Lancelot (8 page)

The knight shook his head. “He died soon after I was born. But come, sit down. You were telling me why you did not go to your kinfolk or friends.”

“Father was slow to recover,” Elaine said, sitting down upon his cloak and drawing her legs beneath her. “My mother’s death—when he understood—he could not bring himself to leave her. We always meant to go one day, when Father was . . . stronger. But somehow the time was never right.”

“I see,” the knight said so sympathetically that she had to take a long breath before she could go on, making her voice deliberately cheerful.

“And then we were saved. Three years ago, King Arthur drove the Saxons out and restored us to our home. But it was not what it had been. The Saxon chieftan used Corbenic to house his warriors, and all they knew of managing
villeins was how to beat them. Many ran off; those who remained kept out of sight, tending their own plots while the common lands lay fallow.”

“Then I would think they would be grateful that their lord has returned,” the knight said.

“We lost all but the land, and these three years have been . . . difficult,” she said with an inward smile at this understatement. “The forest has encroached upon the fields, and we lack the labor for the clearing. Each year we lose a little more, leaving less land to plant—and giving the villeins all the more excuse to tend to their own plots. It is what my father calls a downward spiral.”

“What remedy does your father suggest?” the knight asked, leaning back upon one elbow.

“To find the Holy Grail, of course. Then all will be well.” She smiled at his confusion. “The Holy Grail—the Sangreal—is the cup Our Lord used at the last supper. Legend has it that his foster father, Joseph of Arimathea, bore it hither after the crucifixion. My father had a vision of the Grail when the Saxons struck him down. He believes it is somewhere in Corbenic and cares for nothing but to see it with his living eyes. He is a very learned man,” she added, plucking at the new grass, “and a very good one.”

“I’m sure he is.”

A rather awkward silence fell, and Elaine cast about for some way to change the subject. “I’m sorry I have nothing to offer you—or, wait, I might at that.”

She jumped up and went into the boathouse. The light from the open door lay in a rectangle upon the earthen floor, leaving the rest of the chamber in shadow. As her eyes adjusted, she made out four pallets, still neatly tucked against the walls. The single table was clothed in a thin film of dust.

“You lived here for seven years?” the knight said behind her.

Elaine could scarce believe it herself. “A bit cramped, but the roof was sound, and it was pleasant to have the river so close.” Torre still came here often, when some savage mood drove him from their hall, and knowing him, he did not come empty-handed. Opening the cupboard door, she said, “I thought so.”

She drew out a jug, nearly full, and two cups, and bore them back outside. “Come, I’ve been running on too long. Tell me something of yourself.”

“There is nothing much to tell,” he said, smiling as he resumed his seat.

“You said that you were fostered young. Were your foster parents kindly folk?”

“I do not remember much about them,” he said with such finality that she knew the subject to be closed.

“Then tell me about Camelot!” she suggested.

“What would you like to know?” he asked politely but with a marked lack of enthusiasm.

“Anything will do.”

He looked up at the branches overhead, then at the river. At last he looked at her and shrugged. “I don’t know what to say. Most of the tales I could tell you are already known.”

Elaine made one more attempt. “What of your own adventures?”

“They’re not worth speaking of.” As though realizing that his answer was just short of rudeness, he smiled at her so brilliantly that she forgave him on the spot.

“Here,” she said, pouring wine into his cup. “My mother’s dowry, or what’s left of it. Her family traded in Provence, so they sent her off with tuns of wine. Luckily, the Saxons did not think to look for the cellars.”

He swirled the wine in the cup, sniffed it, and took an experimental sip. “I’ve never tasted better.”

“You
are
extremely courteous,” Elaine said, laughing. “Are you sure you aren’t Sir Gawain?”

“’Tis true I ride disguised, but even Sir Gawain would be hard put to shrink half a foot and alter the color of his hair.”

She glanced at him, surprised at his tone. “Surely it is a compliment to be compared to such a knight?”

“Of course,” he said with an ironic smile. “Who would not want to be Gawain? So brave and noble, so courteous and—” He broke off, yawning. “Forgive me. Just the thought of all that perfection is exhausting.”

“Oh, fie, sir,” she chided, smiling, “perfection is too strong a word, though Sir Gawain is a noble knight.”

“So he is. A very noble knight,” he agreed soberly, though his eyes glinted with a wicked merriment. “Indeed, there have been times, sitting in the hall while he revels us with some improving tale, when I have been so overcome by Sir Gawain’s . . . nobility that I feared I might fall face-first into my ale and drown.”

Elaine laughed, then was instantly ashamed. “This will not do sir,” she said with a severity that was only part in jest, “no, it will not do at all.”

“Tell me, lady, by what stroke of fortune did Sir Gawain win a champion so fair?”

“Sir Gawain was with the king when they took Corbenic back. Indeed, ’twas he who slew the Saxon chieftan, hand-to-hand in single combat, and many a grievous wound he took for the sake of folk he did not even know.”

She smiled at the memory of the one time she’d seen Sir Gawain, a mere flash of sunlight glinting off a helm as he rode back to Camelot. “No matter what they say at court, Sir Gawain will always be First Knight to me, even if that Sir Lancelot did knock him off his horse.”

“Alas for poor Sir Lancelot that he was not here that
day!” the knight said with a rueful twist of his lips. “Then you might have known that he is no such monster as you think. ’Tis true he oft speaks rashly, but after, he is always sorry. And I do not think—indeed, I am quite certain—that had he realized how gravely your brother had been injured, he would never have spoken as he did.”

“He should have known,” Elaine said flatly, “and if he’d had the courtesy to send a servant round, he would have. Sir Gawain—”

“Would have sent his squire,” the stranger finished for her. “You are right, such has always been his custom. And now ’tis Sir Lancelot’s, as well—or so they say.”

“At least he has the sense to profit from Sir Gawain’s example.”

The knight began to speak, then checked himself and looked across the river, his expression dark.
Fool,
Elaine raged at herself, cursing her blunt tongue.
Aunt Millicent is right; you are too forward in your speech.

Yet a part of her was not sorry she had spoken as she did. Why should she
not
say what she thought, even if this grand young knight did not agree? She had not liked the way he spoke of Sir Gawain, even if his words had seemed to be in jest. But then, she thought, melancholy washing over her, belike this is how they went on in Camelot. For all she knew, he’d said the same to Sir Gawain himself, and it was only she who did not see the joke.

I have grown grim and dull,
she thought,
I, who was once so merry that nothing could damp my spirits long.
And with a little shock she realized that there was no going back. She’d always thought she could, but now she knew it was impossible. There was too great a gulf between the girl she’d been and the woman she was now.

She studied the knight’s profile, as clear and fine as if it had been carved upon a Roman coin, and sorrow overwhelmed
her.
If only you had come sooner,
she thought . . . 
but now it is too late.

“Shall we go back?” she asked, preparing to get to her feet.

She expected him to agree instantly, but he surprised her.

“Must we go quite yet?” he said. “Can we not stay a little longer?”

His anger—if indeed he had ever truly been angry—had died. His eyes were soft as sable, shining beneath winged brows, wistful and a little sad. Lost in his dark gaze, it took a moment for his words to reach her, and then she had to bite back the eager agreement springing to her lips. By the time she realized that a simple yes was what she wanted, the silence had spun out too long. Her face flamed; she dropped her gaze and nodded, feeling an utter fool.

L
ANCELOT quickly sipped his wine, hoping that his face did not betray his mortification. He should have leapt at the chance to return to Corbenic, excused himself, and taken to his bed. He had no business lingering here beside the river with a maiden who obviously wished herself away. ’Twas clear she agreed to stay only because she could find no courteous words with which to refuse him.

It was rather comical when he came to think of it, for he had long bemoaned the fact that he could go nowhere without attracting a score of feminine admirers. Indeed, he’d often felt a hare amid a pack of hounds when he walked into the hall and all heads turned in his direction. Everywhere it was the same, ladies pelting him with scarves and sleeves and flowers when he rode into the lists, with rings and brooches and perfumed parchments in the hall. Unmarried ladies—total strangers—offered him their hands; the married ones were far more generous in the parts they suggested he make free with.

Every lady but this raw country damsel. The most amusing thing of all was that if she knew whom she had spurned, she would despise him all the more.

But not nearly so much as in that moment he despised himself.

Now when he imagined the tales they would tell of his visit, a fine sheen of sweat broke out upon his brow. He was not the unknown hero, after all. He was the villain creeping in disguised to take advantage of a family who had accepted him in all innocence into their home. Had they but known his name, his welcome would have been quite different. Certes, Sir Torre would have refused him his shield, and Lady Elaine would not be sitting with him now. Once they knew his identity, what would they say? What would they think of his duplicity?

But he had meant no harm; he’d only wanted to borrow a blank shield. He’d never intended to deceive this lady or her family. It was just that he was lost, for he had galloped out of Camelot in a black temper, too—

(
frightened
)

—angry to remember the need for a blank shield, and had lost himself in the forest. Such a thing could befall any knight. It wasn’t his fault . . . was it? No, the fault was Guinevere’s.
She
was the one who had lied. Yet Guinevere had only lied because—

Because yet another lie had driven her to it. How had he become enmeshed in so many different lies that there seemed no honorable way forward?

The one thing he knew for certain was that he had no business inflicting his company upon this reluctant lady, no matter how little he cared to be alone. He turned to suggest that they return to the manor just as she turned to him. He hadn’t realized how closely they were sitting, so near that he could see every lash framing her vividly blue eyes.

All at once her scent surrounded him, not one he could name, but something new to him, as subtle and mysterious as a woodland glade at dusk, and he could not look away.

She was so beautiful. Not just her lovely face or her wealth of primrose hair or her slender neck, fragile as a flower’s stem. She, herself, was beautiful in a way that moved him as no woman had ever done before. He had known it from the moment she turned to face that mob, her slight shoulders braced, in as fine an act of hopeless gallantry as ever he had seen upon a battlefield. And she had courage of a different kind as well. This lady would never pretend to be other than she was; she said precisely what she thought, and be damned to anyone who disagreed. Some might call that foolish, but Lancelot knew such uncompromising honesty came only at a price far higher than he had ever dared to pay.

’Twas no wonder a woman of such rare courage had no time for
him
.

At last she turned away, a faint flush on her cheeks. “I really think we should—” she began.

“When I was younger,” Lancelot heard his own voice say, “I thought I would be the greatest knight who’d ever lived.”

Elaine, who had braced her hands to lift herself, halted. She was still poised for flight, he could see it in the tautness of her muscles, but she allowed him to go on.

“I was very proud,” he said, his eyes fixed on the sunlight glinting on the water. “I had some talent—like your brother—but unlike him, I never had to think about anyone but myself. I was . . . encouraged to believe I was destined for great things. When I first arrived at Camelot, I was insufferable.”

He chanced at quick look and found her smiling. “I’m sure you weren’t as bad as that.”

“Oh, I was. If you asked—” He caught himself up sharply. “Anyone who knows me would say the same. The other squires detested me, but I didn’t care. I thought them so far beneath me, you see, so vastly inferior that their opinions meant less than nothing.”