Queen of the Summer Stars (39 page)

A young woman lay across the boat, her face hidden by the loose hair that floated like a shroud on the waters. There was a length of tapestry rumpled under her, the free end of it slipping overboard, undulating in the river like a banner on the wind. It appeared to have been ripped unfinished from its loom, and an elaborate pattern of lilies had been woven in the weft.

A skein of yellow floss tangled about the girl’s wrist caught my eye as they pulled her body into the boat.

“Elaine…”

In death she had the same faraway look as in life, and I stared at her, speechless, shocked by the thought that dreams were all she would ever know of living now.

I pictured her trying to escape that island prison, creeping down to the water’s edge under the cover of darkness—only to slip and fall amid the welter of skiffs tied by the pier.

Bedivere bent down and gently pried a wax tablet from her grasp. “Just one word,” he said softly, peering at the childish scrawl. “Lancelot.”

Beside me the Breton caught his breath as the crowd stirred with sudden interest. Kneeling on the pier beside the boat, Lance slowly took the girl’s cold fingers in his own. The consternation on his face tugged at my heart; pity, sadness, grief, and puzzlement were all reflected there, and I wished there was some way to shield him from the prying, smirking reaction of the courtiers around us.

“No wonder he’s paid no court to others, with a wench like that hidden away at Astolat,” someone quipped, and a ripple of knowing chuckles followed.

“I think,” I cried suddenly, “I’m going to faint. Please, Arthur, take me back to the Palace.”

There was a flurry of reaction as people turned from Lance and rushed to my aid. Arthur, who knows very well that I am not the fainting sort, looked at me in alarm and swung me up in his arms when I went limp beside him. I was tempted to give him a wink, but the gesture would have been lost in the press of people and uncertain light, so I just closed my eyes and let him lead us all away from the quay.

All, that is, save Lancelot.

The Breton didn’t return to the Hall that evening but saw to the laying-out and Christian burial of the girl who had so thoroughly woven his presence into the web of her own fantasy. It struck me as a dear and tender thing to do.

But when he didn’t come to Court the following day I began to wonder if the rumors that had risen about the pair were based on substance after all. Not, I told myself firmly, that it was any of my business; Lancelot was a grown man, with all the needs and desires of any Champion, and if he chose to hold trysts with the Lily Maid, that was up to him.

The idea didn’t set well, however, and I was snappish with my women when they brought the subject up at tea.

“He’s not the sort to play on a young girl’s infatuation,” I declared, knowing even as I said it that I sounded dreadfully righteous.

More important, I told myself, he’s not the sort to dally with her and then look on me the way he had. Or at least, the way I thought he had. The old question of how much was real and how much my own imagination rose to haunt me again, and I tossed fitfully that night, unable to say any longer where the truth lay.

Fortunately Arthur didn’t notice my restlessness, but too little sleep made me cross and distracted the next day, and the constant gossip grated on my nerves. So when Pelleas asked if he might accompany me for a stroll in the gardens, I was more than pleased to accept.

In spite of the efforts at restoration, the Park was still half-wild, harboring secret comers where shrines and statues lay hidden by rampant greenery. It made for an air of sanctuary, and I breathed in the greenness as I listened to the young horseman’s plea.

“Now that the King has promised me holdings of my own, I’ve been thinking…I mean, maybe…the Lady Ettard might look on me more favorably. As a husband, that is,” he added hastily.

“Have you discussed it with her?” I inquired, watching a red squirrel whisk out of sight at our approach.

“Oh no, Your Highness. But perhaps…if you could talk with her…encourage her a little…” Pelleas stammered out his request with earnest sincerity. “I promise to take good care of her. I never really had a family, you know, what with being orphaned and poor. But now that I’m becoming a man of substance I can take proper care of a wife and children.”

We’d reached the end of the garden, and I thought we might sit on the white marble bench, but Pelleas was unaware of anything but his dream and automatically turned back toward the fountain.

“I’ve loved her since the first day I came to Court, Your Highness. I’m but a country lout in comparison with the fine lords and ladies here—and sometimes I pinch myself, thinking it must all be a dream and I’ll wake up back in the stable after all, and the Lady Ettard too far above me to even know my name. But with a house and steading of my own I have something real to offer her…more than just my devotion…and if you could put in a good word for me…”

Pelleas looked over at me shyly, like a child, and I wanted to tell him that love doesn’t require material props to give it value. But there was something so touchingly hopeful about the lad, I couldn’t bring myself to dampen his ardor.

So I stopped at the fountain to gather herbs for the kitchen and promised to speak with Ettard at the next opportunity.

***

The convent girl sighed and put down the shift she was mending when I brought up the young man’s request.

“How like him to ask someone else to plead his case for him,” she complained. “Really, one wonders if he has any backbone at all.”

“He just lacks self-confidence,” I admonished her gently. “You could make a world of difference in that.”

“Oh, I know he’d treat me well enough; he’s never crude and boorish like the other Champions, and he’s already Christian.” She frowned at the fabric that lay in her lap. “That’s important, now that I’ve become a convert.”

The declaration startled me, for it must have happened while I was away.

“It makes it doubly difficult,” she went on, “what with most of the Companions expecting a ready tumble in the hay…why, they have no respect for a virgin at all, and want to take my honor without even offering a wedding ring.”

“Virgin?” I sputtered, distinctly remembering Ettard’s tale of rape at the hands of the Saxons. Surely she didn’t believe baptism would give her a new body as well as a reborn spirit?

“But of course, M’lady. I am, after all, a woman of worth now, and must protect myself. And Pelleas has always seen that; it’s what makes him a trustworthy companion. Still,” she added wistfully, “he isn’t nearly as powerful as some of the other Champions are, and I’d surely never stare off into space dreaming of Pelleas as Isolde dreams of Tristan.”

“Well,” I concluded, “it’s an honest offer well made, and a good marriage does not require romance to make it work.”

It was the best advice I could think of, given to myself as well as Ettard, for sometimes even I envied the romantic cloud that surrounded Isolde and her lover.

***

Lancelot returned to Court several days later, quietly and without being announced. I’d gone to the Park in the morning to pick some flowers and came across the lieutenant sitting in contemplation under the willow tree.

“Good morning, M’lady.” He smiled wanly, his voice as distant as his expression when I planted myself in front of him.

I stared at him closely, looking for some sign that he was grieving for the death of his beloved. I found a man saddened but not sorrowing and the testiness that had been building in me evaporated. I asked quietly, “Are you all right?”

He nodded slowly and making room on the bench, gestured for me to join him. When I did, he reached into my bouquet and extracting a lily, stared at it thoughtfully as he began to talk.

“Where do you draw the line of responsibility, Gwen? How you treat people…isn’t that truly the mark of what sort of human you are? Pelagius says we could all become as enlightened as the Christ if we were willing to take responsibility for our actions. Not that
that
teaching lasted very long,” he added, slowly turning the flower between thumb and forefinger. “The Roman Christians branded him a heretic and now preach St. Augustine’s theory of Divine Grace instead.”

Philosophy was not something I spent time thinking about, and I stole another look at the Breton, trying to fathom what this had to do with whether or not he and Elaine had been lovers.

He knit his brows, completely absorbed in the idea he was pursuing. “You can’t live by another person’s dream, particularly if it goes against your own nature.” He sighed and shook his head slightly. “That would be as hollow as trying to live
for
another. We have so little time, surely we should cherish the chance to grow and flower in our own ways and allow others the same freedom…
Oh, God, Gwen, I never meant to be the cause of her death!
”

The words burst from him with a sob, and he bowed his head to his hands while the tears streamed unchecked down his cheeks.

“But if you let her believe—if you were her lover…” My voice trailed off. Suddenly I didn’t want to hear his answer.

Lance lifted his head and turned to look directly at me.

“I was never that. Friend, confidant…no, more like guardian, or even older brother. But I swear, never lover. I would not have bedded her, even if she had been fully right in the head, because I love…another.”

The last word was spoken abruptly, as though he might have said something else and changed his mind at the last moment. And suddenly I knew, clearly and without any doubt at all, that I was the one he loved.

The very knowledge staggered me, making my head swim and my breath catch in my throat. I looked down at my hands, terrified by the prospect of meeting his eyes, of seeing all the love and tenderness I’d ever longed for in his face, of standing naked in my own response.

Through the silence that surrounded us I could feel Lance’s gaze on my cheek, my eyes, my lips, as tangible as if it were a caress. Blushing, I turned my head aside.

His hand beneath my chin was the gentlest of touches, lifting, guiding, bringing my face around to his. The tension grew unbearable as I raised my eyes and stared, trembling, at the fullness of his mouth. Slowly, inevitably, our lips came together in the barest of kisses.

A long soft flutter of pleasure rose through me, surging in ripplets of desire, and I felt my breath escape with a sigh.

And then I was on my feet, running blindly for the Palace, flowers and basket and shears all scattered behind me. I fled without thought or purpose or specific goal, and when I burst into the Palace I ran right past my husband.

“What on earth?” he exclaimed, reaching for his dagger. “What’s happened?”

I came to a sudden halt, my headlong dash ending as abruptly as it had started. “A snake,” I stammered, knowing my talent for lying was nil. “I was clipping flowers and accidentally disturbed a snake.”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Gwen,” Arthur grumbled. “I thought at the least the sky must be falling.”

His reference to the familiar warning from childhood gave me a reprieve. “Not quite,” I responded, beginning to get my breath. “Nor is the earth opening up, or the water receding beyond the shore. It just feels as though it is.”

Arthur gave me a puzzled look before he turned back to matters of state, and I tiptoed away. Clearly I needed time alone to collect my thoughts before the situation with Lancelot got totally out of control.

***

But peace and privacy were not to be had, for as I crossed the patio next to the sleeping quarters, my attention was caught by the Queen of Cornwall.

Isolde sat working on a piece of embroidery every bit as colorful as the clothes she herself wore. Her dress was the same violet as her eyes, and the bands of green and blue and gold brocade that edged both neck and sleeves accented the whiteness of her skin. Even in shadow she was beautiful, and I could understand why other women were jealous of Mark’s Queen.

She looked up from her handiwork with the bewildered expression of a child. From the wetness of her cheeks it was obvious that she had been weeping for some time, although she made no sound.

“Goodness sakes,” I said, handing her my handkerchief, “you’re going to ruin your embroidery.”

She took the hanky and crumpled it into a ball in her fist, the tears continuing to stream down her face. Those eyes, dark and brooding, stared up at me imploringly.

Ye Gods, I thought, what am I going to do with her?

“Well, now,” I began awkwardly, “let’s go to my room and have tea, shall we? Then we can talk a bit in private; things don’t seem nearly so terrible if you can tell someone.”

She stared at me uncertainly before nodding her assent and we moved into my chambers, where she huddled on the window seat. I took the hanky from her, then crouched down and gently dried her cheeks. Her lips trembled, but still she didn’t speak.

“There, there,” I said, putting my arm around her shoulders and letting the frail form beneath the splendid robes lean against me. “’Tis a time in every life for tears, and then a time for putting things to right. You’ll see…we’ll find some way to work things out…it will be all right anon…”