes, sir, I am ready now.”

The hermit laid a hand on Lancelot’s knee. “Are you sure you would not like me to hear your confession? I am at your service, sir . . .”

“No, we haven’t time.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about the time,” the hermit answered easily. “These tournaments go on all day, and latecomers are always welcomed by the losing side. I have some experience in these matters,” he added with a wry smile, “for I was once a knight myself, though it has been many a long year since I took up arms.”

He gazed up at Lancelot, his light brown eyes filled with sympathy.
I was once as you are,
he seemed to say,
I know your trials, your hopes and fears. Whatever you might tell me, I will understand.

But he wouldn’t. Not the things that Lancelot could tell him. He shook his head, rejecting the silent offer.

The hermit sighed. “May God be with you, my son, until we meet again.”

We will not,
Lancelot thought.

The hermit looked at him sharply beneath his tangled brows, then sighed again, his hand falling to his side.

They rode off between the ash and poplar trees, and soon the soothing rush of the river was mingled with the excited voices of the crowd gathered around the tourney field. The two knights dismounted and taking turns to act as squire, donned their helms and armor.

Lavaine’s face was so white that every freckle stood out sharply.

“Don’t worry,” Lancelot said. “Once you’re in there, you will be fine.”

The boy let out a shaking laugh. “Is it that obvious?”

“All knights feel the same before a battle—even if it is with friends,” Lancelot lied. He had never felt the least fear before any sort of encounter. But then, he had never had reason to be afraid . . . until today. Impulsively, he turned to his companion. “Lavaine, you have given me nothing but friendship and courtesy. I know I can trust you to keep my name to yourself.” The boy looked at him expectantly. “I am Lancelot du Lac.”