Lancelot (19 page)

Hot color rushed to Elaine’s cheeks. “Sir Gawain is very kind,” she murmured awkwardly.

Bors lingered beside his horse, twisting the reins about his hands. “Is Lance—how does he fare?” he asked, not looking at her.

“Much better,” Elaine said, “though still weak.”

“Will you tell him I am here?” Bors asked.

“I’ll take you to him now.”

“He might not want to see me . . .”

“Of course he will. I’m sure he will be very glad that you are here.”

She led the way to the entrance of the cave, the brothers falling into step behind her.

“See, Bors? I
told
you we would find him.”

“No thanks to you. Take the left-hand path, you said, the other
feels
wrong.”

“What if I did? We’re here now, aren’t we? Must you throw every mistake into my teeth?”

Laughter, faint but genuine, met them at the door to Lancelot’s rough chamber. “It must be Bors and Lionel,” he said. “Is this the same argument you were having the last time I saw you, or a new one?”

“A new one,” Lionel said, grinning, as he ducked through the low entrance to the chamber. “We laid the old one aside so we could come and see you.” He stopped before the pallet. “You look like a plucked chicken, Lance. Haven’t they been feeding you?”

“They say they are, but ’tis all gruel and pap.”

“You may have some fish tonight,” Elaine said, raising the string. “There will be plenty for all. You will stay the night, won’t you?” she added to Lionel.

Lionel did not answer at once. He looked to his brother, who still hovered half-in, half-out of the doorway, staring down at his feet.

“They will,” Lancelot said. “Unless Bors was planning to sneak off without so much as greeting me. What are you doing out there?”

Bors raised his head; his gray eyes were shimmering with moisture. “Lance, I am so sorry. Can you ever forgive me? I didn’t realize it was you—”

“I know, Bors,” Lancelot said. “That is the whole point of riding in disguise.”

Bors crossed the floor in two steps to fall on his knees beside the pallet and embrace his cousin in the Gaulish fashion, kissing him on either cheek. “I thought I’d killed you,” he said.

“Well, you did not. Even if you had, I wouldn’t take it personally.” He hooked an arm briefly around Bors’s neck before falling back upon the pillow.

“See, Bors?” Lionel remarked, “I told you he’d forgive you.”

Bors gave a choked laugh as he sat back on his heels
and wiped his eyes. “He didn’t, you know,” he said to Lancelot, “he said you’d never speak to me again.”

“No, I said
I
would never speak to you again. And I meant it. But he was so miserable about the whole thing,” Lionel added to Lancelot, sitting cross-legged on the far side of the pallet, “that I relented.”

“I’m sorry you were miserable,” Lancelot said.

Bors smiled. “Now that I’ve seen you, I feel much better.”

“Everyone has been horrid to him,” Lionel said. He took Lancelot’s knife from the bedside table and tossed it in the air so it landed point down in the earthen floor. “He took it well—probably considered it a penance—but even Bors has limits. He lost his temper in the end, and of all people, with the queen.”

Elaine, watching from the doorway, saw that both Bors and Lancelot grew very still. “Bors shouted at her,” Lionel went on, laughing. “Can you believe it? But it’s true, I heard it for myself. Well, I could hardly help it, could I? We all heard, a whole crowd of us who were in the queen’s antechamber, waiting for her to come out hunting. No one even knew that Bors was in there until the door flew open and there he was, shouting that he couldn’t stop people saying things.”

Elaine looked to Lancelot, who stared fixedly at the rushlight burning at his bedside. Bors was scowling at his brother, but Lionel was focused on the knife, which he flipped again, this time so it turned twice in the air before sticking in the floor.

“The queen came after him, crying, ‘But is it true that Sir Lancelot—’ And then she saw us. It was an awkward moment, to be sure, but before anyone could say a word, she slammed the door in our faces. Bors, of course, won’t tell me anything, but I reckon she’d been at him about the latest rumor going round.”

“I’m not interested in rumors,” Lancelot said evenly.

“Oh, I don’t mean the one about—” Lionel broke off, glancing quickly toward Elaine. “I mean, it has nothing to do with the—with—” He floundered to a halt and cast a pleading look to his brother.

Bors had gone nearly as white as Lancelot. He opened his mouth as though to speak but shut it again without uttering a sound.

“They were saying Bors murdered you so he might inherit Benwick,” Lionel said rapidly. “Have you ever heard anything so ridiculous? I mean, Benwick isn’t even yours, no more than Ganis is ours, since that bastard Lucius holds them both. Not that Bors would murder you even if it was,” he added with an awkward laugh. “I mean—that is to say—”

At last Bors found his tongue. “Shut up, Lionel.”

“Yes. Yes, perhaps I should.” Lionel tossed the knife back on the table. “We’d better go and let you rest a bit, Lance.”

He rose to his feet and held a hand out to help Bors up. “I’m sorry if I tired you,” he said to Lancelot. “My tongue ran away with me again. But I didn’t—I wasn’t talking about—”

“Lady,” Bors said to Elaine, “is there somewhere I might put my brother? Some dank, dark cell, perhaps, where he won’t trouble anyone?”

“Yes,” Elaine said. “That is, no—but why don’t you come out and meet Father Bernard and have something to drink while I take these to my woman?”

“Elaine.” Lancelot spoke from the bed. “You stay.”

“But—”

“Allow me,” Bors said, taking the fish from her hands. “We will find the good Father for ourselves.”

E
LAINE wiped her palms upon her skirt, miserably aware of the scent of fish that clung to her, the hair straggling down her back, the mud spattering her ankles. She had, she realized now, been living in a dream. Lancelot had needed her when he was ill, but he was better now. Had she really believed he would come with her to Corbenic? Perhaps he had meant to, but now everything had changed. He would—he must—go back to Camelot where the queen waited, distraught, for his return.

Guinevere
. The very name, so sweetly musical, had the power to drain all light and happiness from the day. Guinevere, the most beautiful woman in Britain—some said in all the world. Guinevere, so charming and witty and merry, the radiant young queen no man could look upon without desiring.

Guinevere, who had eyes for only one man. The one who lay before her now, naked save for the coverlet over his hips, one long leg stretched out, the other bent slightly at the
knee. His dark hair—had she really combed it just this morning?—curled over his shoulders, brushing the collarbones that still stood out too sharply. Every spare ounce of flesh had been stripped from his face, revealing the perfect harmony of brow and cheek and jaw. His was a bone-deep beauty that even his long illness could not mar. It was no wonder Guinevere desired him. Any woman would. As so many had before, to their eternal sorrow. Deadlier than the plague, Brisen had named him, what with all those maidens pining themselves into the grave for love of him.

Not me,
Elaine thought with rising anger.
I refuse to be reduced to some pathetic footnote in the tale of Lancelot and Guinevere, just one more maiden who could not face life without the great du Lac.

“Lionel is a fool,” Lancelot said abruptly.

“He is a young man who finds it impossible to dissemble,” Elaine replied evenly. “You may call that foolish; I thought him rather charming.”

Lancelot smiled grimly. “Have you ever tried to stop a rumor? Stay silent, and you are damned—protest, and you are damned twice over. I have enemies at court. They dare not challenge me directly, so instead they choose to blacken my name.”

With the truth?
The question trembled on Elaine’s lips, but she feared she already knew the answer. “I was sent to serve King Arthur,” Lancelot had said, “but then there was Guinevere . . .”

What more was there to say?

Elaine nodded. “I see. Well, Lancelot, ’tis time you took some rest. Supper should be ready—”

“The queen and I came to court at about the same time,” Lancelot said rapidly, “we are of an age, and were often thrown together in our duties to the king. That, and some similarities in temperament—I don’t deny that I count the
queen a friend. We laughed at the same things—court life is often quite ridiculous—and now I realize we were not always discreet in our amusement.”

Elaine remembered the day she had first met Lancelot, and he had exercised his wit at Sir Gawain’s expense. Now, having met Sir Gawain herself, she knew Lancelot, had been not only unkind but unjust. If the queen was of a like mind, she could see quite well how the pair of them had managed to make dangerous enemies.

“Elaine, I am ashamed that that these rumors began in the first place,” he said earnestly. “My only excuse is that I was young and foolish, and life at court was strange to me.”

She longed to believe him, wanted it so much that it frightened her. “There is no need to tell me these things,” she said. “When you return to court—”

“But I thought—you said—” He looked down, his long lashes veiling his expression. “Ah. You have reconsidered your invitation.”

“No, of course not. You are still welcome at Corbenic. But once you are well—”

He looked up at her. “I’m not going back to court.”

“But your duty to the king—”

“Britain is at peace; the king has no real need of me. Save in times of war, he cannot compel my service—and he would not, even if he could.”

He wasn’t going back to court—to Guinevere. Her heart leapt, but she dared not believe he meant more than he had said.

“Will you return to Benwick?”

He sighed. “I suppose I should do something about Benwick, but in all honesty, I would be hard put to care less about the place. No, I have a castle—at Norhaut, that was once called Dolorous Gard. ’Tis my own; I won it years ago and have not set foot in it since. I had hoped,” he added
diffidently, “to show it to you. If you would like to see it.”

It was impossible to mistake his meaning now. He wanted to share something with her that he had never shared with anyone before.

Something he could never share with Guinevere.

Elaine could accept that he had loved before. Perhaps she was not Guinevere’s equal in grace or charm or beauty, but she could make Lancelot a home, bear his children, give him the settled security he craved. He cared for her, she was certain of that much, and in time, the memory of his youthful folly would fade.

“Yes,” she said, “I would like to see it. But not until you are well again. Sleep now, and I will wake you when ’tis time to eat.”

T
HAT
didn’t go too badly,
Lancelot thought. He reached for the water at his bedside, though his hand was shaking so that some slopped over on the table. Abandoning the effort, he lay back against the pillow. Elaine hadn’t quite believed him, but she was prepared to let the matter rest.

He had not lied—he had promised himself he would never lie to Elaine—yet he had not betrayed Guinevere. Poor Guinevere. How would she cope without him? Apparently she was not doing very well so far, but he could not help her now. She would have to rely upon herself . . . and Arthur.

Something was very wrong in their marriage, though Lancelot had no idea what it was. Arthur had been delighted with his bride, and Guinevere had been half in love with him already before they wed. They had met some months before their wedding, for Arthur had ridden to King Leodegrance’s aid when Cameliard was attacked.

“Tell me everything about him!” Guinevere had demanded of Lancelot during her bridal journey to Camelot. “I want to hear it all.”

“King Arthur is . . .” Lancelot lifted one hand in a gesture of futility. “He is . . .”

“The king. Yes, so I’ve heard. But what of the man? What are his likes and dislikes, his pastimes, his passions? Oh, I know he’s a great warrior, but does he care for music? Can he dance? Have you heard him sing or play upon an instrument?”