Lancelot (29 page)

I will be careful,
Lancelot vowed.
Elaine will never know that I have changed. No darkness will touch her or Galahad, I swear it. Please, God,
he pleaded silently,
please protect them from all harm.

Think you God will heed any prayer you utter?
A mocking voice demanded in his mind. He thought again of the knights he had slaughtered during the campaign, the others he had struck down in the lists with his inhuman strength. Torre, Gawain . . . Gawain upon the battlefield, singing as he challenged death; Gawain, whose courage could no more be doubted than his honor—or his kindness, as he had proved again today. Oh, Lancelot had wronged him, creeping into Camelot like a thief in the night to steal the glory Gawain had worked so hard and long to earn.

No, Elaine must never know. And she would not.
Even if I tried to tell her,
Lancelot thought,
she would not believe me. She would think me mad.
God knew he had felt close to madness this past year, mad with misery and shame as Arthur heaped honor upon honor on his head. Today’s feast had seemed the final blow.

I will not go mad,
Lancelot vowed.
Elaine’s love will protect me, just as her token did. So long as she believes in me, all will be well.
His eyes stung as he bent to kiss her brow.

No pages lingered in the passageway, so he started for the stairway where they often sat in a small alcove at the top. Finding no one on duty there, either, he realized it must be far later than he’d thought. But surely someone would still be in the kitchens.

He went down the twisting stairway, the stone cold against his bare feet. He briefly considered turning back to dress, but what were the odds of meeting anyone at this hour?

He passed through the darkened hall, quietly so as not to disturb the servants and guests sleeping on the floor. On the far side, he went through a curtained doorway into another corridor that led toward the kitchens. The stone was rougher here, interspersed with pools of shadow where tiny alcoves had been set into the walls. These were often used for assignations, though now they held various cooks and stewards, gently snoring. It must be very late indeed, he thought, then shrugged, thinking he was surely capable of cobbling together some sort of meal without assistance.

He was just wondering if there would be any plums—Elaine had a fondness for them—when a figure stepped out from one of the alcoves and stood before him. He started back, and the woman—for it was a woman, he saw now, near as tall as he was—leapt in the opposite direction.

“I’m sorry,” Lancelot said, half laughing, though his heart thudded painfully in his chest.

“No, no, it is I who should apologize,” she said, her sweet, rather husky voice pitched low. “I did not expect to meet anyone.”

“Nor did I.” He flattened himself against the wall to let her by, and she brushed against him—deliberately, he thought, for there was more than enough room for her to pass—in a wave of sweet, heavy scent.

“Why, it is Sir Lancelot!” she said, pausing just in front of him.

“Yes,” he answered, not altogether pleased at being recognized and surprised that any lady caught in such a compromising position would want to linger. With a touch of malice, he said, “I don’t believe I’ve had the honor . . . ?”

She moved so the flickering torchlight fell upon her face. “Morgause of Orkney. We’ve met before,” she purred, “do you not remember?”

He remembered very well indeed. It had been several years ago. He had nearly fallen from his seat when she glided into Arthur’s chamber and the king introduced her as his half sister, the queen of Orkney. It was not that she looked far too young to have borne Gawain, let alone Gawain’s numerous brothers. Nor was it her beauty that struck him dumb, though she was very beautiful indeed. What had rendered him nearly incoherent with embarrassment was that he had already met her once before, though at the time he had dismissed their meeting as a dream.

Some months before Queen Morgause walked into Arthur’s chamber unannounced, Lancelot had been out adventuring. The day was hot, the sun shimmering over the fields, and a few bright butterflies danced among the wildflowers. He had lain down in the shadow of a hedgerow and plunged into a heavy sleep.

He woke—or dreamed he woke—to find four ladies standing over him, shaded by a canopy of purple silk. It seemed they had been there for some time, for cloths had been laid upon the grass behind them, spread with a feast of great magnificence. The ladies were all crowned, and each of them was exquisitely garbed and jeweled. They introduced themselves as the queens of Northgalis, the Outer Isles, Wales, and Orkney, and said he must choose one of them as a paramour.

Though the dream was utterly fantastical, it was oddly realistic in its details. Lancelot had been befuddled, gritty-eyed, and clammy with sweat, his mouth parched with thirst. The ladies’ faces were all beautiful, but frightening, too, for the canopy cast eerie violet shadows upon their features.

“I—I—” he stammered thickly, “forgive me, did you say . . . ?”

“We would like to lie with you,” one of the queens—she had brown hair and blue eyes—explained kindly.

“To swive you,” a black-haired, green-eyed beauty clarified, as he continued to gape at them in silence. She turned to the others and said, “I don’t think he understands.”

A tall, auburn-haired lady leaned down and grasped him firmly between the legs. “Oh, I rather think he does.” She stroked him, her long, white fingers trailing over his swelling manhood in a lingering caress. “Mmm,” she said, straightening. “I think
he
could serve us all.”

“But that was not the wager,” the last queen, who had a wealth of butter-yellow hair, protested. “He has to choose. You shouldn’t have touched him, Morgause,” she added reproachfully, “it isn’t fair now.”

The queen thus addressed shrugged. “It’s fair if you do the same. He won’t mind,” she added, gazing at Lancelot through half-closed eyes. Her face was wide across the cheekbones, tapering to a small, pointed chin. When she smiled, she looked like a cat.

Lancelot sat up, vainly hoping to hide the evidence of his arousal. “Madam,” he said, “Such a choice as you require of me is one I cannot make.”

“Ooh, he does want us all!” The green-eyed lady laughed and reached for him.

Lancelot scrambled back, very much aware of the hedgerow behind him catching his hair and digging into his neck. “You mistake me,” he said with as much dignity as he could muster. “I am sorry if this sounds discourteous, but you have forced me. I will have none of you.”

“That,” the auburn-haired queen said with another catlike smile, “is not a choice available to you.”

“It is, however, my decision.”

“Then, sweet Lancelot,” the yellow-haired lady sighed, “you must think again.”

“I could think from now ’til—” he began, twisting away as she put out a hand as though to stroke his face. Then her
fingertip touched the space between his eyes, and the world vanished.

When he awoke—for the first or second time, he didn’t know—it was to find himself in a dungeon. Soon after, a pretty serving maid who either did not know or would not say who had imprisoned him, helped him to escape on the condition that he fight in a tournament for her father. In the ensuing excitement, Lancelot had convinced himself that the four queens were nothing but a strange dream.

So when Queen Morgause of Orkney had strolled into King Arthur’s chamber some months later, looking just as she had that day beside the hedgerow, Lancelot had been thrown into confusion.

And now, facing her in the twisting passageway leading to Camelot’s kitchens, he was once again at a loss.

“Don’t tell me you have forgotten me?” she inquired, laughing.

“No, of course not, madam.” He bowed briefly. “We met in the chamber of the king, your brother—”

“Half brother,” she amended sharply. “
My
father was Duke Gorlois of Cornwall.”

A man walked out of an alcove, fastening the brooch clasp at his shoulder. When he saw Lancelot he immediately stepped back into the shadows.

“Lamorak!” Morgause called imperiously. “Come out and greet Sir Lancelot.”

Lamorak had been with them this past year; he’d been knighted on the field. He must be all of nineteen, Lancelot thought, though he looked even younger with a blush staining his cheeks.

“Good evening, Sir Lamorak,” Lancelot said, rigid with embarrassment.

“Sir Lancelot,” the boy mumbled, staring down at his feet.

“What, has Camelot become a monastery?” Morgause
inquired with a mocking laugh. “It wasn’t so in Uther’s day! Come, Lamorak, hold your head up. Sir Lancelot is in no position to sit in judgment on you. Stay,” she ordered sharply as Lancelot turned to leave. “Tell me about that wench who burst into the hall earlier.”

Lancelot had no intention of answering, no more than he’d meant to halt at her command. Yet here he stood, saying, “She is—” before he clamped his lips shut. Morgause’s brows rose.

“Tell me,” she said again, this time in honeyed tones.

And suddenly he wanted to. He wanted to tell her everything about himself and Elaine, for it seemed clear that Morgause would understand as no one else could. Indeed, he had to tell her; it would be churlish to refuse when she had every right to know . . . only he did not think he’d tell her just this moment. When he came to think of it—which wasn’t easy, for the effort made his head pound—he realized he would prefer not to tell her anything at all.

“It is late, madam,” he said, relieved to hear the words come out so firmly. “I don’t want to keep you here.”

She laughed, surprising him. “Well done! There is more to you than meets the eye. I suspected as much, and I’m sure you will forgive me for my little test. Certes, I have no wish to meddle with the Lady of the Lake, or her . . .” She paused delicately, but when Lancelot made no answer, she merely laughed again. “Well, she has excellent taste—as do I,” she said, smiling as she stroked Lamorak’s cheek. “Run along, my sweet,” she said to the young man. “You need your rest.” He obediently kissed her offered cheek, bowed to Lancelot, and vanished down the corridor.

Before Lancelot could follow his example, Morgause laid a hand on his arm. “But come, do tell me of that chit who arrived earlier, a squalling brat in arms and your name upon her lips!”

Lancelot forced his gaze to remain steady. He would not give this woman the satisfaction of knowing how deeply her words had angered him. “The child you refer to is Galahad, my son, born while I was away in the king’s service. Lady Elaine and I shall be wed as soon as possible, of course.”

“Of course.” Morgause adjusted the collar of his robe. “That
is
handsome of you, Lance—may I call you Lance?” Without waiting for an answer, she went on, “But I feel it is my duty to give you just a word of warning. These forced matches, no matter how nobly undertaken, have a way of ending badly. Pay her off—I daresay you can afford it—and send her back to Carbuncle or whatever it is she comes from. When the boy is of age, you can make some provision for him. Knowing my half brother, Arthur will be pleased to take any number of your by-blows into his service.”

“Madam, you mistake me,” Lancelot said, and when their eyes met, he knew his dream had been no dream at all. “Lady Elaine and I were betrothed before the king summoned me away. Our marriage is something I have longed for since duty called me from her side.”

“Ah. Yes, I see.” Morgause smiled in a fashion that raised the hairs on his neck. “
Very
handsome. But who would expect less from the great du Lac! I only wonder,” she said, tipping her head to one side and examining him curiously, “how your lady will feel about sharing you with the queen . . . and the king. But there, I’m sure she’ll let you know precisely what she thinks. She doesn’t lack for courage, does she? The way she faced the queen earlier—it is a good thing that looks cannot really kill, or the two of them would have lain dead upon the floor!”

Lancelot could only stare at her, utterly nonplussed, as her gaze moved slowly over his gaping chamber robe. “I daresay you and Guinevere have made up any little quarrel
that resulted.” She looked back the way he’d come, a knowing smile curving her red lips, as though expecting Guinevere to step from one of the shadowed alcoves.

“Madam, I beg you to excuse me. Lady Elaine awaits,” Lancelot said coldly.

Morgause laughed. “Ah, you young knights! Such stamina! Well, be off with you, then.”

Before he could reply, she walked away and was swallowed by the darkness.

Forgetting his errand, Lancelot raced back through the hall and up the stairway to his chamber, where Elaine still slept. He sat beside her, as if his presence could somehow protect her from the dark magic Morgause exuded like a noxious fume.

“There is no such thing as magic,” Elaine had assured him solemnly. If there was a God at all, she would go on believing that. He touched her warm cheek and smiled to see her smile when her fingers twined with his.

“Where is the food?” she murmured without opening her eyes.

“I’ve brought you something better.” Shrugging off his robe, he slid beneath the coverlet to catch her laughter on his lips.