Lancelot (42 page)

“If it were only that,” Lancelot said, “I would not mind. It is not the glory I miss—I’ve never been so happy as these past few years. It is you I mind for, Arthur.”

“Don’t. Do you think I want some mindless knight with no choice but to serve me? I would rather have you as you are and a service freely offered. I do not ask for perfection.”

He shook his head, a smile quirking his lips. “You and Gawain! Where the two of you got such a notion is beyond me, but I assure you it is false. We are all flawed, Lance, every one of us, all capable of cowardice and pride and pettiness and spite, all doomed to fail—not once, but many times—and to fall short of our ideals. That is what it means to be a man. And the true measure of a man lies in what he learns from his mistakes.”

“But you are not like that,” Lancelot protested. “You have never failed.”

“I have failed many times, in many ways. Some small,
some great, and one . . .” He broke off and looked away. “Oh, I have sinned, Lance. Never stood a man more in need of God’s mercy than your king.”

“Then I will pray God grants it to you, Arthur.”

“Now I
know
that you have changed! Lancelot du Lac at prayer?”

Lancelot smiled. “As you say, I have grown up.”

Silence fell between them, so comfortable and familiar that it seemed no time had passed since they’d last met. Arthur broke it with a sigh.

“I fear ’tis more than friendship that brings me here today. I have need of you, Lance.”

“What’s ado?”

“Trouble with the Saxons. What else? They’ve seized Dumbarton.” He pulled a map from his belt and unfolded it. “I had thought to engage them here,” he said, pointing.

“Why not here?” Lancelot asked, marking a spot a bit to the north of the king’s. He knelt on the floor and sketched in the sand. “There is a rise—do you remember it—just beyond the Celidon Wood. If you gather your knights there and come down upon them—”

Arthur nodded, frowning. “Yes, you may be right.”

“We must use the horsemen to our best advantage. How many can we count upon?”

Arthur looked at him, brows raised. “We?”

“Of course. I had a thought the other day about a new formation—what? Why are you laughing?”

“Here I came, prepared with a dozen arguments to persuade you, but Guinevere said all along you were only waiting to be asked. The troops are already mustering at Camelot, and I need you to take charge of the horsemen. Can you come with me tomorrow? You can tell me all your thoughts upon the way. And your lady, too, of course. Guinevere asked me particularly to beg Lady Elaine to
come to court with you while we make ready, and Galahad, if you will bring him.”

“I will come.” Lancelot drew his hand across the sand, blotting out his map. “As for Elaine . . . that will be for her to say.”

HE found Elaine on the battlements in the place he’d made his own, gazing out toward Camelot. She did not turn at his approach.

“When do you leave?”

“Tomorrow. First for Camelot to prepare for battle and then the king rides north.”

She nodded. “I see.”

Of course she did. Elaine had always known him better than he knew himself. And he knew her, enough to be certain she would not wish to leave her home and friends and family to go to Camelot. How many times had she sworn never to set foot in the wretched place again?

Looking at her now, silhouetted against the setting sun, he realized this was only the first of many partings. No longer could he stay buried in the country while Arthur’s great work went on without him; the time had come to take up his oath and serve his king again. Elaine would want nothing to do with that part of his life, nor could he blame her; he knew too well how unhappy she had been at court.

’Twas a common enough arrangement, he told himself. Knights often went months—sometimes years—without so much as a glimpse of their ladies. Most laughed about it, saying it kept their marriages from growing stale.

But none of them were married to Elaine.

Lancelot could never grow weary of her company, no more than he could grow weary of the air he breathed. Upon hearing any news—whether it concerned alliances in
distant kingdoms or a bit of village gossip—his first thought was invariably, “I must tell Elaine of this.” He often amused himself during his solitary rides in wondering what she might make of this tale or that. That she would have something interesting to say he did not doubt, and even if he did not agree with every one of her opinions, he never tired of hearing them.

Nor did he ever tire of the times they spent together in the great bed. Their lovemaking had changed over the years, grown less fevered but far sweeter. For all they had learned of pleasuring one another, there were many mysteries yet to be explored. No man had ever been so blessed. Even when they quarreled, Lancelot never ceased to give God thanks for Elaine’s presence in his life.

Yet tomorrow he would leave her. He must. Oh, he would return as often as possible, but it would not be the same. She would not be interested in the tales he had to tell, for they would be concerned with Camelot and its inhabitants. Their love would not die—that, he knew to be impossible—but something precious would have been lost. And still he must go. It was a pain such as he had never known, as though his very heart were being torn in two.

Elaine turned, the wind catching at the edges of her hair, her expression unreadable against the sunset. “I suppose there will be a feast before you all ride north. Shall I bring my blue gown or the silver?”

He stared at her in silence, hardly daring to believe he’d heard aright. When he did believe, he could only shake his head in wonder. How did she do it? Every time he thought he understood her, she found some new way to take his breath away.

Which was precisely how she had planned it. Now he could make out the grin tugging at the corners of her
mouth; she was enjoying this, the minx, just as she always enjoyed surprising him.

A slow smile spread across his face. “The silver.”

“Do you think so?” she asked doubtfully. “True, the cloth is lovely, but I am always afraid I will . . . well, tumble out. I cannot imagine what that seamstress was thinking to cut it so low.”

Lancelot’s hands fastened on her girdle, and he drew her forward. “I bribed her.”

The faint, sweet sound of laughter reached Arthur in the gardens. He glanced up to see two figures on the battlements, silhouetted against the sunset blazing over Joyous Gard. As he stood, a smile touching his lips, they moved and merged until the space between them disappeared, and they were one.