Gawain (18 page)

“Has it?” he asked vaguely. “Oh, the tournament. That doesn’t matter. Once it would have, but . . .” He closed his eyes. “It’s only words. As long as I can serve the king, I am content.” Her hand was gentle on his brow, soothing and relaxing. “You are very kind,” he murmured.

“No, I’m not. I tricked you into marriage.”

“Not a trick . . .” He forced his heavy lids open. “An honest bargain accepted freely. And it doesn’t matter, truly. I never wanted to marry anyone, not after . . . But she never loved me, it was all a lie . . .”

Ragnelle’s hand stilled.

“Later, I thought—I don’t know what I thought, but I felt—hoped—that I had wronged her.” His eyes stung and he turned his face away. “But by the time I went back to Lothian, it was too late.”

“You went
back
?”

“It took so long . . . I lost my way . . .”

But he’d pressed on. Only when Gringolet shied and he realized they’d nearly ridden over the edge of a precipice did he stop and wait for the mist to clear.

“’Twas dawn before I got there. Too late. It was the millpond . . . where we found the kittens.”

“What about the millpond?” Ragnelle asked, and there was something strange about her voice, something wrong . . . He tried to name it, but his thoughts were dissolving into memories of that terrible morning, Aislyn’s mother weeping, saying . . .

“Aislyn drowned. That very night. They said she fell, but I always wondered if . . . whether . . .”

“
Drowned?
But—” Ragnelle was seized by a coughing fit; she hacked and sputtered, then finally gasped, “That must’ve been a shock to you. It is to me,” she added in a mutter.

“I was . . .” But no, he could not speak of that morning. He could not think of it, he
would
not. Instead, he closed his eyes and let the darkness take him.

GAWAIN’S breathing deepened, and his hand, outstretched on the coverlet, relaxed in sleep. Aislyn took the braid from his palm and stared at it.

He had kept it, just as he had promised.

There had never been another. Only her.

She had seen only his anger that night, not the pain that lay beneath it. He had trusted her. She had made certain that he would. The sighs, the smiles, the sidelong glances—every one had been carefully planned to win his notice, and she had felt nothing but pride when he responded. Now it burned her to remember the skill with which she’d drawn him out, and her own smug satisfaction when he confided secrets he had never told another. When he confessed his loathing of all things magical, she had been sweetly sympathetic, but inside she laughed as she assured him she felt just the same before tripping off to her chamber to practice the fascinating new spell Morgause was teaching her. It was real magic, far beyond anything she had attempted in the past, a spell so potent that it could turn even the strongest warrior to soft clay in a skilled enchantress’s hands.

She had not told Gawain all of this, of course, only enough to make him understand the danger.

The rest he figured out himself.

It had not taken him long. Halfway through her halting tale, the puzzled hurt faded from his expression; no sooner had she faltered to a stop than he was on his feet and reaching for his tunic. As he pulled on his boots, he asked one question only, and by the time she admitted that yes, she did indeed possess the gift of magic, he was halfway out the door.

Yet he had truly loved her. He loved her still. He might have ridden off that night, but he’d turned back.

“Wake up!” she cried. “Gawain, listen to me!”

“ ’m awake,” he mumbled.

“Azure dragons,” she heard her own voice say. “The dish in the kitchen spills honey.”

Gawain blinked and rubbed his hands across his face. “What did you say?”

“Listen,” she cried, holding his eyes with hers.
Aislyn is not dead.

“Ashes in the bed,” was what came from her mouth.

“In the . . . what? I’m sorry, I didn’t quite . . .”

“I am here, Gawain!” she cried “Right here beside you! Can you not see me?”

He took her hands in his. “I see you, Ragnelle. Be calm, now, and tell me what the trouble is.”

She drew a breath. “I.”

Gawain nodded.

“Am.”>

“Go on,” he said.

“Acorn.”

“Bannock.”

“Vellum!”

Gawain leapt to his feet, letting out a hiss of pain as he put a hand to his ribs. “Don’t worry, all will be well,” he said. His eyes were bleary, his hair awry, but his voice was crisp and sure. “Just lie down and I will bring the king’s leech.”

“No! I don’t need a leech.” She began to cry as he urged her down upon the bed. “I’m not dead! I’m snowdrop!”

“Do you have any pain?” He leaned over her, peering into her eyes as he touched first one cheek, then the other. “Can you feel that?”

Tears spilled over her lashes when she nodded.

“Lift each arm,” he ordered. “Now your legs. What is your name?”

She sighed. “Ragnelle.”

“And where are we?”

“In your chamber at Camelot. I’m not mad, you dolt!”

“I never said you were. Are you sure you have no pain?”

“No, none.” Save for her heart, which felt as though someone had thrust a dagger through it, but if she tried to tell him that, who knew what nonsense would come out? “I was—it must’ve been a dream,” she muttered.

“God be thanked.” He smiled his relief, though his eyes were still anxious as he searched her face. He looked like . . . like a husband concerned for his wife, Aislyn thought, and fresh tears stung her eyes.
Don’t look at my face, that isn’t me! I’m here, inside—

“Come to bed,” she said, lifting a corner of the coverlet. “I’m sorry I woke you.”

“Don’t be,” he said, sliding in beside her. “I don’t mind. Wake me again if you need me.”

When he slept, she rose, mixed the potion that would return her to her own form and drank it down. Nothing. She waited a few minutes more, knowing it was futile, then crawled back under the coverlet and wept.

GAWAIN woke in the moments before dawn. He lay awhile, watching the chamber take shape around him while he stroked the various cats curled up on the bed, listening to the soft, rhythmic snores coming from beside him as he deliberately recalled what he had tried for so many years to forget: the day of Aislyn’s death.

He was just turning back to the hall when he noticed the boy sitting on the mounting block, whittling a stick.
Get to bed,
a voice said in his mind,
you need to sleep,
but another voice, faint but strangely urgent, said,
wait.

He waited, leaning against the doorpost, watching the boy. And gradually he became aware that the boy was familiar, that he was . . . was . . .
Launfal
the faint voice said, and Gawain nodded. Right. Launfal. And he was— Gawain straightened. He was Aislyn’s brother. And Aislyn was dead. The memory of last night rushed back, and with it the grief. On leaden feet he walked over to the mounting block.