Lancelot (34 page)

“
B
RISEN,” Elaine called, closing the door of her chamber carefully behind her. “Brisen, are you here?”

“Aye, m’lady. What’s ado?”

“Pack everything; we are leaving. Where is Galahad—ah, here you are, my sweet,” she said, taking him from his nurse’s arms and holding him tightly. “We must go at once.”

Brisen folded her arms and regarded Elaine curiously. “Where?”

“Home.”

“We cannot leave tonight, lady,” Brisen said reasonably.

“We must.”

“But we’d hardly make it to the village before we’d have to stop. We’ll go first thing to—”

“Now, Brisen,” Elaine said tightly. “We must go now.”

“Lotte, take Galahad inside,” Brisen said. “Now, lady, why don’t you sit down and I’ll make you—”

“I do not want a posset.” Elaine looked about the chamber, scattered with their belongings. Lancelot’s blue cloak
was tossed over a stool; his sword, bright Arondight, still hung upon the peg. “I will go tonight. You can follow in the morning. Get Torre to help you with the arrangements.”

“But—”

“Don’t argue with me! Just do as I say.”

“What’s happened to you, lady? Where is Sir Lan—”

“Don’t speak of him!” Elaine seized her cloak from its hook and threw it over her shoulders. “I have no time, ’tis late already—”

“You cannot go riding alone at such an hour!” Brisen said, moving to block her path. “You’ve had a shock, haven’t you? Tell me what has happened.”

Elaine shook her head. She could not tell Brisen. She could not tell anyone. If she spoke the words, it would be real. Lancelot’s mind would be broken, his reason fled—

“I cannot tarry,” she cried. “Stop bothering me with questions! I haven’t time—”

She stiffened at the sound of a step outside her door. It was Lancelot, he was back—oh, what a fool she’d been to worry! She threw open the door, then drew back with a cry of disappointment when she saw that it was only Torre. He stepped into the room and shut the door behind him.

“Is it true?” he asked.

Elaine pulled her cloak more tightly around her. “Is what true?”

“That Sir Lancelot is mad,” Torre said bluntly.

“No!” Elaine cried. “No, it is a lie!”

“They say he leapt from a window and fled into the forest,” Torre said. “They say that you were there. Were you?”

“I—I—”

He took her by the shoulders and shook her. “Elaine, tell me!”

“He isn’t mad,” she said desperately. “He was . . . upset. Unwell. But he’ll be all right, Torre, won’t he? Won’t he?”

“Oh, Christ.” Torre wrapped his arms around her, saying roughly, “Poor bastard, who would have guessed his wits were weak? Mayhap he was knocked on the head over in Gaul.”

“Lady,” Brisen said, “I will make you that posset now, and you will drink it. There’s no good in rushing off tonight when for all you know, Sir Lancelot will be back before dawn. Tomorrow is time enough to decide what’s to be done.”

What’s to be
done
? Elaine thought. There was nothing to be done. Lancelot was gone. She wanted to scream, to rage, to lean against her brother and dissolve into a flood of tears. But if she once began to weep, she feared she’d never stop.

Lancelot was gone. He was beyond her help. One day he might return, and if he did, she would be waiting. She must think of that and not fall into despair. Galahad had already lost his father; if Elaine were to give way now, he would have no one.

“Yes,” she said, drawing back from Torre. “You’re right, Brisen. Best to wait and see.”

She drank the posset without protest, then lay in the bed she had shared with Lancelot. His scent still lingered among the sheets, and the pillow bore the impression of his head. She pulled it close and held it against her, staring dry-eyed into the darkness until the gray light slipped through the window.

She rose and dressed with leaden hands. Silently she followed Brisen from the chamber to the stables. The light was growing now, and the first red rays of sunlight fell upon Torre and Lavaine, already mounted, with Lotte and Galahad upon a sturdy little jennet beside them. Elaine’s horse stood a bit apart, a knight holding its bridle.

Elaine nodded to Sir Bors, too moved to speak when she saw the tears standing in his eyes. Lionel walked from the
darkness of the stable, leading his own horse and his brother’s. When he saw Elaine, he dropped the reins and ran forward to catch her in a hard embrace. At last he stepped away and drew a hand across his eyes, turning to give a low whistle. Another knight emerged from the stable—Sir Ector De Maris, Lancelot’s kinsman whom she had met the day before—and bowed deeply over her hand before helping her to mount.

The three knights made no move to join her. They stood by their horses’ heads, and just as Elaine had almost made up her mind to speak, she heard the slow clop of hooves approaching from within the stable. A moment later, the king appeared, leading his own stallion. He, too, bowed to Elaine without speaking. Once mounted, Arthur pulled his horse beside hers, the knights falling in beside them as they rode slowly out of Camelot.

R
UN
.

The command was urgent, inescapable.

Run
.

As blindly panicked as a stag who hears the hunter’s horn, he ran until he dropped and lay where he had fallen until he had the strength to run again. Sometimes he slept, lying among the ferns, starting up at the least sound to flee. If he dreamed, he did not know it, no more than he knew his name or where he’d come from or even that he was a man. He simply was. He had always been here in the forest, always running, running until each breath he drew was white-hot pain.

He ate what he could find: berries, which for a time were abundant, fruit, roots he dug from the earth with bleeding hands. Later, when the leaves began to fall, there were nuts, and then there was nothing. Hunger drove him toward the dangerous places, where woodsmoke filled the air. Stealthy, cunning, he slipped into coops and barns and even cottages,
seizing what was edible and bearing it back into the forest. When it rained, he took what shelter he could find, crouched beneath a bank or in the hollow of a tree.

Once, bending over a pool to drink, he scrambled back with a hoarse cry, terrified by the bearded skeleton leering back at him. He crept back again on hands and knees and flung a stone into the water, staring transfixed as the thing in the pool shattered into a thousand shimmering pieces, then slowly formed itself into a man, first wavering, then still and whole. He groped for another stone, and then another and another, and every time the miracle was repeated. At last he sat back on his heels, watching the face in the pool work as he tried to form a word that danced just out of reach . . . and when it was almost near enough to grasp, he leapt to his feet and fled.

He woke one morning to find the world transformed. A glittering coverlet of white lay over leaf and bush, and the forest was wrapped in silence. When he tried to stand, shaking off his coverlet of leaves, he could not feel his feet. He knew that he was close to death; only that could have driven him to approach the tiny cottage he had passed the night before. Now he followed the smell of smoke and hid behind the pile of cut wood beside the door.

The thought of knocking on the door did not cross his mind, no more than it would have done any other forest creature. Even if he had imagined such a thing, he had no words with which to ask for help and no memory of ever having known them. He only knew that inside was warmth and food, and if he did not have them, he would die. He groped among the logs, found one that fit his hand, and settled down to wait.

The sun stood straight above the trees before the door opened. Slowly he stood and raised the log, but no one emerged. Instead, something flew through the air and landed
on the woodpile. He started back, but his frozen feet would not carry him. He stumbled and fell, the log falling from his hand. When he tried to lift himself, he found that he could not.

He heard a voice, very soft and pleasant, like the wind among the topmost branches of the trees in springtime. It lifted a little at the end, then stopped, seeming to wait for something. After a little time it went on again, now accompanied by the smell of food.

He raised himself to his knees and peered over the woodpile, his hand touching the thing that had been thrown. It was the fur of some animal, cured to softness and very thick. There on the doorstep stood a man, garbed in a brown woolen robe. The man—

(
monk
)

—gestured toward a pot from which steam was rising, then turned and went inside again.

The fur was long enough to drape over his shoulders and still trail behind him through the snow. He clutched it one-handed and cautiously, with many a false start, approached the pot still steaming on the doorstep, snatched it up, and retreated a few steps.

He kept one eye on the door while he ate. It was hot enough to burn fingers and mouth, but he did not care. He devoured it all before it had a chance to cool, and retreated behind the woodpile, wrapping his feet and huddling inside the fur. When darkness began to fall, the door opened again, the voice spoke, and another gift of food was placed outside, this time with a pair of slippers.

Each morning and each evening was the same. The door opened, the brown man spoke, left an offering, and went away. In time, he realized that the sounds were speech. Slowly the meaning of the words emerged.

He stayed until the first flowers bloomed beside the
cottage, poking through the drift of snow that still remained. One evening when the door opened, he stepped out and faced the man who had saved his life.

“Ah, so here you are.” The monk smiled. “I always hoped to meet you.”

“Thou hast rendered me a service which can never be repaid. God’s blessing on thee, Brother.” He stopped, frozen into immobility. He hadn’t expected to speak, had no idea that he could. The words had simply come without conscious thought or plan.

The monk blinked. “You are quite welcome. May I know whom I have the pleasure of addressing? Your name, friend. Will you tell it to me?”

“My name? My . . .” He began to back away, shaking his head. A name. His name. He’d had one once—or no, that had been someone else, not him. Not him.

Run,
the voice screamed in his mind.

And he obeyed.

“
S
IR Lancelot is dead, Mother.” Agravaine scowled, shifting his bulk in the saddle. “Why can’t you let it go?”

Morgause cast her eyes to the canopy of red-gold leaves above her head. Why, why could it not be Gawain who rode with her today? Handsome, clever Gawain, who never needed to have anything explained to him. Agravaine—well, one only had to look at him to take his measure. He was good-looking—all her children had inherited some measure of her beauty—but his indulgences were catching up with him. And though he was loyal in his own plodding way, not even the fondest mother could call him clever. Gaheris and Gareth were Arthur’s men; she’d dismissed them from her heart and counsels long ago. Mordred, though promising, was still a child.

Gawain was the best of her brood, and she had always meant for him to wear Arthur’s crown. His defection still rankled sorely.

“Sir Lancelot was seen, dearest,” she said through gritted teeth. “That monk—”

“Oh, blast the monk. He said himself he’d never met Sir Lancelot before.”

“
And
the lady in the pavilion,” Morgause continued, stifling a sigh. “Her knight said only Sir Lancelot could have dealt him such a blow.”

Agravaine grunted and reached behind him, awkwardly because of his bulk, and fumbled for the wineskin. “But that was weeks ago.”

There had been other sightings, some patently false, a few that might be true. But all the signs pointed in one direction: if Sir Lancelot indeed lived, he was heading for Corbenic.

“Even if it
was
him,” Agravaine said sulkily, “he’s surely dead by now.”

“Perhaps.”

It rankled, too, that Morgause could not be certain. How many hours had she wasted, hunched over her scrying bowl, searching for a glimpse of Arthur’s most troublesome knight? And he must be found. She could not afford for Lancelot to resurface. He’d caused enough damage when he’d left. But Arthur had not set Guinevere aside as everyone expected he would. Indeed, with Sir Lancelot gone, they seemed to have found a new happiness together, though there were many who still believed Arthur would rid himself of her and seek a fertile queen.