Lancelot (18 page)

Father Bernard laid the new bandage gently on Lancelot’s wound. “God granted her that knowledge, and yet that does not absolve the Lady of the Lake of her crime—for it was a crime, you know, and a very wicked thing to do.”

“You judge her by our laws, and yet—”

“I do not judge her at all. I leave that to God.”

Lancelot shook his head. “You do not understand. She is beyond God’s judgment.”

“No man—or woman—is beyond God’s judgment,” Father Bernard said sternly; then all at once he smiled, his eyes warm and sympathetic. “So you have lost her favor. Very well, then, you shall have to live without it. You are still a knight of Camelot. You are still a man.”

“But I was never meant to be a man, not like other men. I was meant to be the champion of Avalon. Without the Lady’s favor, I can never fulfill my destiny, and then—then . . .”

“Then what?”

“It was all for nothing. My mother’s suffering—do you think it means so little to me? I have seen the place she died,
forgotten by the world, with my name—
my name
—upon her lips. She died alone, but I could have gone to her. I was already at Camelot, don’t you see? I could have gone to her, but I did not know yet who I was. When I learned of it—and of her death—”

“That must have been very difficult to bear,” Bernard said neutrally.

Lancelot nodded, his throat working as he swallowed hard. “The only way I could make sense of it was to tell myself it was meant to happen. That it was all part of my great destiny. It would all be redeemed, all the suffering and loss and pain, and then—then I wouldn’t feel so—so angry. So
used
.”

“Such feelings are natural. The Lady and her knight were very wrong to—”

Lancelot shook his head. “You do not understand.
I
am the one at fault,
I
am the one who threw away the chance to give meaning to my mother’s death.”

“You have made mistakes—terrible mistakes—as have each one of us. And as sorry as you might be now, they cannot be undone.”

Lancelot’s chin jerked in a nod.

“It is not an easy thing to admit your own mistakes,” Bernard went on thoughtfully, “and I admire you for doing it. But it is important that you not allow guilt to cloud your judgment. Your childhood is lost to you, you say, but I would put it differently. I would say that it was stolen. You
were
used, Lancelot, most infamously used, and you have every right to your anger. No matter what you have been told, your destiny is yours alone to make. You say that you have lost the Lady’s favor—I say you have been given a new chance. Offer your life to God’s service, for He alone can redeem all suffering.”

“The Green Knight said—he said I am empty—hollow as a reed. He said I have no soul.”

For the first time, the hermit looked genuinely angry. “He lied. I swear to you, he lied. You are God’s child, Lancelot, and if you but seek Him, He will come to meet you.”

E
LAINE found Father Bernard in his outdoor workroom tucked against the hillside, a long shelf beneath a slanting roof, open on three sides.

“Come in, child,” the hermit said, not looking up from his work. “You were disturbed earlier, were you not?”

“Yes.”

Bernard nodded, his hands moving swiftly over the flasks and bowls of herbs, adding a drop of this, a pinch of that to the fragrant mixture in the low wooden bowl.

“I am not surprised. Would you hand me that beaker?”

He tilted the beaker over the mixture. The faint, spicy scent of gillyflowers drifted through the air, reminding her of the garden at Corbenic through which she and Lancelot had walked hand in hand.

“It is . . . a strange thing,” she said slowly, “not to remember one’s childhood.”

“Perhaps it is not so much that he cannot remember it,” Bernard answered carefully, “but that he does not want to.”

“Why would he not?” she asked, surprised.

“It happens sometimes.” He stoppered the flask and set it on the shelf. “Memories which are too painful can be put aside, tucked away safely out of reach.”

He pulled two stools from beneath his workbench and offered one to Elaine. When they were seated, he said, “The tale runs that the Lady of the Lake is some mystical being who dwells in the enchanted realm of Avalon.” He waited, looking at her as he used to do when questioning her on her catechism, one brow raised in silent question.

“I have heard that, too,” she answered. “Now tell me who she really is.”

He smiled his approval. “This land is old, and there are some who do not accept King Arthur’s Christian rule. It is rumored that they call their chief stronghold Avalon, no doubt inspired by the old tales. The location is a closely guarded secret, but it is a real place, and those who dwell there are flesh and blood. And it is not unknown for heathens to steal infants to use in their rituals.”

Elaine leaned upon the bench, feeling suddenly ill. “And you think—you believe—”

“—that Sir Lancelot was one of those poor children,” he finished with a nod. “You marked, perhaps, that the knight was hostile to Sir Lancelot, his menace held in check only by the Lady, while she was kindness itself. That is an old trick, Elaine, oft used to break a captive’s spirit.”

Elaine stared at him, appalled.

“Which is not to say,” Bernard added, “that they entirely succeeded.”

“But—but the tapestry,” Elaine faltered. “He said it moved.”

Bernard nodded gravely. “Do you see now how they worked? He was so confounded that even today he cannot distinguish between illusion and the truth. Don’t look so
surprised, child. The world is full of folk who employ all manner of cunning arts to convince people they are seeing the impossible. To practice such deceptions upon a helpless child—to convince him that pictures upon a tapestry could shift, or that in doing their will he was fulfilling some great destiny—”

“You think that is what the Lady is? A charlatan?” Elaine interrupted. “And when Sir Gawain struck off the Green Knight’s head—they say the knight picked it up, his own head, and galloped off—’twas but a mummer’s trick?”

“I doubt it was a miracle,” Father Bernard answered dryly. “Though he went to great pains to make it look like one.”

“I knew it could not be as they said it was. And yet,” she went on, troubled, “by all accounts, the Lady of the Lake is King Arthur’s friend.”

“At one time she may have been. But I hear things even here, and they say that those of Avalon have turned against King Arthur.”

“Not Sir Lancelot,” Elaine said at once. “There is no more loyal knight than he.”

“So he has said. And I believe that
he
believes it. Yet the fact that he remembers so little before he arrived at Camelot is troubling.”

“Do you think—oh, Father, is he mad?”

Bernard frowned down at his folded hands. “No,” he said at last, “I do not believe he is. I fear, Elaine, that someone took steps to ensure that he would not remember certain orders he was given. Such things are possible, and they had him from his infancy. Having met the king, Sir Lancelot’s natural inclination was to love him and serve him with all honor. And yet . . . there are distressing rumors coming from Camelot. You know of what I speak?”

“Yes. And . . . and do you think they are true?”

“True or false, they still exist. And they are all concerned with Sir Lancelot himself. Is this chance? Or is it part of a larger plan to discredit King Arthur’s rule?”

“This is all supposition,” Elaine began.

“Oh, I know,” the hermit agreed instantly. “And believe me, I do not seek to cast blame upon Sir Lancelot—quite the contrary. If what I suspect is true, he is in peril.”

“From the . . . folk . . . of Avalon?”

“Very possibly, though there is another danger, too. I have no doubt that Sir Lancelot has served King Arthur to the best of his ability. But if this is contrary to what he was sent forth from Avalon to accomplish—” He broke off, frowning. “I cannot say more, only that such a conflict, unresolved, could break his mind asunder.”

“What can I do?” she asked. “How can I help him?”

Bernard shot her a keen look from beneath his bushy brows. “I have never known you to shrink from a challenge, but I want you to be careful here. I believe Sir Lancelot to be a good man, but there are forces at work—both within him and around him—that could well bring you into danger.”

“Do you think that matters to me?” Elaine cried.

“No, I don’t suppose it would. And that,” the hermit said with a trace of his old tartness, “is because you are in love, and therefore impervious to reason. I implore you to do nothing hastily. But—” he added, raising a finger to still her protest, “—if you will not be dissuaded, the best thing you could do for him would be to take him to Corbenic and keep him close.” He covered her hand briefly with his own. “He is a very fortunate young man, Elaine. If he has any sense at all, then time—and God—will do the rest.”

D
URING the next fortnight, Elaine could see no sign of madness in Lancelot, only a very natural irritability at being kept abed as his strength returned.

“Why don’t you go out and get some air?” he said to her one fine afternoon, when the scents of rain-washed earth and apple blossoms drifted through the open doorway. “You’ve been cooped up here long enough, and I’m no fit company for anyone. Run along,” he urged her when she hesitated. “I will be fine.”

Elaine emerged from the dim cave, blinking in the sunlight. She lingered for a while by the river, breathing in the cool, fresh air and chatting with Father Bernard as he checked his lines. She took the catch of fish and started back toward the cave, halting behind a broad oak when she heard voices in the clearing.

Peering cautiously around the tree, she spied two riders who had halted their steeds at the cave’s entrance. She could see at once they were brothers, for they were much
alike, both good-looking young men with distinctive high-arched brows and angular faces. One had hair of chestnut brown, drawn back severely from his face, while the other’s tawny mane curled about his shoulders.

“This isn’t it,” the tawny one said decidedly. “I
told
you we should have taken the left-hand turn back at the marker.”

“If you hadn’t insisted on going off after that maiden, we wouldn’t have lost the path in the first place,” the other replied sharply.

“What was I supposed to do when she cried out for help?”

“She wasn’t crying out for help, she was calling back to her companion to make haste.”

“Yes, well, I didn’t know that then, did I?” the tawny brother muttered. “And nor did you. She might have needed our assistance—”

“But she did not.” The dark one shook his head, frowning. “You’re such a scatterbrain, Lionel, running hither and yon to chase every new adventure! A true knight is steadfast to his purpose.”

Elaine studied the knights with interest. Lionel was Lancelot’s cousin, which meant the dark young man must be Sir Bors, who had so nearly killed his kinsman Lancelot in the tournament.

“A
true
knight will always take the unknown path,” Lionel retorted hotly. “Only cowards turn from an adventure!”

“And only silly, stupid children can’t keep a thought in their head for longer than a moment.”

“Be damned to your infernal caution!” Lionel cried. “Everyone knows a knight is honor bound to assist any lady in distress!”

“Don’t swear,” Bors said tightly. “How many times have I told you that swearing is—”

“Be damned to swearing, too! I
said
I was sorry that we
lost our way. I admitted I was wrong! And
you
said you forgave me!”

“So I did.”

“Well, if this is your forgiveness, I’d hate to see you bear a grudge.”

Elaine stepped out from behind the tree. “Good day, Sir Knights,” she said, raising her voice to be heard over their argument. They broke off at once, staring at her.

“Good day, demoiselle,” Lionel said, shooting her a melting smile. “I fear we have lost our way in this wood.”

“Oh, I shouldn’t think so, Sir Lionel. That is, if you have come to see your kinsman. Sir Lancelot lies within.”

They dismounted instantly and bowed. “You must be Elaine of Corbenic,” Lionel said, his eyes moving over her with interest. “The Lady of the Red Sleeve. Gawain said you were lovely.”