Lancelot (37 page)

“Aye, sir—that is, no, sir—” the boy stammered, accepting the mazer Dinadan thrust toward him and reaching for the second. Gawain’s hand closed over his wrist.

“Leave it. Just bring the wine. We haven’t time to eat.”

“Oh, Gawain, I am famished—” Dinadan began, but Gawain had already waved the boy away.

“You can eat up at the hall.”

“Must we go back there?” Dinadan asked piteously.

“We said we would.” Gawain sipped the ale, grimaced, and set it down. The knight looked weary and disheveled, his golden hair singed around the edges and a streak of
soot upon his brow. He turned a small vial—empty now of the holy water it had contained—in his long fingers, and his eyes moved over the village square where they sat at a rickety table outside the tiny alehouse.

Corbenic was a wretched place, Dinadan thought; no proper tavern, no shops to speak of, only a few dusty trees drooping in the heat and a handful of depressed-looking peasants wandering aimlessly about. A group of boys—who should surely have been working at this hour—were gathered by the smithy, obviously up to no good.

The wine, when it arrived, was so thin and sour that Dinadan was tempted to throw it in the serving boy’s face. But after his ordeal in that damned scorching tower, he was too parched even to complain. He forced it down while Gawain stared glumly up the hillside, where the tower crouched above the village like some beast of prey just waiting for the chance to spring.

“It isn’t your fault,” Dinadan said at last. “No one could possibly have shifted that bar.”

Gawain’s eyes fixed suddenly on Dinadan’s face, their expression so bleak that Dinadan felt compelled to try again. “The thing is obviously impossible. All that rubbish about only the best knight succeeding—you
are
the best, Gawain, no one disputes that . . . now.”

Gawain’s lips twisted in a smile. “Now that Sir Lancelot is gone.”

“Well, yes. And even when he was . . . himself, I doubt he could have broken whatever enchantment has been laid upon the lady. Oh, Lancelot was exceptional in his way, but there was always something a bit off about him, I thought so from the first. He was damned impertinent to
you
on more than one occasion, and then all that business with the queen . . .”

Dinadan trailed to a stop, suddenly remembering that
Gawain had never credited that tale and had sometimes been quite fierce with those who did. “What I mean to say,” he went on quickly, “is that he treated Lady Elaine quite shabbily when he was in his senses, so there’s no earthly reason to imagine he’d do her any good now that he is mad. Besides, a madman can hardly be considered the best knight in the world. It doesn’t stand to reason.”

“Nothing about this business stands to reason.” Gawain tossed back the rest of his ale. “Come on, let’s see Lord Pelleas.”

“Oh, very well,” Dinadan grumbled, heaving himself to his feet and trailing drearily toward the livery stable. “Though I hardly see the point. He must know by now we failed—not that anyone ever expected anything from
me
. Stand aside,” he added impatiently to the peasants cluttering his path.

They were gathered on the roadway beside the smithy, a group comprised mostly of young men, laughing and jeering and wielding bits of rotting vegetable and offal. Dinadan stepped hastily aside as a turnip whistled past his ear.

“Move, churls,” he cried. “We are knights of Camelot! What
is
that you’re gaping at?” he added, peering over the shoulder of the nearest boy at an iron cage containing what appeared to be a naked man. “Is it a criminal?”

“It’s the wild man,” the churl said, laughing. “They caught him yestere’en. We’re trying to wake him up.”

“Yes, I see. Look, Gawain, a wild man. Fascinating, I’m sure, but we’ve no time to stop—”

“He’s been lurking in the forest for weeks,” the boy went on, “no one could catch more than a glimpse of him. But then, yesterday, Sir Torre was a-hunting stag—”

“’Twas a boar, you oaf,” another lad cried, “and it gored Sir Torre’s horse. And there was Sir Torre on the ground all
topsy-turvy, having lost his spear when he fell, and the boar all set to charge him—”

“And out of the forest comes the wild man,” a third interrupted, “and what does he do but pick up the spear and run the boar through? Killed it dead with one stroke—”

“’Twas a mighty blow,” the second lad continued. “Sir Torre said he’d never seen the like. And so they tried to catch the wild man, but he was terrible strong—knocked down three of the serving men and was going after Sir Torre himself—”

“And then me da felled him with his cudgel,” the third boy finished proudly. “So now we have him, but all he does is lie there. We want to stir him up a bit.”

“Of course you do,” Dinadan said, “and good luck to you. Now, we have business with your lord, so if you’d be so kind as to let us pass . . .”

The boys moved aside, and Dinadan realized that Gawain was not beside him. The knight was standing just before the cage, staring through the bars as though transfixed.

“Gawain,” he called, “let us go.”

“No, wait.” Gawain gestured him over. “Dinadan,
look
.”

Dinadan trotted over and gazed obediently into the cage. Though he’d never actually seen a wild man before, he supposed this one to be a fairly common specimen: filthy, emaciated, his face obscured by a tangled growth of beard and a great deal of matted hair.

“Mmm . . . yes. Quite.” As there seemed no further comment to be made, he took a step away.

Gawain did not follow. His expression was a curious mixture of astonishment and horror as he regarded the iron cage. Puzzled, Dinadan looked more carefully, then shrugged. The wild man was not the least bit wild, just repulsive and rather tedious.

“Lord Pelleas is expecting us,” he said at last. “’Tis unkind to keep him waiting.”

Gawain’s peculiar trance broke. “Yes,” he said, “yes, he is.” They had traveled scarce half a dozen paces when Gawain halted and looked back. “Dinadan—”

“Oh, for God’s sake, come
on
,” Dinadan said, taking Gawain’s arm and turning him toward the stable.

He hoped Gawain was not about to have a pious fit and insist on doing something about the wretched creature. Not that Gawain was prone to sentimentality, save in one respect, and that hardly fit the case. The knight, so fierce in battle, could not bear to pass a stray mongrel without throwing it a bit of food, and had once returned to Camelot with a bag full of kittens he’d fished out of a millpond. It was one of those oddities of human nature that Dinadan usually found amusing, but a wild man was not something one could keep in one’s chamber and feed on orts.

“You leave him be, Gawain,” he said sternly. “He’s no concern of ours.”

Gawain looked at him for a long moment, his gray eyes strangely clouded. Then his features hardened in the determined expression Dinadan knew too well. “You’re wrong,” he said.

He strode back across the square, shouting for someone to come unlock the cage. Dinadan followed, sighing. There was no point in arguing once Gawain made up his mind. Certainly a handful of churls could not stay his course. After only the feeblest of protests, the blacksmith unbolted the cage. Gawain knelt, slipped an arm beneath the wild man’s neck to lift him, and brushed the matted hair back from his brow, speaking to him so quietly that Dinadan could not make out his words over the excited babble of the crowd.

Dinadan pushed his way through the throng. “Gawain,
do have a care there, they say he’s vicious—not to mention the lice and . . .”

Fleas.
That was what he meant to say, but the word remained unspoken. The wild man’s eyes were open, and he was staring into Gawain’s face. Those eyes—and the line of brow and nose—surely it was—but no, it couldn’t be.

And yet it was.

“Come, Sir Lancelot,” Gawain said, his voice very gentle, “allow me help you to my horse.” And taking the cloak from his own shoulders, Gawain laid it over the wasted form of the knight before lifting him bodily and bearing him through the stunned and silent crowd.

L
ANCELOT was halfway out of bed before he was properly awake. His legs were caught, and only after he had struggled to free himself did he realize they were not bound, only tangled in a heavy coverlet. He was indoors, lying in a bed. His heart racing, he repressed the urge to run and forced himself to lie back and consider his surroundings. The chamber was not one he knew, yet it did not seem to be a prison. The shutters were open, and a bar of sunlight fell across the rush-strewn floor. Sounds drifted through the window, and slowly he was able to put names to them: the musical clanging of a blacksmith’s hammer, the creak of a windlass as someone raised a bucket from a well. All at once, he realized he was ravenous.

At that moment the door opened, and a dark-haired woman walked inside, carrying a tray. She took one look at him, shrinking back against the wall, and halted in the doorway. Her words were as soothing as water over stone and equally as meaningless.

After a time she left the tray and went away. He consumed every crumb and was asleep before his head hit the cushion.

When he woke again, it was to a blinding rush of images. The cage. The jeering faces. Sir Gawain—but no, surely that had been a dream. Elaine. Cold sweat broke out over his body when he finally realized who he had been searching for and why he had not rested for so long. It was Elaine—how could he not have known her face? Elaine in danger, calling out his name. Where was she? Where was he? How long had he been wandering?

“How long?” he rasped when the door opened again. The dark-haired woman—Brisen, he thought, Mistress Brisen was her name—started so the dishes on the tray clattered together.

“You left Camelot two years ago,” she answered.

“Two
years
?” He ran a hand across his face, his fingers tangling in his matted beard. “Is this Corbenic?”

“Yes.” She smiled and handed him the tray. “Eat.”

Corbenic. Then where was Elaine? Something was wrong, he could see it in Brisen’s face, in the way she moved about the chamber so she might avoid his gaze.

“Is she dead?” he asked.

“No. Now eat, Sir Lancelot.”

And with that she went away.

Not dead, he thought, his hand shaking so that milk slopped over the cup. If she had been in some sort of danger, it had been months ago. Unless that had been another dream.

But why was it Brisen who tended him and not her mistress? He remembered their parting, going over and over it again, sparing himself no detail of his deluded ravings. He could see her face so clearly now, the horror in her eyes. It was no wonder she did not come to him.

When Brisen returned with a few strong lads, bearing a cask and water, he asked no further questions, nor did they trouble him with speech. Once bathed, he submitted without protest as Brisen shaved him and attempted to comb out his hair. In the end, she cut it off, leaving his head oddly cool and weightless.

Just as she was leaving, Lancelot said, “Galahad?”

Brisen smiled. “Well and strong. Good night.”

He nodded and closed his eyes, willing himself to unconsciousness.

THE next morning when he woke, his mind was clear, and he knew what he must do. He found a trunk at the foot of his bed; his own trunk, which he had left behind in Camelot. He dressed in a robe that had once fit him well, though now his hands swam in the sleeves, and it hung in sagging folds from his shoulders. He sat down on the edge of the bed, hands clenched tightly on his knees as he waited for the knock upon the door. It was not long in coming, and Sir Gawain walked into the chamber. One quick glance showed him that Gawain dreaded this meeting as much as he did himself.

“Sir Gawain,” he said. “I owe you my thanks.”

“Think nothing of it, Sir Lancelot,” Gawain replied. “It is my duty to aid a brother knight in need.”

Lancelot forced himself to raise his head. Gawain stood just before the window, his expression gravely courteous, a beam of sunlight brightening the deep gold of his hair. He looked, Lancelot thought, as if he should be standing on a plinth . . .

“With Honor carved in foot-high letters at the base.”