Lancelot (40 page)

At last they stood toe-to-toe, blades locked, for what seemed an eternity. Elaine could see every muscle of Lancelot’s arms, corded beneath the bloodstained remnants of his shirt, and the tendons in his neck standing out sharply with the effort of holding the Green Knight’s sword at bay.

Yet he could not last forever. He was a man, and the Knight was something more. Elaine watched in horror as slowly, inexorably, Lancelot was forced down to his knees. For a time, he managed to keep Arondight aloft, but at last the Green Knight struck the sword from his hand.

“Now we see who is the better,” the Knight howled in an ecstasy of triumph, his blade pressed to Lancelot’s bare throat. “Beg for mercy, mortal.”

Lancelot’s laughter rang out. “Men do not beg.” He gazed up at the Knight, defiant to the last, a scornful smile on his lips.

“Stop this!” Elaine screamed to the pavilion. The Lady did not take her gaze from the field, but only shook her head.

Lancelot glanced over at her, his smile fading. “Elaine,” he cried, “oh, love, what do you here? Run, go now—”

The Green Knight laughed. “Too late. Die, du Lac, die knowing you have failed, and when your blood is let, your lady will be mine.”

Lancelot twisted and threw himself backward, the green blade missing him by inches as he scooped Arondight from the grass and surged up to his knees. With a hoarse cry, he thrust the blade hilt deep into the Green Knight’s breast.

A trumpet sounded, its clear peal lost in the cheering from the stands. The Green Knight stood a moment, gazing at the sword protruding from his breast, then sheathed his own sword and drew Arondight from his body. He knelt
and offered Lancelot the blade, hilt first, across his arm. The moment Lancelot had taken it, the Knight vanished, as did the stands, the pavilion, and the Lady. Lancelot knelt alone in the center of the meadow.

Elaine ran to him, her sodden skirt clinging to her legs. She stumbled the last steps, and Lancelot caught her in his arms, his sword dropping from his hand. It fell with a clanging thud upon the floor of the tower where they stood embraced with flames dancing all around them.

“Here again!” Lancelot laughed, and then Elaine was laughing, too, as he lifted her and spun her round.

“Am I mad?” she demanded, breathless.

“You ask
me
that?” Still laughing, he bent and slipped a hand beneath her knees, sweeping her up into his arms. “Which way, my lady, to the door?”

She pointed. “There.”

The flames died as he stepped into them, and he grinned down at her, leaning forward to gaze out the window. “Your sense of direction leaves something to be desired.” He shifted her in his arms. “Look.”

“Is it a feast day?” she asked, gazing through the narrow slit. “Why is no one at work? There is Torre—and Lavaine! When did he arrive? And look, ’tis Sir Gawain! And Sir Dinadan, and see, Lancelot, there are Bors and Lionel and Ector. But where—oh, there he is, do you see Galahad? How big he looks!” She looked up at Lancelot, her eyes wide. “It was true?” she whispered. “I have been in here a twelvemonth?” She touched his face with shaking fingers. “I am sorry; I should have believed you—”

“Why? The last time we met, I was a madman.”

“But not now.”

“No, not now,” Lancelot said as he bore her down the stairway. “Through God’s grace, I heard you call and found myself in time to come to you.”

Elaine leaned her head against his shoulder. “What of the Lady?” she asked. “She was so angry with me. Why did she let us go?”

“Avalon has its own laws. I do not understand them, but I know when they are at work. Nothing less would have brought the Green Knight to his knees to
me
!”

“But do you think—will she come for you again?”

“No. The Lady has spoken. She is finished with the world of men.” He grinned, his dark eyes alight with happiness. “At least for now. In a hundred years or so she may change her mind, but she is done with me for good, and I am but a man.”

“How very fortunate.” Elaine looked up at him through her lashes, wondering that she still remembered how. “A man is precisely what I want.”

“I should think a winsome lass like you could have any man she chose.”

“There is only one I have ever wanted.” She clasped him tightly round the neck. “And that is you.”

“I think you
must
be a little mad, but you’ll get no argument from me. For I am yours, Elaine, as I have always been and always will be.”

With that he kicked open the door and stepped out into the sunlight and the cheering of the crowd.

T
HE feast lasted far into the night. Elaine and Lancelot slipped away soon after it began, and Brisen smiled as she watched them go, then retired to her own chamber off the kitchens. She found a small scrap of parchment sitting in her empty trunk and read it, a frown creasing her brow, before packing her belongings and shutting the lid firmly.

She lay down upon her narrow pallet and stared at the ceiling for a time, then rose and took the parchment from the table. She glanced at it again as she went out the door and after only the briefest hesitation, crumpled it and tossed it in the fire. She went through the hall, stopping now and then to exchange a greeting, and finally reached the door.

The night was cool as she walked quickly through the garden, past the tower where a candle glowed in Elaine’s window, and into the forest. Her steps led her to a small clearing where she lingered for a time, bidding a silent farewell to the place that had been both refuge and temple.
From there she wandered restlessly down the path to the river and sat upon the dock, watching the full moon ripple in the water until a sudden gust of icy wind drove her to her feet. She stood a moment, looking from the path to the boathouse, then walked the few steps to the door and opened it. Blinking in the dim light of a rushlight, she found Torre seated at the table.

“I thought you would not come,” he said.

“I had things to do,” she answered shortly.

“Now that you are here, come in and sit. If you would like, that is,” he added gruffly.

A cup and pitcher stood before him, but when he poured, she saw it was only water that he drank. Following her eyes, he said, “I’m not drunk, Brisen, if that’s what you are thinking.”

“I did wonder,” she admitted. “Everyone else is, after all.”

“Everyone else doesn’t have to be up at dawn.” He kicked a stool from under the table. “Are you going to sit down or not?”

She sat, wondering why she bothered. All they had to say to one another had been said long since. In the past twelvemonth, she doubted they had exchanged a dozen words, and those but empty pleasantries.

She had not seen him so closely for many months. Looking at him now, she saw again the young knight who had caught her heart in the surgeon’s tent so long ago. Since their return from Camelot, he had turned his energies to the management of Corbenic with the same single-minded zeal he had once given to debauchery. Both he and the manor had flourished.

It is finished,
she thought.
He is truly well at last.
As he continued to sit silent, she glanced at the doorway. She, too, must be up at dawn, and the night was drawing on.

“Elaine told me you are leaving,” he said abruptly. “Is it true?”

“Yes. Sir Gawain mentioned that Lady Morgana is at Camelot. He kindly offered to let me ride with him.”

“But you can’t abandon Elaine! She needs you.”

Brisen smiled, tracing a pattern on the splintered table. “She and Sir Lancelot will be going to his home at Joyous Gard. It is a new life for her. I doubt that she will miss me.”

“Others might.”

“I can’t think of anyone who would.”

Torre scowled, then gave a short, unwilling laugh. “There was a time,” he said, “when I thought you were a fiend. ‘Try again,’ you always said. And again and again and again. Even when I was half-dead with pain, you never would let up.” His eyes, always so changeable, shone leaf green in the rushlight. “I hated you.”

“I know.”

“Why did you do it? I used to think you enjoyed watching me suffer.”

“No.” The table blurred before her eyes. “I never enjoyed it. But it had to be done.” She frowned, blinking hard. “I can’t abide waste.”

He said no more, and at last, with a little sigh, she stood. “Good night, Sir Torre.”

“Don’t you mean farewell?”

All at once he was on his feet. In two steps he stood before her. Brisen had never realized quite how tall he was. She was used to seeing him slouched, not standing straight as he was now. She had to tip her head back to look into his eyes. “You told me once what you thought of me,” he said, “and you were right. But I hope—I believe I have done better since.”

“You are . . . somewhat improved.” She tried to meet his
gaze with cool composure, but it wasn’t easy when he looked at her that way, as though he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or . . . or . . .

His kiss was all she had imagined it would be. She pulled the tie from his hair and buried her fingers in his curls, her lips parting beneath his. “Until the new year,” he said huskily. “If you wish to leave then, I will not stop you.”

She stepped back quickly. “I’ll not be your leman, Torre.”

“I never thought you would.”

She waited for him to say more, but he did not. “Very well,” she said, speaking firmly to cover her confusion. “I will stay until the new year.”

His smile flashed out, and he drew her close, resting his cheek against her hair. “You won’t be sorry.” And slowly, with a gentleness she would not have imagined in him, he took her face between his hands and kissed her once again.

WHEN the chilly predawn light slipped through the shutters, Brisen tied off her braid and sighed. Then she walked to the pallet and bent to run a hand across Torre’s curls, spiked in wild disarray upon the cushion, strands of cinnamon and nutmeg, gold and bronze and chestnut shimmering in the feeble rushlight. He smiled without opening his eyes and reached for her.

“I should have known you’d make a liar of me,” she said ruefully, slipping into his embrace.

“Not for long. I won’t wait for the new year to be wed.”

“You never asked me,” she pointed out.

He opened one eye. “Must I?”

She seized the coverlet and pulled it off him. “Out. Go! You have work to do, and dawn is almost here.”

He stood reluctantly, blinking like a sleepy owl in the
dim light. “You said,” he reminded her, “that you loved me. You said that you had loved me since—”

“Yes, well, I’m sure I spouted all manner of nonsense,” she interrupted hastily.

He grinned. “It wasn’t nonsense. It was the truth.”

She threw his tunic at his head. “A moment of weakness. But I suppose now I’ll never hear the end of it.”

“Never.” He traced a finger across her lips until they softened in a smile. “Never in this life. You have my word on it.”

“
N
OT another one!” Lancelot groaned, dropping his head into his hands. “Tell him I am not at home.”

Elaine laughed and fell back against the feather pillows piled high upon the bed. “Oh, go on. Poor man, he’s probably traveled days to meet you.”